It had started off as such a beautiful day, even the back of the shopping centre, with its grubby lock-ups and piles of discarded packaging, looked glorious. I even texted my friends to say so. By midday, I was receiving messages doubting my honesty as, once more, Paris had donned its sullen autumn cloak.
This garment, however, provides no warmth or comfort, but both suffocates and chills simultaneously, blanketing the world in dour grey. This colour seemed to pervade everything. The windows of the nondescript office building in the nondescript suburb, amplified it, reflecting the drabness into every unstable paving slab, patch of scraggy grass and denuded tree. The fumes of post-lunch smokers further enhanced the monochrome; their glowing tips barley registering a spark.
Back in town the change of season has been even more insidious. Parisians, who seem to subscribe to the Henry Ford school of fashion, "you can wear any colour, as long as it's black", have turned the Grand Boulevards into shuffling conveyor belts of gunmetal, charcoal and slate.
The Metro has become almost unbearable. How come there is so much less room? Has there been a sudden, adult-sized baby boom? Ah, no, the reason I can barely breath is the masses of fake fur, wool, cashmere and synthetic fibres (all grey) that the masses are huddled inside as the thermometre dares to dip into single figures.
Into all of this muffled grey and pinching cold comes the hopeful twinkle of a season still a month off, Christmas. The longed-for jingle of a chorus of cash registers and the bounteous bleeping of credit card readers, have brought the first fizz of festivity to the shop windows of L'Escargo.
Forgive my cynicism here - anyone who knows me knows I am the happiest of sand boys come Christmas day - but maybe you haven't seen the displays. Only cash, perhaps with a touch of sadistic psychology and a pinch of insane tastelessness, could have inspired the front of Gallery Lafayette.
The Harrods of Haussmann has gone all out this year, keeping us in wrapped suspense since October. When the boards were removed from the windows, what greeted eager, expectant eyes was a simply hideous, nightmarish pastiche. Juddering and jiggling polystyrene puppets with maniacal grins and arching eyebrows, wires clearly visible, played out normally fun-filled scenes (skating, dancing, hot-air ballooning?) in ways that would make Tim Burton shudder.
Further down, the regular, faceless manikins have been have been joined by a taxidermists menagerie of Christmas creatures; swans, polecats and leopards (in one store I even saw a gazelle in a waistcoat having Christmas dinner with a grizzly bear).
You'd have expected any decent onlooking consumers to be outraged, covering up their children's innocent eyes. Far from it! They gaze and gawp, taking hushed and exited pictures. As I manoeuvre my way through them on that first afternoon after the unveiling, I figured that there must be something blinding their common sense. Actually, it was quite obvious. Just as most people here had been over the last month, their synapses had been suffocated by that most Parisian fifty shades of grey.
Sunday, 18 November 2012
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Little things (lift you the highest)
Sometimes the funniest things are the least expected. On my way from the eighth étage of another Parisian office building, I glanced down to the floor of the lift. The maker's name sent me giggling all the way back to the school: "Schindler"!
(please tell me this doesn't need explaining!)
(please tell me this doesn't need explaining!)
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Painting a different picture
Anyone living in any built up area anywhere will be well aware of graffiti. Some call it a blot on the landscape, while others simply describe it as "street art". Whatever you think about it it's there and we have to recognise that it has many forms and many purposes: from the scrawled tag on a phone box, declaring "this is our place" through stenciling (a la Banksy) to make socio-political statements, to the building-sized murals that can both shock and amaze in equal measure.
Paris being the metropolis it is, has more than its fair share and there's no fixed location either. It even seems that if you leave your van stationary for too long it'll become a canvas-on-wheels for the local taggers, street artists, call them what you will.
In this blog I will let the pictures do the talking and please, this is an open forum, say whatever comes to mind. Talking of minds, I will just ask you to keep yours open. Oh, and if you have any examples you'd like to share, please do.
While walking up rue Belleville I turned around and saw this. It looks just like a crayon sketch and is all the more impressive in its simplicity.
Paris being the metropolis it is, has more than its fair share and there's no fixed location either. It even seems that if you leave your van stationary for too long it'll become a canvas-on-wheels for the local taggers, street artists, call them what you will.
In this blog I will let the pictures do the talking and please, this is an open forum, say whatever comes to mind. Talking of minds, I will just ask you to keep yours open. Oh, and if you have any examples you'd like to share, please do.
Though this first is from Dusseldorf, it and the one adjacent, are stark in their simplicity. While I'm not sure of the significance of the child, the broken images of characters from a Parisian banlieu suggest despair, but the message in the centre rings a clear bell of hope "Make hands meet".
I told you about the vans, didn't I? Made all the more amusing in this case, as you can quite clearly tell the generation of the artists concerned!
Between the left bank of the Seine and the educational edifice of Bibliotheque François Mitterand is the setting for some beautifully breathtaking street art, of which this is but one example (alight at Quai de La Gare Metro stop on the 6 and head right, along the river, to spot more). The most effective use of a box of wires as I've ever seen
for some more great Parisian street art by the artist Da Cruz.
The scenes below are a selection of pieces from my trip to Melbourne, regarded by many to be Mecca of street art, as I'm sure this series of works clearly demonstrates.
