Art According to Allison, Part the Third: The Da Wheeler Code*

After re-reading The Da Vinci Code (did I mention I don't have a television?), I reached several conclusions about author Dan Brown.  The first is that he is clearly a genius who totally showed me that hating on the womens is not just a nasty historical side effect of Christianity (and most major religions, but hey), but is, in fact, the reason for its existence.  I have since mended my church going ways and as I speak I'm running through a field in long white cotton dresses wearing a daisy wreath and celebrating the power of my chalice (since my "sacred feminine" is actually just a fancy way of talking about my ripe, fertile ladyparts.  Thanks, Dan, I feel so empowered!).  

The second is that poor Dan Brown must not have had much time in the Louvre.  I mean, I've only been here since January, and I've already discovered another shocking layer to the true nature of Christ just by wandering the Grand Gallery with my camera phone:

Small though it may appear to you, let's start with this offering by Pietro Vannucci.  The two paintings on the end depict scenes from the life of St. Jerome; the middle panel depicts the resurrection.  But do you notice anything odd about the panel on the right?  Let's take a closer look:

  Saint Jerome's invisibility cloak is slipping off!!!!  Don't you know what this means?!  If you need more examples to lead you to the extremely obvious conclusion that I'm eventually going to draw, let's take a look at Luca Signorelli's saint Jerome penitant en extase:

Christ is depicted FLYING on a WOODEN CROSS.  Does this remind you of any other story where a martyr figure flies around on a long wooden object, like, I don't know, A BROOMSTICK? Nope, not there yet? Let's take a look at this naked statue of Mary Magdalene:

Doesn't her hair have a lovely red quality?  Doesn't she look sad, like maybe her boyfriend is off locked in a deadly confrontation with the forces of darkness?  Doesn't she totally look awesome in the way that only women who were raised around lots and lots of brothers can possibly be (since she's all pretty and girly but can totally talk sports and take the mickey out you as well)?  Hmm?  Still not convinced?  Well let me offer my last piece of 100% COMPLETELY FACTUAL EVIDENCE THAT WILL ENSURE THAT YOU CANNOT DENY THE VALIDITY OF MY CONCLUSIONS:

Pietro Giovanni d'Ambrogio's La Vierge et l'Enfant entoures d'anges.  Notice anything about the figure at the top?  Let's do a God-hance:

Big God, Tiny Head.  Remind you of a scene from a book you might have read where they're all in the Department of Mysteries and a bad guy that might be called a Death Eater messes with Time and his head turns into a baby's head on a grown-up bad guy's body?  Doesn't it?  DOESN'T IT?!  So in my EXPLOSIVE conclusion...

Christ wasn't divine, He was a WIZARD!  And Mary Magdalene (which is some obscure language eventually translates to "Ginny Weasley") was his WITCHY BABY MAMA!  Three months of Louvre-going and I have solved history.  You're welcome.  Ron Howard:  call me.

*Yes, I'm aware that I'm about eight years late in jumping on the Dan Brown mockery train, but it seems that train might have enough steam to keep going indefinitely.  And now I can't go to the Louvre without seeing the inverted pyramid and thinking about how Dan Brown is trying to convince everyone that's a big ol' vag, so I had to go ahead and do him a solid in response.

The Things We Can Learn From the French...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krME5DvZFRQ

And your Winner is...

This striking beauty.  Gawgeous, ain't it?  And this fond memory of the capitol of chic, class and elegance can be yours for a mere 16 Euro!  Or so discovered a dear friend of mine while on a whirlwind tour of Paris during a flight layover.  Her husband took quite a liking to this hat, and so she, loving wife that she is, spent a portion of her brief time in the city schlepping up the Champs Elysees to find and purchase this rare, understated specimen of breeding (perhaps literally- this looks like something's spawn) and taste.  And see?

Isn't it even more attractive on?

Loving Whispers From Under My Bum

Ah, printemps a Paris, when the weather is so gorgeous that I feel totally sorry for all those schmucks with jobs who make money and are stuck inside all day (yes, I am still unemployed.  No, I am clearly not rationalizing away my bitterness).   It's weather for sitting outside at cafes watching Parisians (especially those with adorable puppies and/or babies) go by, taking a stroll in the park with my parasol (yup, I'm totally rocking that sucker this side of the pond), or picnicking along the Seine with new friends and a bottle of wine (although when we attempted this, the Frenchness of the event was kind of ruined by the busting out of an American football; oh well, we still get French points for the smelly cheese).

