Electric fairies

Mr French is in China, but had been invited to a private evening at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris to see the Michel Werner collection. With reservations for two, I called my friend, Out and About in Paris and asked her to come along. Werner is a German art dealer who has amassed a considerable collection of about 800 works over 50 years, and he has just donated nearly 100 of them to the museum. The press has been raving about this show and I was excited to attend.

The title of the show is, “I sat beauty on my knees… and insulted it”. I am not an art critic and I don’t have a degree in Art History, but I do spend a good amount of my time in art galleries, museums and at exhibitions, so I have developed something of an opinion on the subject and one of the things I get really excited about is good curating.

I love observing how shows are put together and presented to the public. This show, for example is just downstairs from another exhibition, Art During the War. It is a very dark, depressing show that includes tortured illustrations from artists like Breton, Masson, and Ernest, along side war-effected paintings by Matisse and Picasso. In one room there are even works by prisoners, created while they were in the camps. Some survived, many were deported and died. The show brings up all kinds of questions, like why people were creating art when war was happening on the sidewalks below their studios. It is an ode to the human spirit. But it was also immeasurably depressing.

Then you go downstairs to the bright lights and bold colors of the beginning of the Werner show and the clash is so loud you can almost hear cymbals go off in your head. Early on there is a piece by Sigmar Polke which created a light breeze of comic relief, as the artist imitates silkscreen and when looking close up, they appear to be polka dots. When you see wrapping paper that has been signed by the artist Beuys, then framed and sold as art, it is easy to be disparaging after the show you’ve just witnessed upstairs and I came away feeling (among other things) that the curators had really missed the mark this season.

Since this was a soirée privée, we rushed through the rest of the exhibition and headed for a valeur sur, we headed for the champagne. The buffet was set up in the hall with the permanent collection. We soothed our disappointment over the exhibitions by enjoying true masterpieces by artists that included Delaunay, Leger and Braques while savouring bite sized treats of foie gras, lobster and truffles.

After the festivities, I took my date upstairs to see Raoul Dufy’s La Fée Electrique. Commissioned by the artist for the 1937 Paris World’s Fair, this masterpiece created to decorate a hall. You enter into the art, surround yourself in 62 metres dedicated to the celebration of electricity, with paintings that rise10 metres to the ceiling, and as you step forward the light and energy illuminate your very being.

mixed media

Yesterday I left you just before describing the powerful work of the Catalan born, NYC based, multi-media artist Muntadas.

Muntadas started his career as a painter and discovered multi-media in the 1970‘s.  Unlike many photographers, he is not just recording the “decisive moment”, he is creating the moment.

Questioning art

This artist has something to say. So much to say that he often uses the images of words that come across his path, or adds the words himself, to create potent messages.

Like the words “Power Symbol” in the windows of a limousine, with the Brooklyn Bridge looming over the background, or the brightly quilted banners that read, “difference between dying and living” with black and white footage rolling nearby. Or the three words, “look”, “see”, and “perceive” highlighted under office lights.

I was particularly moved by a series of three films projected in a bare, white room. The wall to the left and the wall to the right show hands clapping loudly while the images on the central screen pass from an applauding crowd to scenes of war and nuclear reactors and back to the crowd then on to some more news footage. I stood there transfixed. Its a dark world we discover through Muntadas’ lens, but there is a sense of hope and the possibility of redemption that is often absent in art today.

And because my day had not been fantastic enough, just as I was ready to drag myself away, one of the PR gals pulled me to the side to say Muntadas was in the café giving a talk. I took a seat, front row center and sat there listening to his point of view on the art market and the creative process. At some point there was a lull and he asked what we had thought of his work, but this is Paris and the journalists were French, so no one dared offer their point of view. Not wanting to make a stir, I waited until after the talk to go up and share how powerful I’d found his work.

He was impressed, incredibly impressed. Not with my insightful revelations about his art, but with my accent. My accent!!!

“I am very interested in accents lately.” he shared with me, which seems a natural subject for a man who speaks no less than 5 languages fluently, comes from a region with two official languages and lives in a city where you can hear every accent on planet earth, with perhaps even an ET accent or two.

