Art According to Allison, Part the First

QUICK NOTE: As you may have noticed, I turn off my "church filter" when writing this blog.  This post is no exception.  OK, you have been warned.  Carry on.

*Cue the fancy music*

Now that I have successfully purchased an annual Louvre pass, I plan on spending much time wandering its hallowed halls.  I recently heard a statistic that if one were to be at the Louvre every hour that it was open for nine months, one could just barely glance at every single object of art on display.  Having wandered around its parts of its seemingly endless labyrinths three times in the past two weeks, I could certainly be persuaded to the truth of that assertion.

I knew that the art of the Louvre would provide ample material to report back to my dear friends on.  However, as I said, there is a lot to see, and by the time I made it home last Saturday, all I could remember was the statue of a nymph being carried off by a centaur where her nipples pointed straight up.  Having learned my lesson, yesterday I busted out my travel journal and took notes on things that stood out to me for one reason or another.  I'm sure I looked like a Serious Art Person, what with my glasses and bun and notebook.  Oh, if only my fellow patrons could have seen what I was writing down:

Denon Wing

Salle de Manage

.Satyres en Atlante- Satyres is four slightly larger-than-life statues of naked hairy men posed identically and arranged in a circle with their backs facing one another.  The hilarious thing to me was that each of them are posed with their hands on their hips, looking down with a confused expression on their face.  I like to think that they each had a lustful encounter with a loose nymph and are trying to make sense of the evidence left in the aftermath.

.Ceremonie Funebre- This was actually quite beautiful.  The artist managed to capture expressions of real grief on the mourners faces.  I was particularly moved by the close proximity of the women and the children to the female deceased, as if they were somehow more intimately involved in the mourning process.  My only qualm was that the deceased looked less like she was peacefully in the beyond and more like she had just passed out from a really good orgasm (bared breasts, twisted body posture).  I guess that could be a good or bad thing, depending on how you ideally want to go when the time comes.

.Tete de saint Jean Baptiste in disco (17th c.)- The Head of John the Baptist in a disco.  Ok, it's actually The Head of John the Baptist in a disc (as in, on a big fancy plate).  But I prefer to think of John the Baptist's head (just his severed head, mind you) hanging out at Studio 54 having a chat with Andy Warhol and Bianca Jagger.

.L'enfant Jesus jouant avec un clou (Paulo Bernini)- The baby Jesus playing with a nail.  I mean, I know a lot of religious art is big on fore-shadowing, but c'mon, no one wants to think of the Virgin Mary getting distracted making dinner, setting the baby on the floor only to turn around and see him playing with a rusty nail.  Too guilt-wracking of a thought for us mortals who deal with mortal children- I can't imagine the fall-out from letting the Son of Man get tetanus.

Galerie Daru

. Sarcophagi- So it appears that when commissioning your sarcophagus, you could ask for just about any scene from myth or history you wanted (unless the nice-looking husband and wife on this particular sarcophagus really did kill a bunch of amazons, in which case, mazel tov).  So when I die, can I get that scene from Titanic where the guy's leg hits the propeller?

Salle Art Romain #24

.L'Imperatrice Messaline- So I know that baby she's holding is probably a future emperor.  BUT BABIES STILL SHOULD NOT HAVE SIX PACKS.

If, after reading this, you are craving art and museum coverage that doesn't involve penis jokes, I would highly recommend that you scootch on over to the Museummonger (http://museummonger.wordpress.com/).  MM is actually a very good friend of mine from college and is currently pursuing a Masters in Design Criticism.  MM created this blog because, in her own words,"By my last count, New York City has at least 86 amazing museums.  It is my goal to visit all of them and encourage you to do the same.  I want to value the places that keep our culture's objects of value."  Always insightful, always well-written, and it even has the added bonus of having beautiful pictures to illustrate her stories (still working on that, folks- I will eventually be able to stop stealing from other people's Flickr pages).