Yes, my friends, it is a time of romance, and boy, is love in the air.  Or, as it turns out, under my bum.  (No, this is not a kinky TMI post, so you may continue reading without trepidation).  I was sitting in my beloved MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris the other day, enjoying a quiet moment with Jane Austen, when I heard whispering.  I looked around; I was relatively isolated.  I thought I was going crazy.  I left the park  unsettled.

The next morning, AH and I went for a morning jog in the park when I heard it again.  Thankfully, AH heard it too, so I could rule out the cray-cray.  We discovered little speakers placed under the benches that were the culprit.  Then AH stumbled upon the sign explaining their purpose:  they were part of an art installation, "Loving Whispers." The plaque explained that the artist had recorded people speaking loving words in their native tongues and then had them set to play in motion-detecting speakers under the benches of the park.  His reasoning for under-taking this scheme?  Something to the effect of, we confine love to the private sphere and can never express our love in public, so he wanted to merge the public and private spheres.  Blah, blah, ArtyArtArt.

In the states, in the context of a culture still not quite over our Puritan past, I would think this quite sweet, maybe even profound.  But this man clearly does not live in the Paris I live in, because I've found that people here have NO trouble displaying their affection for one another.  I've spotted anything and everything (and I do mean everything) from making out on street corners to full on straddling.  When trading worst PDA stories with my friend from Ghana the other day, I told him about the couple AH and I saw in a pizza parlor where their intense make-out session progressed into him slipping his hand up her dress (I wanted to tell them that as I was not paying $2.50 a minute for this service, they should take their happy hands elsewhere).  He told me about the couple he saw all but getting it on on the same bench as a homeless man.

Kissing on a bench at sunset along the Seine?  OK, it's a romantic setting, I get it, please keep the slurping noises to a minimum.  Full on gropage in a subway station that reeks of urine?  No, you have no excuse. And I'm not just talking young, hormonally charged teenagers; I'm talking adults up through late middle age as well.  Normally, I think mature couples showing that they're still crazy about each other is sweet.  But when I'm concerned that I'm going to have your saliva flecks fly onto my face, the sweetness is gone.  Really.

So sorry, Loving Whispers Guy, but I don't need an audio track to the visual feast of romance and eroticism that I am assaulted with on a daily basis.  So for now I'm going to have to say that I prefer my art in the Louvre where I can document and mock it, not whispering sweet nothings in Chinese at me from under my bum.

 

And the Nominees Are...

Yesterday I had the pleasure to meet up with a family from my home church in Ohio who were visiting Paris.  We ate crepes in the Tuileries, and they told me that their next stop was the Champs-Elysees.  They asked if I had any suggestions for this next excursion; I admitted that I hadn't been.  Scandal ensued, and they invited me to accompany them.  And while the Champs-Elysees holds no attractions for me personally (other than the Arc, which we didn't quite make it to- H&M is a black hole for women under 30), the company was so delightful that it was well-worth the walk.  And besides, if I hadn't crashed their family vacation, I wouldn't have illegally snagged the following photos in the tourists shops lining the street.

Now, these fabulous gems raise the following questions: 1) Why, God, why? and 2) Which is actually the tackiest?  I don't think that the first question can ever be satisfactorily answered, but at least the second one can be put to a vote.  So please, view, consider, and then take to the comments to let me know which of these beauties you would be least (or most, depending on your point of view) excited to have your globe-trotting friend/neighbor/Grandma bring back for you:

#1: Jersey Shore does Paris *shudder*.  Also, please note that the hat is fuzzy.  So it's tacky in all three dimensions.

#2: Light-up Eiffel Towers.  I don't think I would have been so offended if it weren't for the exorbitant price tag.