As we spoke, and I revealed that I was from San Francisco, he paused. “I think its time I did a piece on accents; Yes, I am definitely going to start an accent project.” I was thrilled to have brought a-muse-ment to the moment.

Sunshine!!!

Exactly one week ago today, I had a wonderful day. To begin with, it was the first sunny day we’d had in weeks. I was ecstatic as I pulled on some long underwear and headed out the door. Long underwear? In October? Yes, I know that was probably overkill, but the lack of sunshine seems to have addled my brain.

Reading my twitter feed in the metro, somebody posted about a Mastercard campaign and the priceless Paris moment. Every idea I had involved food or chapamgne, both of which come with a price tag, so I was drawing a blank as I walked into the Tuileries Gardens and was greeted with a magical sight of white soaring mobiles in the pond. Free art in Paris with the surprise effect. Priceless.

I was in the gardens headed to the Jeu de Paume for the press opening of their new exhibits of Bravo and Muntadas. The crystal blue skies reflected my exceptionally bright mood, as I was thrilled to be attending my very first official art event as a blogger for Findingnoon, but I knew nothing about the photographers, or their work. A serious error of judgement due to pure snobbery; as a photographer, I don’t seem to appreciate photography.

Sabes, not at Jeu de Paume

Let me explain. I like art that is well beyond my abilities. Something I do not have the skill, imagination or vision to create. With photography exhibitions I’ll sometimes see work that is hauntingly close to my own. Which makes me grumpy.

The Jeu de Paume is the perfect space for an exhibit you’re not dying to see. Easy to navigate (its original use as an old-wave tennis court makes it a simple rectangle) and relatively small, it is an very approachable museum. And there are lockers so you don’t have traipse about with your winter wardrobe (wool coat, umbrella and scarf can weigh a girl down). Because it was a press event, we had the added luxury of being met with trays of viennoiseries from the Patisserie des Rêves. Mmmm… so much for my diet, the stuff was dreamy.

The Bravo exhibit is on the first floor. Nice standard photography with a great eye for geometry, which I appreciate. But nothing particularly ground breaking from my point of view. When explaining it to a friend I said that it reminded me of Henri Cartier-Bresson. Turns out these two cliché artists knew each other and it shows.

I hesitatingly trudged upstairs to see the rest of the exhibition. My intention was to take a few photos and run. Like all best plans, this one went astray, because the work I found upstairs was incredibly powerful and so interesting that even the guards were spending their time actually looking at the art, which is rare. Very rare. So rare that I need another post to share it all with you. See you tomorrow, at noon, on Findingnoon.

FindingArt

More art moves in

NYC seems to have more art than it knows what to do with. So much that some has been spotted hanging out by the trash! We set off on our holidays with a long list of museums, exhibits and art galleries to visit. On the top of our list was the Stein Collection at the Met, a show we had missed when it had been in Paris and were determined not to miss again. When it was in town the lines had been hours long and it was recommended that visitors pre-book their visits, so I asked the front desk staff at our hotel about doing the same. They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. This happens to me often when traveling with Mr French, because we speak French with one another and when we are abroad, I often forget that I need to switch back to English when addressing the general public. I tried again, this time making sure I was speaking in my mother tongue, but I got the same blank stare. So we took our chances and it seemed like magic… there was no line at the Met. That rarely happens in a Paris museum, so we felt like we had been touched with fairy dust. I have been in love with the Met ever since reading “The Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler”. I was falling deeper in love as we headed to the exhibit, passing a stunning Van Gogh to our left, an impressive Byzantine tile to our right, and trying not to get side tracked by the Greek collection just ahead.

The Stein Collection exhibition was fascinating; more for the history of the family and their evolution as collectors, than for the actual art. They were well off, but not outlandishly rich, so the often had to do with the lesser works of the artists they so admired. There were some stunning pieces, of course, but they were overwhelmed y the collection of the Met itself.

