Paris Through Sepia-Coloured Lenses : Two Views
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MadameModern Paris for me, is a thing to be shunned if possible, and to be ignored if not. I stick my well-coiffed head into the ancient sands of the Seine–the new-fangled “marvels” of Paris do not exist for me–ils n’existent pas! I am well aware of but never ride the driverless metro (line 14–an atrocity!), I rush past the beastly l’Opéra-Bastille, I hurriedly avert my eyes from the abominable Tour Montparnasse.
My first exposure to Paris, to the French in fact, was when a teacher projected The Red Balloon one dreary primary school afternoon, a gritty vision of working class Paris, Paris dishabille, post-war Paris au natural. A child of the featureless Southern California suburbs, I was transfixed. I locked in on this vision and have never let go. Aged Paris, rough-and-tumble Rififi Paris, pre-Beaubourg, pre-Forum des Halles, this is my Paris–Parisian brats in short pants, beret’d old men in artist’s smocks, mustachio’d grocers with arms like gigots, sloe-eyed bistro molls, greasy-slippered concierges. When I think of Paris, it’s the Paris of Henry Miller, of Mogador, of Kiki de Montparnasse that I envisage.
I’m a librarian, thus a fervent reader, but when it comes to literature set in Paris, in France, I primarily seek out those great literary works of the nineteenth century for inspiration; none of this twenty-first century bodice-ripping for me! I collect and read old tourist guides, I pour o’er old street and Metro maps for hours, maps which illustrate streets long gone and railway lines lying fallow at the city’s edge. I’ve a huge collection of “retro” pictorial guides to Paris; St-Sulpice and the Jardin du Luxembourg have never looked better than in ’50s Technicolor splendour.
But don’t call for help yet, please–I’m not hopelessly stuck in the Belle Epoque with the Rougon-Macquarts and Proust, I’m also a huge fan of the expatriate gang of the early twentieth century, the Modernists: Harry Crosby’s Red Skeletons, Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night, Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, and especially Jean Rhys’ Parisian chronicles: Good Morning Midnight, Quartet, After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie. And then, there is the St-Germain-des-Prés of the ’50s, Serge Gainsbourg, Juliette Greco–Left Bank beatnik cool, the soundtrack of my life.
Alas, one can’t forever live on dreams. So, armed with a plethora of relevant books, my Josephine Baker tapes, and a well-developed taste for pastis, I booked a place with a study abroad program, and arranged passage on Air France. My bags packed with what I imagined a well-dressed woman of les années folles (the 1920s) might wear, I was prepared for a rebirth, the beginning of my life, my initiation to Paris, to France.
And while it’s true that I was greeted by ultra-modern l’Aéroport Charles de Gaulle and had a thoroughly modern ride via the Air France bus to my modern accommodations at the student foyer on Rue du Doctor Blanche, I was not at all disappointed. Paris, like any city that isn’t “dead”, nor a tourist oddity, is constantly in transition; it must be or it will cease to live. But what sets Paris apart, is that it stridently retains its well-earned patina; there is a careful blending of old and new. This is a typically French characteristic in fact, to maintain a balance with all things–there are modern improvements, there are discreet upgrades (one must be sensible after all!), but the antique, the precious, the beauty of every age is lovingly cared for and guarded in every district, not only in the town centre, the “historical district”.The city of Paris is a living museum. Much of what is done there now has always been done that way. Paris is a city of tradition and honour, one which makes it possible for a fusty old young person like me, who revels, no, wallows in the past, to feel right at home. It is possible for one to see past the new, past the “improvements and upgrades” without squinting one’s eyes. I can see through I. M. Pei’s pyramid, I can visit St-Eustache at les Halles, and still see fishmongers and flower sellers ducking in for a quick prayer. The eighteenth-century street signs are still recognizable, carved into the corners of the stone buildings, rue spelled in the old fashion, ruë, and though not all survive, it’s nonetheless miraculous to me (coming from the land of “progress” and all) that some tacky fussbudget bureaucrat never had them completely removed.
I’m still a great pretender, a top-drawer fantasizer. I’m more interested in that which has preceded me than that which awaits. The potential of that which could have been interests me more than that which actually is. With few exceptions, I am uninterested in contemporary culture; I am a social historian, a dinosaur, a ghost hunter, an anachronism. Paris for me is the greatest living relic of the past, my spiritual home, and while I bemoan twenty-first century encroachment, I applaud the French for corralling the skyscrapers at la Defense, for lovingly restoring their cobbled streets in the Latin quarter, for protecting historical signs, storefronts, and ornament from destruction. Their devotion to history, their appreciation of the old, not only comforts my archaic soul, but hopefully educates and sensitizes the palates of newcomers, and especially those newcomers from the “new world”, who’ve not, perhaps, a relish for such things, … yet.
MonsieurThere are two Parises. One of them is the one everybody knows, the other is that of my imagination, the Paris I read about in the novels of Zola, Balzac, and Huysmans; the Paris of grainy, subtitled, black and white films of Truffaut, Chabrol, or Rohmer; the Paris of old postcards, stereoviews, and miniature souvenir photo albums, and the sepia-toned photographs of Atget, Brassaï, and Marville in books with titles like Paris des années 30. The Paris of my dreams.