#3:  Harry Potter Paris boxers.  Seriously, there are little glow-in-the-dark wizard hats.  I think these beats those tee-shirts with Marilyn Monroe's face and the Eiffel Tower on them in the category of "items that feature things that actually have nothing to do with Paris at all but that might move more merchandise."  If they wanted to jump on the Harry Potter train, they could've featured a Fleur Delacour tea cup or something.  But there's something that just feels wrong about something so intrinsically British being used to push French souvenirs; it would be like seeing Abraham Lincoln's face on the side of a beer stein in Germany.  And they were 16 euros.  Sacrebleu, old chap!

#4:  This picture ran on the front page of the Weekly World News with the headline, "3-STORY KITTENS TERRORIZE PARISIANS AND TOURISTS ALIKE."  The lead-off to the story would be, "So cute.  So cuddly.  So deadly.  These Killer Kittens are the work of Francois Gerard, the disgruntled scientist who unleashed his deadly creation on the Champs de Mars yesterday.  In a statement released from his underground lair, Gerard cited over-priced hot dogs, aggressive vendors and long lines at the Tower as the reason behind his feline reign of terror." 

OK, I eagerly await your votes...

So That's...Different, Part II, The Part Where I Pretend I Know Anything About the French Language

I cannot wait for visitors.  My mother, father and sister just spent a week here, and some of my friends (you know who you are) have been making some noise about popping over for a spell.  I sincerely hope that you do because a) it means that the bumbling mistakes I make are made in the name of "research" for your benefit and b) ok, fine, I do actually like you.  And so for those of you who plan on coming to see MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris and The Great Glass Pimple for yourself, the following is for your edification and benefit.


So as I've mentioned, AH and I were thrilled to play tour guide to my mother, father and sister last week.  Actually, I'm not sure who was guiding whom: my sister had done enough research on Paris to fill several spreadsheets, and my father could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about Normandy.  I actually felt sorely inadequate much of the time.  But the one area that Lonely Planet wasn't as helpful in was that of the French language.  Now I have documented some of my struggles with the French language here on this very bloggy blog, but it is was indisputable fact that between Rosetta Stone and the harsh mistress of experience (she wears very saucy heels and looks excellent in leather), AH and I had some translating duties on our hands.  Which we were happy to do, even if the idea of us translating French to English is still a bit like asking Sarah Palin to give a lecture on American History:  we might succeed in getting some of the main ideas across, but the margin for error is...considerable.


It occurred to me partway through the week that it might be useful for future visitors (you, I hope!) to have a cheat sheet of phrases that will come in handy for your visit to Paris.  Could you just buy a phrase book?  Of course.  But chances are you won't need to know how to say, "Qu'est-ce que tu as de prevu pour Noel (What did you do for Christmas)?" if you're only going to be here for a week.  And to spare you the smug glances/overeagerness of your host (me) that greet you when you ask for the French phrase for something (I'm so infrequently useful that I do tend to get smug/super-excited when I can be), here's a list of things that will get you through one week in Paris:


General:
.Ou se trouve____(Oo say troov)= Where is the_______?
.Parlez-vous anglais (Par-lay voo ahn-glay)?= Do you speak English?  (If you get into a situation where you know you'll need an English speakers help, it will ALWAYS get you a more positive response if you begin in French.  In fact, if you memorize nothing else from this list, please commit this to memory).
.Bon journee (Bohn jzoor-nay)= Have a nice day (customary to say as you're leaving a shop or restaurant).
.Bon soiree (Bohn swar-ay)= Have a nice evening 


On the Metro:
.When you bump into or need to get past someone (as is likely to happen at least once), the appropriate thing to say is Pardon (Par-dohn).
.These you'll figure out quickly:  
            Sortie (Sore-tee)= Exit
            Poussez (Poo-say)= Push
            Tirez (Tir-ay)= Pull
.Billet (Bee-yay)= Ticket


Shopping:
.Combien ca cout (Com-bee-en sah koot)= How much does it cost?
.Je voudrais acheter ____ (Jzay voo-dray ash-tay___)= I would like to buy_____


