rodin, camille and joan
february 21, 2011
Salaam Dear Ones,
Yesterday we went to the Musee Rodin where Auguste Rodin's sculpture is so beautifully displayed in this amazing old house with an enormous garden. Of course Rodin's work was everywhere. He is most famous for The Kiss, The Thinker, The Burghers of Calais, The Gates of Hell....I could go on and on. He was incredibly prolific, especially considering how difficult and complex it is to cast in metal. Rodin brought an emotionality to sculpture that had previously not been seen, and was quite successful in his lifetime.
The incredible work of Camille Claudel is also on display there. Enormously talented and twenty years his junior, she had a fifteen year relationship with him, but ended up going nuts when he opted to marry this rich old lady. Camille spent the last twenty-six years of her life in a mental institution. C'est la vie des artistes!
As if that weren't enough to take in, there was also a special display of Henri Moore's work and his atelier which was so moving. He took sea shells and bones and skulls as his inspiration. I loved looking at his atelier, his wicker chair where he sat, his long white kitchen sideboard. His spoon. These things emanated baraka, in contrast to Notre Dame later that afternoon, which was deader than a doornail. There was more baraka in Henri Moore's tablespoon than there was in all of Notre Dame. The only thing moving in there besides the thousands of tourists filing through, was a statue of Joan of Arc. Now there's a story. Teenage country girl told by God to dress in drag and go to the town square and wait for the next instruction, where she sees a white dove hanging over a guy's head who is to be the next king of France, etc.etc. Long story short, she does everything God tells her to do, and she still gets burned at the stake. Her last words are "Jesus. Jesus." I've often reflected on her life, her calling, and her willingness to follow God's instructions, regardless of the painful outcome. Seeing her statue tucked in a dark corner brought all this racing back. Another woman's story.
Speaking of women, the French women are incredibly chic, and I've been secretly snapping pictures of them whenever I get the chance. I'll pretend to be taking a picture of a statue, but really I'm taking a picture of the gal standing next to it. They're inspiring in that way that Italian women are. Their message is "You never stop rocking it." I like that message.
Next we wandered over to the Eiffel Tower. It's huge! It's beautiful. It's crawling with tourists. We took a few pictures while Sengalese men swarmed the tourists hawking key chains and tinkets. The gypsies have a little number going, too, where they approach you with a clip board asking you to sign a petition. I'm not sure what they do when you're signing it, grab your wallet maybe, or do they use your name for identity theft? Who knows? But it reeks of yet another scam, and they're everywhere.
Then we strolled down the Seine and went to the Latin Quarter where we thoroughly exhausted ourselves walking around. So back to our B & B for a little R & R, and then up the hill to Montmartre for a little dinner in a neighborhood joint. I'm so glad we're in this neighborhood because once you get past the sex street Pigalle (aptly called "Pig Alley" by the WWII GI's) you enter winding cobblestone streets that climb the hill and are lined with cafes and shops, and it's all very French and not very touristy. The food is rich and plentiful and served well into the night...full menu still going at midnight. Pas de probleme!
I still have to tell you about the Marche aux Puces from the day before. It was rainy and we went to the biggest flea market in the world. It stretches on for 15 kilometers or something outrageous. It's like a souk...winding alleys of tiny shops crammed with everything imaginable, some of them quite lovely, some of them incomprehensible. It was the perfect thing to do on a rainy day, and we wandered about, getting thoroughly turned around, and just when we thought it's time to head back to the Metro, we stumbled upon this little joint called Chez Louisette. The place was jumping! It looked like Christmas inside with all these red lights, and there was live music! An accordian player, a guitarist, and an old gal singing, just belting her heart out, a la Edith Piaf. The peek though the window revealed a world teaming with wonderment. What better place to have lunch? We had the time of our lives. The food was great , new singers kept getting up, and to top it all off, two guys from the birthday party table grabbed me and Aenni and gave us a whirl on the non-existant dance floor. We shot out of there renewed, reinvigorated and restored to life. Whoever imagined a scene like that on a rainy afternoon?
This is our last morning in Paris. We're going to check out the cemetery where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and so many others are buried. Aenni wants to see the statuary. Hope it's not rainy, although that hasn't seemed to dampen our spirits.
