A Dance to the End of Summer

While it was an Italian invention, the French took to ballet like canards to l'eau. Catherine de Medici, the Italian who married French king Henry II, and who was responsible for much of the French Renaissance in art, and culture, and architecture, was ballet's first major patron in France; but Louis XIV, a passionate dancer whose nickname "Sun King" came from a 12-hour ballet in which he danced five different roles, cemented its place in French history and culture.

 

But this post is not about ballet.

It's about choreography, the kind of subtle choreography we're learning to see in Paris, where it seems that not only individuals dance to their own internal drummers, but even groups are often arranged by some master choreographer like Balanchine, or the Sun God, Apollo.

Richard and I will be standing on a Metro platform and there, across the tracks, a sudden rearrangement of waiting Parisians becomes a dance of its own. If he's quick, he can capture these moments in the Metro, in the streets, at cafés. If not, at least we saw the moment, and, like rainbows, we know they'll reappear when the angle and the light are right.

Here then, some of the choreography we've noticed, from soloists, duos, or ensemble players. Call it Paris Play's dance to the end of summer. May you keep an eye out for your town's tangos, tarantellas, or full-out ballets, and enjoy them as much as we do.

A Chorus Line

Channeling his inner Gene Kelly

A mosh pit

Sometimes, your hair can dance for you

A dog who thinks he's a cat

Dances with not-quite wolves

Street art by Miss-Tic

Autumn in August

Isn’t it strange how you set out to look for something, and you find something else?

Richard and I rarely decide ahead of time to write about and photograph a theme, unless it’s a scheduled event, like a parade. Otherwise we stumble upon our subjects. Serendipity, or whatever you want to call it.

But yesterday, we thought we’d go to our local market, and show you how it’s done in France. We arrived at the market on rue Mouffetard an hour after it opened. While it’s usually thronged, there was almost no one there. How odd. A few vendors had set up shop. But there were almost no buyers.

Why? We noticed that a funeral had begun in St.-Medard, the fifteenth-century church right where rue Mouffetard begins. Perhaps people didn’t want to mix life-giving food with death. There was a hearse parked between a vegetable stand and the church. Flowers being stacked in front of the church entrance. But no market, if market implies both buyers and sellers.

Then we realized that we hadn’t reckoned with August. The Parisians—doctors, lawyers, butchers, bakers, shoemakers, tous les Parisiens—take their month’s vacation in August, and the town is eerily calm and quiet. One local joke: You can shoot a cannon down any major boulevard in August and not hit a single French speaker. Unless it’s a Belgian, and they don’t count. (Belgian jokes here are like Newfie jokes in Canada.)

We walked back through Place Monge, which had its own skeletal food market going on, and saw the first yellow and orange autumn leaves. Last week it was too hot in Paris to move, and now, autumn is blowing in? Strange.

When we returned home, Richard processed photos and I worked on a short story.

Richard showed me a photo he’d taken in Place Monge of some eels, displayed with tails in their mouths, like an ouroboros, the ancient representation of things come full circle. But there is something terminally Irish in us that begins to play with words at the slightest opportunity.

“Let’s cut across the Eel St. Louis to the Maison Europeenne de La Photographie,” I suggested, when we had finished our work for the day. “Maybe we can do a post on one of the photography shows.”

Fashion shoot, Eel St. Louis, August 25, 2012

And so we did. One floor was full of fashion photos by Alice Springs. I used to see her and her husband, Helmut Newton, around the swimming pool of the Chateau Marmont when I stayed there as a traveling art dealer, and did my daily laps. They seemed infatuated with fame. Besotted with it. They would make great characters in a Chekhov-like story about character. When someone’s conversation revolves obsessively around one thing, you are seeing their character in action.

Photo and reflected photo in photo (c) Alice Springs

Then we looked at an exhibit called “Charlotte Rampling, Albums Secrets.” There were a number of photos of her by famous photographers (Cecil Beaton, Bettina Rheims, Alice and Helmut, and others). The most astonishing one was by Peter Lindbergh. She was wearing an African outfit of sorts, and with short hair, the length of her neck made her look like an African animal, maybe an antelope.

In another room, we listened to Charlotte Rampling’s beautiful, low voice in French and British English talk about beauty. People say it fades, she says, but it just changes.

There was a series of slide shows from her life, many featuring her three children. I watched them in fascination. Why did I never have children? I wondered. I never had the desire, yet I love children, and am always surprised to hear or read about women about to become mothers for the first time, who worry that they won’t know what to do. I feel I’d know instinctively what to do. I was the oldest of five, and loved reading to my younger siblings, directing plays and magic shows for them. And yet.