Before I ever set foot on Parisian soil, I had pieced together in my mind what it must be like. Balzac’s Paris is so detailed one…
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Madame
Modern Paris for me, is a thing to be shunned if possible, and to be ignored if not. I stick my well-coiffed head into the ancient sands of the Seine–the new-fangled “marvels” of Paris do not exist for me–ils n’existent pas! I am well aware of but never ride the driverless metro (line 14–an atrocity!), I rush past the beastly l’Opéra-Bastille, I hurriedly avert my eyes from the abominable Tour Montparnasse.
Modern Paris for me, is a thing to be shunned if possible, and to be ignored if not. I stick my well-coiffed head into the ancient sands of the Seine–the new-fangled “marvels” of Paris do not exist for me–ils n’existent pas! I am well aware of but never ride the driverless metro (line 14–an atrocity!), I rush past the beastly l’Opéra-Bastille, I hurriedly avert my eyes from the abominable Tour Montparnasse.
My first exposure to Paris, to the French in fact, was when a teacher projected The Red Balloon [Le Ballon rouge] one dreary primary school afternoon, a gritty vision of working class Paris, Paris dishabille, post-war Paris au natural. A child of the featureless Southern California suburbs, I was transfixed. I locked in on this vision and have never let go. Aged Paris, rough-and-tumble Rififi Paris, pre-Beaubourg, pre-Forum des Halles, this is my Paris–Parisian brats in short pants, beret’d old men in artist’s smocks, mustachio’d grocers with arms like gigots, sloe-eyed bistro molls, greasy-slippered concierges. When I think of Paris, it’s the Paris of Henry Miller, of Mogador, of Kiki de Montparnasse that I envisage.
I’m a librarian, thus a fervent reader, but when it comes to literature set in Paris, in France, I primarily seek out those great literary works of the nineteenth century for inspiration; none of this twenty-first century bodice-ripping for me! I collect and read old tourist guides, I pour o’er old street and Metro maps for hours, maps which illustrate streets long gone and railway lines lying fallow at the city’s edge. I’ve a huge collection of “retro” pictorial guides to Paris; St-Sulpice and the Jardin du Luxembourg have never looked better than in ’50s Technicolor splendour.
But don’t call for help yet, please–I’m not hopelessly stuck in the Belle Epoque with the Rougon-Macquarts and Proust, I’m also a huge fan of the expatriate gang of the early twentieth century, the Modernists: Harry Crosby’s Red Skeletons, Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night, Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, and especially Jean Rhys’ Parisian chronicles: Good Morning Midnight, Quartet, After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie. And then, there is the St-Germain-des-Prés of the ’50s, Serge Gainsbourg, Juliette Greco–Left Bank beatnik cool, the soundtrack of my life.
Alas, one can’t forever live on dreams. So, armed with a plethora of relevant books, my Josephine Baker tapes, and a well-developed taste for pastis, I booked a place with a study abroad program, and arranged passage on Air France. My bags packed with what I imagined a well-dressed woman of les années folles (the 1920s) might wear, I was prepared for a rebirth, the beginning of my life, my initiation to Paris, to France.
And while it’s true that I was greeted by ultra-modern l’Aéroport Charles de Gaulle and had a thoroughly modern ride via the Air France bus to my modern accommodations at the student foyer on Rue du Doctor Blanche, I was not at all disappointed. Paris, like any city that isn’t “dead”, nor a tourist oddity, is constantly in transition; it must be or it will cease to live. But what sets Paris apart, is that it stridently retains its well-earned patina; there is a careful blending of old and new. This is a typically French characteristic in fact, to maintain a balance with all things–there are modern improvements, there are discreet upgrades (one must be sensible after all!), but the antique, the precious, the beauty of every age is lovingly cared for and guarded in every district, not only in the town centre, the “historical district”.
The city of Paris is a living museum. Much of what is done there now has always been done that way. Paris is a city of tradition and honour, one which makes it possible for a fusty old young person like me, who revels, no, wallows in the past, to feel right at home. It is possible for one to see past the new, past the “improvements and upgrades” without squinting one’s eyes. I can see through I. M. Pei’s pyramid, I can visit St-Eustache at les Halles, and still see fishmongers and flower sellers ducking in for a quick prayer. The eighteenth-century street signs are still recognizable, carved into the corners of the stone buildings, rue spelled in the old fashion, ruë, and though not all survive, it’s nonetheless miraculous to me (coming from the land of “progress” and all) that some tacky fussbudget bureaucrat never had them completely removed.