A (Small, Grudging and Only Partial) Defense of Pigeons

I stand by my assertion in the previous post that pigeons are just greasy rats with wings.  However, to give credit where credit is due,  pigeons do have at least one redeeming quality, and that is that I cannot see one without thinking of the following:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRW06RZ7aWw&NR=1

MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris

When AH and I first started looking at apartments in our neighborhood, one of the big selling points (according to the Realtor) was that we would be close to a world famous park, Montsouris.  Which I discovered is, indeed, lovely and park-like, what with the grass and flower beds and what-not, but not really much to crow about.  What I did not know is that up until today, I had only been on the side of the park designated for groups of old French biddies and university students making their friends take flattering pictures of them in natural light.  I have long wondered if there was more to park to frolic in past the train bridge.  It turns out that there is, and that it's less of a "park" and more of a "magical fairy-land of enchantment."

Do I exaggerate?  Perhaps; I saw no actual fairies.   But I DID see:

.As in many Parisian public spaces, beautiful sculptures
.A carousel
.A waterfall
.PONIES.  For realz.  I don't know if they're always there or only on days when their owners know that there will be many children about who will not stop harassing their parents until mom and dad shell out for a ride around the park, but c'mon. PONIES.
.All sorts of little dogs barking at the ponies, many of them in posh little sweaters that probably cost more than my winter coat
.A playground covered in so many angelic-looking French children that I can hear the echoes from inside my hollow uterus
.A marionette theater
.A little outdoor creperie that (I think) will open when the weather gets warmer
.Birds, lots and lots of birds.  The park landscape is dominated by a large pond, and it appears to be an avian mecca.  There were, of course, the usual pigeons (which I don't really count as birds- really, they're greasy rats with wings) and, only a small step up, seagulls.  But there were also plenty of ducks, some black birds with orange beaks that I've been seeing everywhere, some black and white geese, a blue heron, and, best of all, two truly beautiful black swans (of the actual bird variety, not the crazy, cunnilingus-craving Natalie Portman variety).
          Furthering my conviction that I can be amused by just about anything, I settled on my little park bench and watched the birds for a while with all the obsessive fascination of a housewife and her soaps.  (I am kind of a housewife myself, so this is apt).  I like to imagine that the ducks sitting near the group of lounging geese were like the almost-popular kids running at the fringes of the cool clique in school.  Too good for the seagulls, but not quite cool enough to be geese.  It's OK, ducks.  The geese think they're totes awesome, but the swans would LAUGH (or bird equivalent) IN THEIR FACE if they tried to sit at their lunch table.
          Also, I saw a seagull have an epic air battle with a rook for a piece of food.  Seagull was too slow.  BURN!
.Did I mention PONIES?!

In conclusion, I don't know if MontDisneyLandsouris makes me wish I was a child again, or want a wee spawn to share my glee at watching ducks stick their butts up in the air.  As the first is, according to current scientific thinking, not really practical and the second option would yield only a diaper-filling potato in the short-term, I can only hope that they have bigger ponies next time.

The Great Glass Pimple

Although I've been thoroughly enjoying reading all the 19th century novels I cliff-noted back in high school, I am, after all, living in Paris.  City of myth, legend and over 100 museums.  So on beautiful days like today, the Count of Monte Cristo (I finished Jane Eyre a few days ago) get stuffed into my purse so that I can go in search of more scenic places to read than my humble abode.

Over the weekend, AH found that I, being under 26, can get a year pass to the Louvre for a mere 15 euros.  (He, having just had a birthday, no longer even qualifies for the 26-30 pass.  It is a sore subject in these parts).  So today the Count and I made our way over to the Musee Orsay stop of the RER C and trekked across the Seine.  Much like the Pantheon, the Louvre is hard to miss and thus easy to get to.  Living here makes me feel much better about my dubious history of navigation; it wasn't that I was directionally challenged, I just didn't have enough gigantic landmarks to keep me pointed in the right direction.  Next time I'm trying to find my way around downtown Columbus, I would like a giant castle to reassure me that I'm going in the right direction. Or giant cow.  Whatever.  Someone get on that.

So after walking the distance of what seems like several football fields, I arrive at the controversial I.M. Pei glass pyramid.  The line is short, and I see no crowd inside.  I am (fatally) pleased with my good luck.  However, unbeknownst to ignorant American me, the pyramid is like the top of a really nasty pimple where all the interesting stuff if lurking deep below the surface.  So after having my bag and coat run through security, I go down the escalators and discover the vast and intricate lobby to the Louvre.  (Honestly, I'm exhausted and confused looking at the GD LOBBY.  This is why I need a year pass- it will take me that long just to find the toilets.  And mom and dad, if you think we're doing the Louvre in one morning, you might want to reassess that plan).