 

Everyone I know who has ever had the notion of past lives seems to remember exotic ones. I seem to recall just two (and this is, of course, nothing but fantasy); in my last life, I was a mother of nine, and a good one, too.

As we left the show, Richard said, “It’s hard to take photos of photos.”

“Unless you approach it like Emily Dickinson, by telling it slant. But I know what you mean. It’s hard to write about them too.”

As we headed for Mexican food, the wind came up. For the first time in months, I needed a sweater. “Summer’s over,” I said.

“Oh no, just wait,” said Richard.

Today, it’s hot again. Summer in the air, but leaves swirling in circles all along the Boulevard St. Germain.

Pussy Riot and the Power of Myth

Distressed at the notion that the three female punk rockers from the six-member group, Pussy Riot, were being slapped down way too hard for their anti-Putin protest in Moscow's Christ the Saviour Cathedral on February 21, we joined 300 other Parisians this broiling noon hour (Friday, the 17th) in a demonstration of solidarity at the famous Niki St. Phalle fountain next to the Pompidou Museum. (That's the fountain in our masthead, above.) 

As the world knows, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova and her band-mates Yekaterina Samutsevich and Maria Alyokhina, wearing knitted balaclavas, burst into the Orthodox church with three other band members (who are currently in hiding) and performed a song beseeching the Virgin Mary to oust the Russian leader, Vladimir Putin, who was standing for re-election.

The choice of venue, and of the Virgin, were a protest against the way the church has become, in the eyes of the band and other Russians, an arm of the Putin State during his twelve years in power.

Pussy Riot specializes in sudden, often illegal public performances, of the kind associated with flash mobs, including one in Moscow's Red Square. In a freer tradition, Pussy Riot would be recognized as the honored form of Trickster we call the court jester, the holy fool whose job/art it is to tell truth to power. 

The State was not amused.

The women, all in their twenties, were arrested and charged with "hooliganism motivated by religious hatred," because their performance was called, by the government, a hate crime against the church. Pussy Riot called it free speech.

We call it myth. You don't have to believe in myth; it unfolds all around you, whether or not you believe in it.

In these last few days of Leo, with the Sun and Moon both in the sign, we've noticed many cat posts on Facebook. We're spending a lot of time with Marley, just admiring his feline beauty. And today, we're in a public square awaiting the verdict on Pussy Riot. 

I've been re-reading Candide. Just imagine what Voltaire would have to say about this miserable witch-burning still going on in Russia. Enlightened Eighteenth Century philosophers, writers and politicians in England, the U.S. and France, were clear about the need to keep church and state separate, and to allow free speech, without repressive repercussions from religion or the government.

In an earlier age, the band, Pussy Riot, would have been burned as witches. There is a reason why cats and witches are connected. Cats are creatures of mystery. They are beautiful, not utilitarian. You don't see cats out herding cattle and sheep.

Zoologist Desmond Morris said, "Cats are artists, dogs are soldiers." Soldiers of the state like Putin don't understand artists or witches. Witches were probably early feminists, equally versed in magic and nature. They wanted to transform the world, as artists do. As these singers did, appealing to the Virgin Mary to stop Putin. 

On a mythical level, the Virgin Mary is the goddess, Demeter. She is an earth goddess. In earlier times, women addressed the goddesses with such protests, and no man would dream of silencing them. 

Despite worldwide protests, and appeals for leniency by creative artists ranging from Danny De Vito to Yoko Ono to Paul McCartney, the women, who were jailed for the five months awaiting trial, faced up to seven years in prison.

Our Paris demonstration, as well as others across Europe, were held at the time the court was to release its verdict. Organized by the French chapter of Amnesty International, aided by the International Federation for Human Rights, this Paris iteration attracted a cross-section of Parisians, including members of the local Federation of Anarchists.  They carried black flags, and didn't mix much.

Despite the lack of shade, and an eighty-eight degree Fahrenheit temperature (31 Celsius), the fashion for the day was the balaclava, in spandex, leopard, or you-name-it, with or without slogans.

While the length of sentence was not handed down before the demonstration ended, the crowd was told by the event's Amnesty International host, who was monitoring the Internet on his iPhone, that the members of Pussy Riot were found guilty, expected information that was met with a chorus of boos.

Later Friday, the judge, Marina Sirovaya, sentenced the trio to two years in prison.

Astrology is just the time dimension, the seasonal aspect of myth. And today, as Leo draws to a close, the pussy cats are rioting.

