THREE WALKING

Where art thou, Banksy?

The instruction was to follow an inverted L shape route. If I chose Rue du Pont aux Choux as my starting point, I would have trekked Le Marais in such a formation twice. So my plan was the reverse. It began on Rue Rivioli instead. There was a BOLO for street art and graffiti. Banksy came to mind, and so did a Holmes x Film Noir moment. It gave this walk a sense of mission more specific than the others I had taken before. Ontologically a Parisian walk, this one also had no destination- the walk was the destination.

Friday the 13th.

There was a weekend amount of people on the streets, interfering with my visual hunt. Rue de Rivioli is, in general, to posh to be disfigured by aerosol. 

Zara

H&M

BHV Le Marais

The street was laced with anchor tenants. The modern shop windows juxtaposed the Haussmann that framed them. H&M in particular, summoned a post I read not too longer ago on a certain social network platform shared by a social network friend whom I cannot remember. Swedish fashion bloggers were sent to the brand’s sweatshops in Cambodia. The excruciating conditions jerked tears off the Scandinavian-raised teenagers who considered the experience an abuse.  

SOLDES

DERNIÈRE DÉMARQUE

The overwhelming, repeating signs assaulted the sight. In light of that article, I associated the capitalization as screams of third-world sweatshop workers. It could no longer trigger any appetite for  retail. The commercial manifestations outnumbered the graffiti the memo instructed me to hunt on this street. 

Merde. I came to a halt upon a pile of fecal matter before making a short turn and continuing my walk. Close shave. For a culture with such emphasis on manners, the etiquette of Parisian canine owners leaves much to be desired. On occasion, I suspect the origins of the feces when they appear in larger quantities. This kind of public exhibition seems to be rather common in Paris. Mind you, this statement is coming from someone hailing from New York, another city notorious for its urban sanitation.

I derailed by turning into Rue des Archives, distracted by the street of interesting looking stores that stretched down. A good walk should always have the element of spontaneity. It is serendipity that makes discovery much more wonderful. Rue des Archives had a lot of life. As one of the larger roads, it nested a number of commercial stores instead of independent boutiques that Le Marais was known for. It was a subdued version of Rue de Rivioli. We humans have a habit of comparing.

With intention, I turned in Rue des Blanc Manteaux, not for its interesting name but because I could spot Rue de Francs Bourgeois as the next turn. I had stepped on the gravel of that road enough to be call myself familiar with it. I wanted something new. That was the condition of each walk I took in Paris — novelty.

I persisted in my avoidance of Rue de Franc Bourgeois, finding myself encapsulated in the low-rise Medieval architecture of Le Marais. I reached for the camera phone I had armed myself with, ready to take a shot at the aged stones that towered over me despite its comparatively short height to the skyscrapers I had grew up around. They did trigger memories of home. Most of us keep that in our hearts. The historical associations of the mossed cobbled stone pavements and apartment in the likeness of Medieval and Haussmann summoned images of Hú Tóngs and Lóng Tángs back home in China.

I am envious of the French and the architectural monotony of her capital. Unlike Paris, my capital city perseveres in retaining historical constructs with less stubbornness. There is a coexistence of ancient architecture and modern buildings back home. Most of the ancient architecture preserved were imperial or aristocratic estates, the perception of ancient China’s common man’s housing as cultural heritage were a later phenomenon. 

The perfect setting for a Game of Thrones fantasy. Does Le Marais ever hold renaissance festivals? An imagine scene of people in costume and horse carriages proved to amuse. It would smell very bad though. Given the present day treatment of dog poop by Parisian dog owners (for some peculiar reason, the homeless are also hold this title), imagine what it would be like with horses. 

And of course, the graffiti kills the mood.

The sky was in a marbled Manet blue. Yet all that was on my mind was the weather forecast that predicted an 80% of rainfall in a few hours. It set a time limit for my walk. Cafés, bistros, pâtisseries, brasseries and restaurants strolled across my sight one by one. Some of them had signboards so elaborate they competed for attention and the title of art with the anarchist graffiti. 

LE BISTROT DES VOSGES

LA BRICIOLA

LA PANFOULIA

LES PHILOSOPHES

I always associate the articles “La” with Italian and “Le” with French. While the Italians do bring to mind an image of a kind, wholesome, mildly obese grandma whipping up a hearty pasta meal, the French does not strike me particularly masculine. Even the musketeers can be imagined in choreographed ballet.

L’AS DU FALLAFEL

An oddball combination of Midden Eastern cuisine slabbed with a francophone name. Paris has an appetite for Central Asian cuisine comparable to that of New York’s. 

There were rows of galleries, so many that each of their names only had a fleeting presence in my memory. You know how when there are too many things, regardless of how unique they are, they all appeared to be the same to you? This is why I prefer everything in small quantities, so I can appreciate the qualities of them all. 

The ‘gallerinas’ are intended to intimidate. Galleries are usually almost empty except for the their respective gallerinas. Walk in and the air of judgment stifles you. You have entered to scrutinize art works, only to feel scrutinized by the person watching over them. It is the same when you walk into a high-end boutique. The absence of price tags cultivates a fear: enter at your own risk. But this is entirely psychological. The high brow thrives on such airs to maintain their public image. 

The articles in these galleries are private. They breathe air-conditioned, divorced from their fellow manifestations of “art” outside subject to weather and other elements. You wonder who decides what goes inside and what stays out. 

You wonder if the perpetrators of the vandalism outside have hopes getting in. Who doesn’t. You get to make money off things without crass price tags.

The museums are much more welcoming, although the lines at the ticket booth can be quite dampening. It would take not only skill, recognition but also time to be inaugurated into these institutions. Le Marais is home to Musée Picasso, Musée Cognacq-Jay,, Musée Carnavalet and Blibliothèque Historic de la Ville de Paris, which is not a museum but a historical landmark with books that qualify as artifacts. The walls of these buildings command a kind of respect. Not a trace of aerosol visible on them. Although it is more likely that some kind of authority is behind this neatness.

I caught red sprayed painted two words in the corner of my peripheral vision as I continued of expedition of the place. 

LOVE
ME 

What a desperate call. I discovered another later. 

DONNE MOI DE LA HAINE

JE T’EN SUIS DE L’AMOUR #JLB

which means

GIVE ME HATE

I’LL HAVE A LOVE

Worse, but interesting. How apt for the faux-holiday spirit for such words to fall into my sight. It was after all, Valentine’s Eve.

My time was almost up, and the symptoms of rain began to show. Another form of media contended for the title of street art.

A dead ringer for Soho in New York. I brisk-walked along Rue de Turenne and the last sign I saw was

MERCI

A hipster favorite store. No graffiti on that building.