SIX WALKING

Beauté

One cannot think about Paris without associating to art. The city is like her women — mysterious, alluring, effortless and beautiful. Her roads twist and turn like an enigma. Her sacred museums and galleries outnumber her already worshipped landmarks. While her landmarks each exhibit their distinctive features, the museums and galleries (which are often be landmarks at the same hide) shelter other aesthetic manifestations inside.

The promise of being struck with Stendhal syndrome drew many, including myself, to willingly be the next patient in the waiting room of a Parisian psychologist clinic (which is often remarkably well decorated).

I recall my pseudo-planned walk to Fondation Cartier pour l’Art Contemporain. It occurred on my exploration of the Montparnasse district and I had a craving for a contemporary interpretations of beauty. And no, I am not confused, I believe that true art, regardless of its aesthetic qualities, can allow us to experience beauty. Not beauty in the common sense, but beauty in a spiritual sense — an ineffable experience that one will contaminate with words like how good humor can be ruined with explanation.

Perhaps traditionalists would scorn my deliberate hunt for contemporary art in a city so wealthy in classical pieces. I must clarify that I admire classical art very much as well. 

The cold in New York had instilled a utilitarian sense of style in me. On this walk, I roamed around in extra warm heat tech leggings, a sweater dress, an insulating down coat that had internal pockets for my wallet and phone as well as a pair of cashmere lined leather gloves which were one of my first purchases in Paris. All of which were black. 

The weight of the calf-length coat restricted my gait and the puffed sleeves contributed to the mental image of a penguin that I started conceiving of myself. Any gush of wind would send me a few steps passively in its direction like a stiff marshmallow.

As I walked towards Fondation Cartier, I kept a lookout for the unfortunate Tour Montparnasse. Baxter gave me a negative impression of it. Its height and design supposedly stood awkwardly out-of-character against the Parisian landscape that it became an eyesore. In fact, its unpopularity forced the city council to reimpose height limits for buildings in Paris in 1977, four years after the completion of the tower.

I felt sorry for the poor architects, who must have thought they were establishing a landmark. Like parents who produced an underachieving child, they could only accept things as they were and seek for any redeeming qualities to love. After all, buildings (typically) outlive their creators.

I only caught a glimpse of La Tour Montparnasse and reserved a more detailed examination for later; the Fondation Cartier had my full attention. It was a distinctive glass house that embodied the essence of the time period it represented. The architectural austerity and reflective surfaces stood alone amongst the more humble, yet still Haussmann-influenced buildings its surrounding. I conjunct that it is the center’s low-rise stature and social purpose convinced the community to accept its modernity. 

As I walked into the gates of the sun-basked grounds after a light security check, my admiration of the exterior was slightly interrupted by the ticket office which required a reduced admission fee of 7 euros for students like me. Of course, beauty comes at a price. 

Upon entering, there were neatly dressed museum guides lined up at the reception. They were like young secretaries who worked at a fashion, marketing or image consultancy type of establishment, appropriately well-dressed. One came up to me and offered me a booklet of information on the exhibition. 

“En Français ou en Anglais?”

“En Anglais, s'il vous plaît.” she handed a fresh copy to me. “Merci.”

I only used it to see the map of the museum, wanting to explore the art myself. The first was an empty glass hall with a small automatic vacuum-like robot in the centre and eclectic sounds playing. There was no “beauty” in the conventional sense. I don’t remember wanting to read about it either. I am inclined to phenomenal autonomy, evaluating the world on my own terms. 

The next phase was subterranean. In dimmer lighting, it set the darker mood for the pieces. A sound installation in a red room with Patti Smith’s voiceover. The red was discomforting. With a title like “Have you ever seen your father beat a mouse too death?”, the work was engineered to evoke psychological distress. I was not a fan of the piece, but from an objective point of view, the phenomenon offered beauty in the form of a facet of human nature. 

Perhaps my favorite of the underground Inhabitants (name of the exhibition) is Vija Clemins’s Night Sky series. Oil on canvas, the paintings intended to capture what ordinary cameras cannot — stars.

The star of the museum was a suspension of Samsung television screens in which the viewer laid on a reclined wheeled chair to see what was inside. Titled, Pushing Boundaries, it was part of the first piece I saw. Upon research for documenting this installation, I found out its name — Musings in a Glass Box. Very contemporary indeed. 

Another hunt for beauty in this city took place in Le Marais. I was tasked to look out for street art in this vogue district. Thinking that it would be an interesting perspective of one of my favorite districts, I adopted a business mode, like a spy on a mission, to frame the perspective of my investigation.

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 Sherlock 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. With Paris Fashion Week taking place now, my memory is tinted with a bias for what the city is best known for — fashion.

Zara

H&M

BHV Le Marais

The street was laced with anchor tenants. The modern shop windows juxtaposed the Haussmann decor 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. The disgust and ugliness of commercialization stared at me naked.

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 consumerist 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 beautiful. 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 the guides to Le Marais promised. It was a subdued version of Rue de Rivioli and evidence of beauty was scarce. 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. That is beauty — the ability to provoke emotion responses that moved one. 

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. 

Another thought entered my head: did Le Marais ever hold renaissance festivals? It was the perfect setting for a Game of Thrones fantasy. An imagined scene of people in costume and horse carriages proved to amuse. But this was intruded by another potential scenario that reality reminded — the stench. Given the present day treatment of dog poop by Parisian dog owners (for some peculiar reason, the homeless also hold this title), imagine what it would be like with horses. And of course, the graffiti would kill the mood.

The sky was in a stunning marbled Manet blue. Nature was one of my favorite forms of beauty, but also most complacent.  It was us imposing our own standard of aesthetics onto something we did not create. 

Maybe the concern looming over my head was Nature’s karma on me — 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 and imposed a rein on my enjoyment of the climate. 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 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. Gross. Yet it did create a barrier between the beauty inside (if any) and me.

The articles in these galleries are private. They breathe air-conditioned, divorced from their fellow “art” pieces 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. I questioned if I can trust society to determine ‘what is beauty?’, and instantly answered myself in the negative. 

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 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. However, do not let my caustic tone fool you — I did find beauty in the meanings of these words. I was only suspicious of the person behind it. Attention seekers, even in the name of anonymity, appalled me.

I brisk-walked along Rue de Turenne and the last sign I saw was

MERCI

A hipster-favorite store. If anything, fame or popularity erodes beauty, or distracts us from it because it brings in too many participants. You cannot distinguish between who and what is real and who and what is pretending. Veracity is the foundation of beauty. It is what makes it such a valuable quality, for finding truth in a constructed world swirled with falsity can be tricky.