Ah, Those Reticent Parisians

One of the things Americans seem to believe about Parisians is that they are reticent, aloof, hard to approach.

In some ways, that's true, but it's just that they aren't Americans. Smiles here are earned, not just passed out freely. You know that ubiquitous yellow happy-face that first appeared in the U.S. in the late Sixties? Parisians keep their Metro faces on until you've said or done something that earns a happy face.




As for being hard to approach, if you walk up speaking English, and just speak louder when you're not being understood, you're not going to make friends in any land. But if you approach the French with some phrases in their language, like "Hello" (Bonjour) and "How are you?" (Comment ça va?), you're likely to get a smile and a Ça va bien, et vous? in return.

As a photographer, Richard is out in the streets for hours a day most days. His French is improving, but he's still shy about using it, and even shyer about just sticking his camera into people's faces.




But often the Parisians are not equally shy. Richard will take a photograph of some object, like these clouds above the Luxembourg Gardens, and a group of boys will run up and clamor to have their pictures taken.

Such "intrusions" happen surprisingly often, and people love to smile for the camera. Even more surprisingly, they don't ask for a copy. It seems to be enough that they got their picture taken.

This week's Paris Play is dedicated to those non-reticent Parisians, who, with gesture, word or deed, asked or demanded or cajoled Richard to take their picture. These are the people who chose to pose--some of them literally jumped in front of the camera. His notes on the photos are in the captions.

 

I'm having a cappuccino at a local cafe, and she just walks up and sticks her face in the lens. How could I say no?

This kid was the ringleader of the Luxembourg boys seen in color above. They were far too cool to ask for the photos, but the girl they were with asked for them, so I e-mailed copies.

 This guy was the one who asked that I shoot him and his arms-folded buddy in the doorway above. I think they went to arms-folded school together.

He was saving a parking space for a patron of a neighborhood cafe. Good gig, done with panache.

I was shooting storefronts on the Boulevard Sebastopol, and she waved me over to immortalize her and her companion.

I thought he was annoyed that I was shooting his construction site, and we didn't have a common spoken language. But then he did this.

She liked her hat; I liked her necklace, which reminded me of street art.

There's a surprising amount of hazing in French schools, during which one is forced to dress up, or down, and be humiliated in public. This guy seems to be making the best of it.

Soccer (football, or foot) is the top sport here, but hoop dreams are moving up fast.

This is my favorite clochard, who lives under a building overhang on the rue St. Jacques. Always cheerful, a people person.

These friends were returning to a worksite that I had just finished shooting.

I was shooting the drama/comedy masks carved into the front of a theater building when she ran up, skinned knees and all, and struck this pose. I shot, and she ran off, giggling, pink backpack bouncing up and down.

Reticence, what's that? I did a sunrise shoot on Montmartre, around 7:30 a.m., and these folks were on their way home from partying all night. But first they had to pose. Later, he mooned me, but that shot is not for our family-friendly publication.

Grenade

Grenade

         "Things that are distressing to see"
              --The Pillow Book by Sei Shōnagon

The look on his mouth

wreathed in berries

a smiling sleepy cat

body turned in his chair

leaning into his teenage daughter

curly-haired, lapping it up

shutting out the mother

bitter look around her mouth

father/husband's two faces--

sensual for the daughter

blank for her mother--

a terrible thing to watch.

As if the mother gave birth

to her own younger self

('Rarus,' 'an abortive child,' or 'a womb,'

the womb of the Corn-mother

from which the corn sprang)

or the secret feminine soul

of her mate,

and he loves only her young, fresh flesh

or perhaps only himself in her, his own inner girl,

and abandons the soul of his wife.

I try to engage her in talk, about the taste of the cider,

she smiles but cannot rise

out of hell.

Kore in the poppy fields

picking the scarlet soporifics,

his chariot drawn by black horses

roaring down the chasm that opens

daughter snatched from mother, de meter,

down into his dark kingdom.

She grieves

and the earth is barren;

apples do not grow,

cider does not flow.

Pomegranate, grenade:

the food of the dead.

Lord of the Underworld

knows only his own desire,

and they are both--

Kore who cries out

Demeter who rages--

his victims.

The father unfolds his length, leaves

the restaurant, daughter close, they stroll

side by side along the rue Vieille du Temple.

Drained, hollow, the mother

can barely rise from her seat

and follows far behind.

I want to cry out to him.

I want to embrace her.

Who will send a message to Hades?

Who will offer the mother blessing?

Who will deliver the daughter from hell

and make the earth fruitful again?