I decide to try the information desk first.  And, as I assume (again, fatally) that this is going to be a simple interaction, I decide to try my French.

Me: Je voudrais acheter un carte jeune.

Info Desk Guy: FrenchFrenchFrenchFrencyFrenchFrench.

Me: Pardon?

IDG: FrenchFrenchyFrench.

Me: Uh...Je ne compris pas...

IDG: (Haltingly) There is an office for this...it is closed.

Me:  When will it be open?

IDG:  Tomorrow?  Maybe?

Me: Le sigh.

Well, at least I know what to expect now for when I go, AGAIN, to the Louvre tomorrow.  

I decide to make sure that my trip is not wasted, and thus I resolve to find a nice spot in the sculpture garden to sit and read my book.  After being redirected by the security guards around a mysterious abandoned back-pack (which had me on edge after recent events in Spokane), I hastened to find a spot around a fountain where children were pushing sailboats around with little punting sticks.  I passed a pleasant half hour here reading my book and marveling that none of the children had yet thought to crack each other on the heads with their sticks (or were too scared to try it).

To finish off my time around the Louvre, I decided to go up in what I had assumed was the Paris equivalent of the London Eye.  To clarify, the London Eye is a giant ferris wheel-like attraction, but instead of sitting in buckets, it's more like you're in a glass-enclosed room that happens to be rotating about, so there's none of that unpleasant rocking about business.  Having suggested to AH many times that we do this and being consistently rebuffed, I decided to just go myself and not subject him to something he wasn't interested in.  My decision to ride sans AH was justified when I saw the 10 euro price tag.

After I parted from my 10 euro bill, I took a good look at the seating.  To my chagrin, these were not the clean, comfortable observation rooms of the London Eye.  These were county fair ferris wheel buckets surrounded by plexi-glass.  And so, reader, your good friend Allison paid 10 euros to pitch about Lord knows how many stories above Paris in abject terror, clinging to the little handle bars and trying to appreciate the view (which was, indeed, beautiful).  

Allison Thought Bubble through this experience: Sacre Coeur, oh, there's the Arc de Triomphe, Oh God, I'm going to die in this thing, wow, there are a lot of domes around here, wonder which one is the Pantheon, I think my heart is going to break my ribcage, I can never look at the "Eiffel Tower" at King's Island again without disgust, oh Lord, that RUSTY SQUEAKING SOUND IS NOT COMFORTING....

But I lived.  I made it down the glass pimple and I lived through a ferris wheel ride.  Wonders will never cease.

Horny Nymphs, Topless Women and French Corpses

Being that my apartment is so cozy (and I am so lazy), I've been finding it difficult to convince myself to get out and about during the day.  I inevitably make grand plans to see this museum or that landmark, but somehow manage to talk myself out of going ("But the wedding has been stopped!  I have to get through the part where Jane finds out about Rochester's crazy wife in the attic!").  But yesterday the weather was so beautiful and spring-like (don't hate me, snow-bound snow bunnies) that I decided to forgo my plans to see the Jewish museum and instead made a date with one Allison Paige to wander around the Latin quarter.  And being that Allison Paige is a pretty foxy lady, I knew I couldn't stand her up.

As I exited the metro station, the Jardin de Luxembourg was immediately to my left.  Being that it was such a gorgeous day, I could think of no better way to begin my wandering.  Well-populated but not crowded and sprinkled with occasional priceless works of art, the park offered the perfect opportunity to people watch as well as get my art on.  I sat down near the Fonte de' Medicis, which (so I gather from the French explanation plaque) depicted nymphs frolicking and may or may not have been moved by Baron Haussman in the 19th century.  Or peed on by Baron Haussmnan in the 19th century, I don't know, it was in French.  Regardless of Baron Haussman's involvement, it was lovely, if a little creepy (I was a little unsettled by the giant male nymph hovering over smaller nymphs locked in carnal embrace).