Love you all so much,
fattie
Yesterday we went to the Musee Rodin where Auguste Rodin's sculpture is so beautifully displayed in this amazing old house with an enormous garden. Of course Rodin's work was everywhere. He is most famous for The Kiss, The Thinker, The Burghers of Calais, The Gates of Hell....I could go on and on. He was incredibly prolific, especially considering how difficult and complex it is to cast in metal. Rodin brought an emotionality to sculpture that had previously not been seen, and was quite successful in his lifetime.
The incredible work of Camille Claudel is also on display there. Enormously talented and twenty years his junior, she had a fifteen year relationship with him, but ended up going nuts when he opted to marry this rich old lady. Camille spent the last twenty-six years of her life in a mental institution. C'est la vie des artistes!
As if that weren't enough to take in, there was also a special display of Henri Moore's work and his atelier which was so moving. He took sea shells and bones and skulls as his inspiration. I loved looking at his atelier, his wicker chair where he sat, his long white kitchen sideboard. His spoon. These things emanated baraka, in contrast to Notre Dame later that afternoon, which was deader than a doornail. There was more baraka in Henri Moore's tablespoon than there was in all of Notre Dame. The only thing moving in there besides the thousands of tourists filing through, was a statue of Joan of Arc. Now there's a story. Teenage country girl told by God to dress in drag and go to the town square and wait for the next instruction, where she sees a white dove hanging over a guy's head who is to be the next king of France, etc.etc. Long story short, she does everything God tells her to do, and she still gets burned at the stake. Her last words are "Jesus. Jesus." I've often reflected on her life, her calling, and her willingness to follow God's instructions, regardless of the painful outcome. Seeing her statue tucked in a dark corner brought all this racing back. Another woman's story.
Speaking of women, the French women are incredibly chic, and I've been secretly snapping pictures of them whenever I get the chance. I'll pretend to be taking a picture of a statue, but really I'm taking a picture of the gal standing next to it. They're inspiring in that way that Italian women are. Their message is "You never stop rocking it." I like that message.
Next we wandered over to the Eiffel Tower. It's huge! It's beautiful. It's crawling with tourists. We took a few pictures while Sengalese men swarmed the tourists hawking key chains and tinkets. The gypsies have a little number going, too, where they approach you with a clip board asking you to sign a petition. I'm not sure what they do when you're signing it, grab your wallet maybe, or do they use your name for identity theft? Who knows? But it reeks of yet another scam, and they're everywhere.
Then we strolled down the Seine and went to the Latin Quarter where we thoroughly exhausted ourselves walking around. So back to our B & B for a little R & R, and then up the hill to Montmartre for a little dinner in a neighborhood joint. I'm so glad we're in this neighborhood because once you get past the sex street Pigalle (aptly called "Pig Alley" by the WWII GI's) you enter winding cobblestone streets that climb the hill and are lined with cafes and shops, and it's all very French and not very touristy. The food is rich and plentiful and served well into the night...full menu still going at midnight. Pas de probleme!
I still have to tell you about the Marche aux Puces from the day before. It was rainy and we went to the biggest flea market in the world. It stretches on for 15 kilometers or something outrageous. It's like a souk...winding alleys of tiny shops crammed with everything imaginable, some of them quite lovely, some of them incomprehensible. It was the perfect thing to do on a rainy day, and we wandered about, getting thoroughly turned around, and just when we thought it's time to head back to the Metro, we stumbled upon this little joint called Chez Louisette. The place was jumping! It looked like Christmas inside with all these red lights, and there was live music! An accordian player, a guitarist, and an old gal singing, just belting her heart out, a la Edith Piaf. The peek though the window revealed a world teaming with wonderment. What better place to have lunch? We had the time of our lives. The food was great , new singers kept getting up, and to top it all off, two guys from the birthday party table grabbed me and Aenni and gave us a whirl on the non-existant dance floor. We shot out of there renewed, reinvigorated and restored to life. Whoever imagined a scene like that on a rainy afternoon?
This is our last morning in Paris. We're going to check out the cemetery where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and so many others are buried. Aenni wants to see the statuary. Hope it's not rainy, although that hasn't seemed to dampen our spirits.
Love you all so much,
fattie