Staying private art collections, we headed to the Frick mansion, not too far away. Frick had been a steel magnate and buddy of Andrew Carnegie. Unlike the Steins, he was outlandishly rich. After immigrating to NYC from Pittsburg, he started to get very serious about collecting art and in a few short years he had built a home that he intended as a museum, filling it with an eclectic collection of masterpieces from Europe. As a collector, he took particular delight in reuniting portraits that had been painted as a pair and were separated over time. I loved the humour of acquiring the Thomas Cromwell and Sir Thomas More (watch the Tudors for an entertaining account of their rivalry) portraits by Holbein and placing them on either side of the fireplace.

By this time, I was fascinated with the idea of private art collections, so the next day we really had no choice but to visit the Neue Gallery that was founded by a scion of the Estée Lauder fortune. Like the Frick, this museum was born of a rich man’s passion for art. Unlike Frick, Robert Lauder chose to focus his museum on a very particular region, featuring art and design from Austria and Germany, with stunning work by Klimt, Schiele, Hoffmann and Moser. Having such a precise mandate creates a small, easy to visit museum with some truly stunning works of art.

Ironically, the art we were seeing was all from Europe, so it was clearly time to get out of the museums and see some of America!

Museum Mile

A new art space

Last Sunday it was grey, and miserable and pouring rain, so we headed to the Palais de Tokyo to check out the newly renovated exhibition space that is now the largest contemporary art space in Europe.

My first impression is that the place desperately needs a face lift. I loved the space. It is really and truly phenomenal, but it is falling a part. Literally. Chucks of wall are missing, areas are roped off because tiny waterfalls are infiltrating the area, and it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the art work from the repairs. I eventually asked Mr French when they were closing the space for renovations. Which is when he announced that this was the post renovation re-opening!?!

 

This is a humongous space, so there is a LOT of art. And reading the press reviews after the show, I saw that we missed a chunk of it, despite spending 3 hours in a maze that extended over three stories of art. Photography is allowed and I had a lot of fun playing with the interaction between the art and my camera. My legs + someone else’s sculpture = a new collaborative piece.

 

The Palais de Tokyo does not have a permanent collection, and I can not say I was overwhelmed by the exhibit, Triennial, that we explored. There were a lot of great ideas, but even the work by artists that I generally appreciate, like Ann Messager, appeared only half complete. Some of the art seemed like it belonged at the Quai Branly and other pieces were just documentaries or political protests disguised as art. Some of it was x-rated. But some of it was fun, too, and thought provoking. A small minority was truly great, belonging in the Pompidou collection, like the film of the girl who explodes herself into 6 easy pieces that detach and move about a black background (see top photo).

Regardless of the art, the space itself is a masterpiece, well worth the visit.

After the show we headed to the Palais’ restaurant, Tokyo EAT for a tasty lunch which has a serious Asian slant with an appreciation for food that once had roots and lots of tempting fruit/vegetable non-alcoholic cocktails. We invited a couple of Parisienne teens and they found it so good they had to finish their plates, even if that isn’t entirely chic with the ‘in’ crowd.

Le Tokyo Eat

 

 

 

Get in Line!

My chief Parisienne is, just as you’d suspect a very elegant, chic lady. She had a “golden” childhood as the fille de someone important and is my principle guide for all things purely Parisienne. It can not be a surprise then, that Mlle Paris was the first to tempt me with the black magic of line jumping. It was La Nuits des Musées, with hundreds lining up at the Musée Rodin, waiting patiently for the promised flashlights and night gardens. The line started at the entrance, continuing west towards Les Invalides, wrapping around the corner and into the parking lot. We arrived from the east and Mlle Paris just walked right up to the head of the line, acting like a VIP, entering without glancing left or right. I followed behind, five kids in tow.

No one batted an eyelash, or spoke out, or even seemed to noticed. I was flabbergasted. I was amazed. I liked it!

“How did you do that?”” I asked, somewhat in awe.

“I walked in.” she shrugged, “Those lines are for everyone else. They are not for us.”

Its foul to admit, but I had had a taste of line jumping and I was wanting more. I now line jump regularly, but in a considerably more civilized way; pre-purchasing tickets online whenever possible.

This Saturday was no exception and I started the day thrilled about avoiding the long line in front of the Centre Pompidou, where we were headed for the Matisse exhibit.