In a Restaurant:
.Une table pour____(Oon tab-luh poor)= A table for______
.Je voudrais____ (Jzay voo-dray)= I would like_______
.Vin (Vahn)= Wine
.Un plus (Uhn ploo)= One more
.Une carafe d'eau, s'il vous plait (Oon care-afe doh, see voo play)= One carafe of water, please (they don't serve water unless you ask for it.  And if you just ask for a water, it's likely to be sparkling, and it will not be free).
As for specific food, I suggest you learn the names of things you don't like eating.  Some examples might be:
.Oeuf (Uhf)= Egg (that was important for my mama, as they put eggs on everything here)
.Foie (Fwa)= Liver
.Poisson (Pwa-sohn)= Fish- just like it sounds in The Little Mermaid.
.Tartar (Exactly what it sounds like)= Raw beef.  Like, your mom went to Giant Eagle, bought some ground beef, and instead of grilling it up, slapped it down in front of you and said, "Eh, I don't feel like cooking tonight.  Let's pretend we're French."
And after you've drank all of that wine and still, free water...
.Ou sont les toilletes (Oo sohn lay twa-lets)= Where are the toilets?
And finally...
.L'addition, sil vous plait (La-di-see-ohn, see voo play)= Check, please.


What You Need to Know in Any Tourist Area:
.WOOO, I SPEAK AMURICAN, BITCHES! WE SAVED YOUR ASS IN WWII, SO SUCK OUR STAR-SPANGLED (censored)!!!


Ok, perhaps not, but you can get away with a lot more English in places like the Eiffel Tower and the Latin Quarter right around Notre Dame than you can in quaint little cafes off the beaten paths.  So if you find yourself out of the hive of fellow tourists, make sure you've committed these helpful little phrases to memory.  Or bring me along, and accept smug grins and utter incompetence as my fee.

Visitor's Survey

And so the parentals and the sister are readjusting to the U.S. time zone as we speak.  It was a fantastic week with relatively minor disasters (my dad's 24 stomach virus being chief among them), and a good time was had by all.

As you well know, I am an opinionated person, but what you might not know is that I come from a whole clan of opinionated people (poor AH is often the lone voice of agreeableness among us).  And so on our last night together in Paris, I decided to exploit this family trait and conducted an informal survey of the trip. Their answers to my queries are (loosely- I didn't have the foresight to write any of this down) as follows:

Let's start with the basics.  What was your favorite thing that you did this week?
T-Dogs*: Probably sitting outside at cafes, drinking tea and people-watching.
Llama**: Ditto.
Triple D***: Seeing your place and knowing that you don't live in the ghetto- I'm much less anxious about you living here now.  I also really enjoyed Normandy.

What was your most "touristy" moment?
L: Trying to speak Spanish to the waiters.
DDD: Wearing a bright red shirt.
TD: Wearing this plastic raincoat everywhere.
AH: I actually loved getting the chance to be a tourist.
Me: Yeah, it was great to not care one lick about blending in.  I loved wearing sneakers all week and taking a zillion pictures (485, to be exact), speaking terrible French and not caring about being judged.

What do you wish you had known before you came, or what would you have packed in hindsight?
TD: Wash cloths! [The hotel was very stingy with towels]
DDD: More shirts.
L: I wish I had known that "terrine" is not soup but things floating in aspic.

Was there a moment where you said to yourself, "Wow, I'm really in Paris"?
TD: Sitting outside at a cafe drinking wine at 3 in the afternoon- that is so NOT part of my American life.
L: Shopping in the Marais.
DDD: There was never a time I didn't feel like I was in Paris.  It's not a city I've ever given much thought to, so I didn't really have any expectations to begin with.

Best meal?
L: The chocolate crepe I ate yesterday. [author’s note: said crepe was eaten in the Tuileries under an awning during a downpour.  Llama had the misfortune of being seated closest to the elements, and the entire left side of her body got soaked.  Must’ve been a damn good crepe].

TD: It’s between the ravioli I had Sunday for lunch and the lunch I had today [vegetable tatin, beef, and chestnut cake].

DDD: The lunch we had in Normandy- the cheese, the free-flowing wine, the three desserts…

AH: I like food…?

*T-Dogs is the nickname inexplicably given to my mother by my best friend.

** Llama was a nickname given to my sister upon her birth by one of my uncles.  We are a strange clan.

*** Triple D is a nickname that my father earned at AH's bachelor party.  For the sake of his professional interests, I will not publicly posts its meaning.