Having not taken French in school, I never had much occasion to learn much about Paris prior to coming.  So landmarks that others know the rich history of and are dying to see become, "Ooh, I wonder what that giant, old-looking building with the big dome over there is?" to me.  It was thusly that I found myself looking up at the imposing and overwhelming Pantheon.  Unsure I wanted to waste such glorious weather, I sat on it steps for quite some time indulging myself in a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower, watching the people in the courtyard.

My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I decided to shell out the 8 euros for entry to the looming basilica behind me.  Upon entry, I was struck by the contrast to the warm air and sunshine I had just left.  The Pantheon is gloomy and cold; I now know where to come in the summer to cool off.  From the little bit I had read in one of my guide books, I knew that it was a secular resting place for some of France's most illustrious figures (thus the chill: no one wants to pay 8 euros to smell French dead guys).  What I learned from the plaques (again, friend, don't trust my French) was that it was commissioned by a gravely ill Louis XV to be a church dedicated to St. Genevieve, patron saint of Paris.  Genevieve, according to the large murals on the walls, was a nun (or lady who liked to wear white and crosses) who saved Paris from Atilla the Hun and really liked topless ladies and blonde children.  Or maybe that was the artist.  Who knows?

The church had the misfortune of being completed in 1789; not a good year for churches.  But rather than sack it and tear it down (because really, that would've been waaaay to much work), the Revolutionaries commandeered it as a resting place for martyrs to their cause.  This explains the odd combination of paintings of St. Genevieve, bloody depictions of the Revolution and topless ladies.  Ok, so it doesn't explain the topless ladies.  Those are supposed to be modeled on Greek and Roman sculpture and art.  Because the Greeks and Romans loved topless ladies.  I guess.  And nothing says Virture, Music and Nature like scantily clad women.  Or maybe boobies are just fun to carve.  Moving on.

The Crypts: French dead guy, French dead guy, French dead guy, Alexandre Dumas!, French dead guy, E Mile Zola!, French dead guy, French dead guy, Voltaire!, French dead guy, Victor Hugo!, Military French dead guys....bookshop!

And that, my friends, was the Pantheon.

I rounded out my date with Allison Paige by wandering down St. Michel, giving a euro to a homeless guy (he had a bunny!  The bunny needs carrots!  My priorities are misplaced!), resisting the siren call of the last days of the soldes, eating falafel along the Seine, and watching street performers outside Notre Dame.  All in all, a well-spent day.  And Jane Eyre was still waiting for me when I got home.

The Tally: Second Installment

Being that I have a gift for and a love of judgment, I have decided to do the world a favor and answer the question once and for all: are the French really assholes?


And today's encounter with the lady at the Denfert-Rochereau station brings us to...


ASSHOLES: 1         NON-ASSHOLES: 1


Of course, to be fair, I have encountered many neutral-to-lovely French people between now and when I recorded my encounter with our waiter in Orsay, especially the native Parisians at the American Church in Paris.  But I've decided to only record incidents with the French people I meet out and around the city that really stand out as particularly pleasant or heinous.  And Denfert lady definitely falls into the latter category.


AH and I ventured to Denfert today to get our Navigo passes (public transit passes that you purchase on a monthly or yearly basis).  Although this lady spoke little English, AH did admirably, and the transaction went fairly smoothly.  But as we filled out paperwork, quite a queue built up behind us.  When we were almost finished, a gentleman asked how long it normally takes to get a pass.  The woman, who'd been not unpleasant up until this point, replies (haughtily in French), "Not long, unless you only speak English."


Salope, síl te plais.

Fancy Night at the Barrio

Much to the pleasure of AH and myself, Saturday night was not the unmitigated catastrophe that we had braced ourselves for.  While this has its obvious upsides for us, alas, no humorous disaster stories to relate back to you all, only minor kerfuffles.  And, dutifully, I will relate them regardless.

The night began with the outfit dilemma: neither AH nor I were big club-goers back in the States, and we certainly didn't know what to wear to a chic Parisian club.  I decided to play it safe with a black cocktail dress from Target, and AH stuck with the button-down and black pants combo.  We really looked more like we were going out to dinner with a new boss than a hip night spot, but I figured better to play it safe (I left the blue fascinator at home).