The city of Paris is a living museum. Much of what is done there now has always been done that way. Paris is a city of tradition and honour, one which makes it possible for a fusty old young person like me, who revels, no, wallows in the past, to feel right at home. It is possible for one to see past the new, past the “improvements and upgrades” without squinting one’s eyes. I can see through I. M. Pei’s pyramid, I can visit St-Eustache at les Halles, and still see fishmongers and flower sellers ducking in for a quick prayer. The eighteenth-century street signs are still recognizable, carved into the corners of the stone buildings, rue spelled in the old fashion, ruë, and though not all survive, it’s nonetheless miraculous to me (coming from the land of “progress” and all) that some tacky fussbudget bureaucrat never had them completely removed.
I’m still a great pretender, a top-drawer fantasizer. I’m more interested in that which has preceded me than that which awaits. The potential of that which could have been interests me more than that which actually is. With few exceptions, I am uninterested in contemporary culture; I am a social historian, a dinosaur, a ghost hunter, an anachronism. Paris for me is the greatest living relic of the past, my spiritual home, and while I bemoan twenty-first century encroachment, I applaud the French for corralling the skyscrapers at la Defense, for lovingly restoring their cobbled streets in the Latin quarter, for protecting historical signs, storefronts, and ornament from destruction. Their devotion to history, their appreciation of the old, not only comforts my archaic soul, but hopefully educates and sensitizes the palates of newcomers, and especially those newcomers from the “new world”, who’ve not, perhaps, a relish for such things, … yet.
Monsieur
There are two Parises. One of them is the one everybody knows, the other is that of my imagination, the Paris I read about in the novels of Zola, Balzac, and Huysmans; the Paris of grainy, subtitled, black and white films of Truffaut, Chabrol, or Rohmer; the Paris of old postcards, stereoviews, and miniature souvenir photo albums, and the sepia-toned photographs of Atget, Brassaï, and Marville in books with titles like Paris des années 30. The Paris of my dreams.
There are two Parises. One of them is the one everybody knows, the other is that of my imagination, the Paris I read about in the novels of Zola, Balzac, and Huysmans; the Paris of grainy, subtitled, black and white films of Truffaut, Chabrol, or Rohmer; the Paris of old postcards, stereoviews, and miniature souvenir photo albums, and the sepia-toned photographs of Atget, Brassaï, and Marville in books with titles like Paris des années 30. The Paris of my dreams.
Before I ever set foot on Parisian soil, I had pieced together in my mind what it must be like. Balzac’s Paris is so detailed one need only draw the curtains, recline on the divan, and begin reading in order to experience its sights, sounds, and odors. In Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, Paris is a place for flânerie, truancy, and self-discovery. In Brassaï’s after-dark photographs, it is a world of lovers in bistros, lonely prostitutes, and backstage delights. Photographer Yvan Christ, in his Les Metamorphoses de Paris, shows at once a fin-de-siècle Paris as well as the Paris of Brigitte Bardot; as I compare his then-and-now images, they are retained in my memory as existing simultaneously in the present. For example, a crumbling 18th-century apartment building occupies the same plot of ground as the Elf station that replaced it. Should I seek out this particular location, which may very well now be home to a McDonald’s, my false memories will collide (sometimes violently) with reality. Hence two Parises.
My “memories” of Paris likewise are those of favorite literary figures. When I walk the modern-day streets of St-Germain-des-Prés, I see at once the St-Germain of Zola, Huysmans, and Balzac; much of its ephemeral character has obviously changed–for example, horse-drawn carriages have been replaced by automobiles–but its skeleton, its very essence, is the same as I imagine it always has been. I’ve walked these streets before in the guise of Balzac’s Eugene Rastignac, Flaubert’s Frédéric Moreau, and Huysmans’ Durtal–I know them well! Whenever I gaze up towards the bell towers of St-Sulpice, I cannot do so without imagining Durtal and his hosts the Carhaix’s gathered ’round the pot-au-feu, discussing the exploits of child murderer Gilles de Rais.
Upon arriving in Paris for the first time, I was struck by the similarities of the Paris I had known in my dreams with the “real” Paris. There is Notre-Dame, just as I had imagined it; if I hold up my hand I can obscure the steeple and be immediately transported to the time of Violet-le-Duc. If I squint, I can imagine the stained glass has been replaced by clear glass according to Louis XIV’s wishes. If I stand with my back against one of the cathedral’s massive buttresses, I can even imagine St-Etienne’s 6th-century church, or before that, the Romans’ temple to Jupiter. But when the bells begin to ring, I race back to the 15th century; I glimpse upward and imagine Quasimodo huddled in the darkness, wretched and heartbroken. An American tourist’s nearby cell phone (the ringer is ironically programmed to play “The Marseillaise”) jolts me out of my reverie. But I can’t help the feeling (even though I know he’s a fictional character) that Quasimodo is still up there, watching the animated version of his own story on VHS, overdubbed in French, of course.
Meanwhile, I head towards Montmartre, hoping to catch a glimpse of a young Jean-Pierre Léaud as Antoine Doinel, running down the steps below Sacré-Coeur, up to no good. At the same time I’m aware that the elderly Léaud lives not in Montmartre, but in Montparnasse, in the opposite direction. No matter, there are two Parises, although I am beginning to wonder if they are one and the same.
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