Once up the tube elevators, I was crushed to see a large crowd, everyone holding a billet coupe-file. The loudest, most hyperactive Italian kids were just in front us, providing some great comic relief as we were treated to an impromptu, modern version of Dino Risi’s hysterical Italian film, I Mostris.

The Matisse show is so popular that it runs until 23h four nights a week. And with reason, because once inside we were spell bound by the art. His colors! His lines! The rooms were full and crowded, but we hardly seemed to notice, being so entranced with the work.

So entranced that I started snapping away, totally lost in the moment. I didn’t notice the pompous jerk who approached me until he had hit my hand, swatting my camera down. I was shocked and startled and asked what he was doing. He told me that no photos were allowed, which is when I spied his name tag; M LeGrand, official museum guide. I calmly told him that was fine, but he should be respectful and should have told me politely. He snorted. I kind of lost it at that point and told him that he was rude and that no, I hadn’t seen the “no photo” sign at the entry to the exhibit because I had been distracted by a bunch of hyper-active Italian kids and and that there was no sign in the room and that he was a jerk.

“And what uncouth country did you waddle over from?” he sneered after tutoyer-ing me and questioning my sanity rather loudly.

“That is none of your concern. What concerns you is that I am fluent in two cultures, and you can never hope to be as intelligent.”

At that point a woman from his lecture series piped in saying it was enough. I glanced up to realize that we had an audience of thirty hostile folks all looking annoyed that someone had interrupted their lecture. I backed down trembling.

A woman from the group kindly came over to express her outrage at the guide and we agreed that M LeGrand, was in fact very, very petit.

Matisse

A well earned photo

Mr French’s natural instinct was to punch the guy in the nose, but he has spent a life time controlling those alpha-male instincts, so he gave me a kiss instead and we continued to enjoy the show.

Generally, I follow the rules, particularly when it comes to waiting in line and photography in an art exhibit. But on this one occasion, I am very proud to have my illicit shot. So take that, M LeGrand!

Matisse

Feeling crab-y?

OOoooohhhhh….. a lovely weekend in a luxury hotel, just off the Champs Elysées! Mr French and I couldn’t wait to be out exploring, but first we were starving. Taxi, check-in, room check, luggage. We were in such a rush we barely took the time to admire our gorgeous suite (although I did have the time to notice the Jacques Genin chocolates on our pillows, AND the JG caramels on the desk).

According to the menu posted across the street, we were at “The Indian restaurant in Paris”, Annapurna. We went in. Really fresh, really spicy, over priced. I wouldn’t return.

We were ready for a stroll. Past the Hustler Club, near the Crystal Bar and through the Queen nightclub crowd, we arrived on a Champs Elysées teeming with humanity from across the globe. It was not our Paris scene, and it was kind of fun watching the staid German families walking out of the Lido cabaret, unaware burka clad ladies passing drug dealers and young girls hobbling comically by on stilts disguised as shoes.

The next day we decided to play it Rive Droite, lunching at an anonymous café, checking out the illuminating Neon exhibit at La Maison Rouge, exploring the Village St Paul and ending up at Auld Alliance to catch the final match of the Six Nations rugby tournament (excuse me while I stop to polish my girlfriend halo.)

Inside Le Crabe MarteauAnd I wrote all that just to get you to dinner. Dinner. I’d been wanting to try this restaurant ever since I first read about it in FigaroScope a year ago. Wood-lined walls with fishing nets, newspapers on the tables, slop buckets on the floor and sailor clad waiters… these guys had Parisiennes wearing bibs and eating with their fingers! Le Crabe Marteau specializes in crab and anger management, which explains the wooden mallets on every table. You’re served a large stone crab and authorized to whack it open, sending bits flying before picking out the succulent meat. When you’re ready for a break from the physical labour, there is a wooden pail full of the sweetest, steamed new potatoes with raw milk butter to melt away in your mouth, chewing optional. I felt like I’d died and gone to Brittany….

Weapons of mass digestion

Le Crabe Marteau

ps… a major THANK YOU to Elle, who made this weekend possible. Bises!!!

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