After wandering around Place de la Bastille for a good fifteen minutes (the metro exit I insisted on taking turned out to be in the exact opposite direction that we needed to go), we finally arrived at our destination.  Although I had been warned by Obama friend that this was going to be an upscale establishment, the name Barrio Latino had still eased me into some amount of false security about the ambiance.  But this was certainly nothing like any barrio previously conjured up in my mind.  Honest to goodness, I almost turned around when I saw the line of attractive ladies working their stilettos and expertly coiffed gentlemen leading up to a brick wall of a bouncer in a black suit.  The most exclusive place I'd ever been before this was an OSU bar in New York on game day.  Fortunately it turns out that Obama friend has a talent for getting things to go his way, and the bouncers let us in past the line of eye-dagger shooting beautiful people.

And so we were brought back into a dimly lit room to meet the posse.  AH and I pulled up our little velvet poufs to a low-set coffee table (dinner tables and chairs must be terribly gauche) and attempted introductions in our broken French.  It turns out that the friends of Obama friend all spoke very proficient English, and they were all delightful.  We passed the evening discussing everything from the unrest in Egypt and the violence in Mexico to the subtleties of that eternal poet, Rihanna's, lyrics ("Um, I think 'Wear me out' is a sexual reference...").  AH and I even managed to successfully navigate our first bisou-bisous (the double kiss), without causing international incident.

The company was quite the opposite of what an American would expect of a pretentious European club, and, it turns out, so was the food.  AH and I were quite surprised to find ourselves dining on ridiculously overpriced jalopeno poppers, chile con carne and also, inexplicably, mozzarella sticks and spring rolls.  Tasty to be sure, but mostly a better prepared version of what one could find at any Applebee's half-priced appetizer happy hour.

We did manage to give ourselves away as typical Americans by finishing more than one glass of wine; everyone still had full glasses when AH and I had each polished off at least one glass.  Guess there will be no getting ferschnickity in the company of our French brethren.  This will not be difficult if we continue frequenting places that charge 14 euros for a glass of Jack Daniels (note to friends and family: there'd better be a bottle of Basil Hayden waiting for me back in the states).

Just before midnight, in a testament to the sense of adventure we were feeling, I even managed to drag AH onto the dance floor with the rest of the group.  It was latin music and a few couples around us were attempting some sort of salsa, but mostly there was only room to shuffle your feet and make sexy-face (BTW, you haven't seen sexy-face until you've seen AH's, I promise).  But before long AH and I turned into (sweaty, claustrophobic) pumpkins and had to leave to go catch the night train home.

Before going to bed that night, I strongly encouraged* AH to send Obama friend a text thanking him for the wonderful evening and expressing our hope to do it again soon.  The sentiment is sincere.  I do hope I see these people again.  I'll be practicing my sexy-face until then.

*screeching like an over-tired toddler

You Have Been Warned

One of the many delightful things about living at Cite Universitaire is that there is a cafeteria at the nearby Maison Internationale that's cheap, serves decent food and keep reasonable hours.  So for the second night in a row AH and I decided to indulge ourselves in it's greasy convenience.  As I was refilling our water bottle (in France they don't serve you water, they just leave caraffes of tap water on the table), I noticed a Barack Obama look-alike smiling at me.  As is my instinct, I smiled back (despite my brush with Casanova).  He said something in French, I tried my broken French, he switched to his broken English.  He asked if he could sit with me, and so I brought him over to our table.  Another French friend of his joined us, and we proceeded to have what I have come to think of as a language potluck: multiple people bringing little bits of a language to a conversation, and everyone just trying like hell to keep up.  Our new Obama friend kept pushing us to use our (still fairly terrible) French, although he and his friend would help with bits of translated English when they could.  While it was difficult and embarrassing at times, it was one of my few interactions with someone that didn't speak nearly fluent English and so the challenge was necessary and welcome.

Towards the end of the meal came the kicker:  Obama friend has invited AH and I to a birthday party at a tres cher dance club this coming Saturday night.  He then vetoed AH's shoes, and warned us not to wear jeans.  So this Saturday night I will be wrangling AH into something resembling European Chic and then dragging him to a pricey dance club with a group of strangers who may or may not speak English.  My friends this has the potential to my humiliating for us but vastly entertaining for you.  So stay tuned.