These in St Kilda tell of Aboriginal legends.
These three are from the concrete canvas of "laneways" in Melbourne town centre. The one on the left is a poster I know, but the intellectual mickey-taking just makes me giggle.
I thought I'd leave you with this from Barlcay Street, St Kilda. It's not exactly graffiti but it is urban decoration none the less and all the better for having been assembled by members of the community (each of the tiles surrounding the main frieze has been individually designed). I have included detail both funny and forceful to give you a clearer view. It's multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, beyond being pigeonholed into any one stylistic shoebox.
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| Enough said! |
Friday, 2 November 2012
In the pink
For once the squeeze meant nothing. Yes, I was practically wedged up against the glass of the RER B on the way back into Paris from the suburb of St Denis. Yes, it was going to be a nightmare hauling my rucksack through the scrum onto my destination platform and yes, I was probably going to be more than a bit whiffy by the time I reached it. The only difference this time was that I didn't care and no-one else on that train did either.
The explanation for this totally un-parisian lack of Metro-stress was to be found in a colour not normally seen on this type of occasion - nor for that matter on my normally uber-trendy travelling acquaintances - shocking, bright, neon pink.
Enough of the intrigue. Last Saturday afternoon I had been lucky enough to be a part of the crowd at the Stade de France to watch the Top 14 (French League) match between the reigning league champions and perennial Heineken Cup star performers, Stade Toulousain and the Parisian boys, Stade Français, currently languishing down the wrong end of the table and whose flower-emblazoned shirts bore witness to the time-worn maxim that only real men wear pink (tough looking thorny tendrils had been added just in case). It had been quite an afternoon's entertainment.
Spilling out from the train at La Plaine (Stade de France) station at a quarter past two - 45 minutes before kick-off - I could already feel the buzz. There was pink everywhere. Not only on the replica shirts, but on scarves, berets (this is France!), tracksuit tops and, of course, flags; a veritable rose-tinted sea (dotted with splodges of Toulouse red and black) flowing toward the stadium on a tide of expectation. The fuchsia frenzy didn't stop when you got there either, even the entrance to the players tunnel and the posts themselves had been daubed pink for the occasion.
Just after locating my seat - barely six rows from the pitch and resplendent, to my excitement, with a free pink flag - I was almost knocked out by the huge, inflatable rugby ball that had been bounced down from the top tier of the stands. I watched as it made its way over various heads towards a small-scale, portable set of posts (pink, of course) that stood in front of the crowd. A spectator in the front row caught the ball and lobbed it, with some difficulty, through the posts. This achievement was greeted by a raucous cheer from our section of fans who, as I then realised, were in competition with the other sections as to who could score the most "goals" in a set time.
The pre-match madness didn't stop there. Ten minutes before the start a cardboard Moulin Rouge (yes you read correctly!) was wheeled onto the centre of the pitch. This was joined shortly by a troupe of can-can dancers from the eponymous show-hall who defied the icy cold by completing a high-kicking routine that ended with a further two of their colleagues emerging from the windmill to present the match ball to the referee. I could only hope the match lived up to this!
It did! Toulouse were expected to win this one comfortably, but after ten minutes found themselves 6-0 down to a brace of penalty kicks from the Paris no. 15 Jerôme Porical. They were further rattled when their prop Jean-Baptiste Poux was sin-binned. The stadium was really starting to warm up now (no mean feat in that weather) and it fair exploded when Stade Français rumbled the resulting penalty scrum up to the Toulouse line and number 8 - Italian rugby legend Sergio Parisse - controlled and deftly scooped up the ball to dot down for the opening try, 11-0 Paris!
It was at about this point that I noticed my neighbour, a bespectacled, a fairly ordinary-looking middle-aged lady. I noticed her because because she was shouting and she didn't stop! If I'd had a small child with me I would have stopped-up their ears because this woman was turning the pink air blue. No player or official was safe from the tirade and when Toulouse wing, and French international, Vicent Clerc got the luck of the bounce and pounced for his club's first try, I thought my own ears were going to melt.
Worse was to come when the giant black and red number 8, Edwin Maka, thundered over the Parisian 22 and brushed past the despairing lunges of rose-clad defenders to score. It all looked like Stade's great start had been little but a mosquito bite on the back of a now very angry southern French rhino. 24-14 at half time. Things were looking bleak.
All hearts were somewhat warmed by a half time show consisting of speedo-wearing pom-pom girls, a mini-rugby club parade and a penalty competition between two junior teams. Shortly after the break it seemed that the Toulouse players still had their minds on those pom-pom girls as their back line parted to allow home scrum half, Fillol, to gratefully fall over the line onto an unguarded through ball. Now the energy of my flag waving was more than matching the decibel level coming through my left ear - though this was now tinged with a distinctly more positive tone.
Stade Français were now putting more and more flowing moves together, but were still lacking that killer punch and with seven minutes to go were still three precious points down. Cometh the moment, cometh the legend and after another attack had seemingly broken down, Parisse was there at the right time and on the right shoulder to collect the right pass and gleefully trundle under the posts for the try that sent the crowd into ecstasy: "Allez, allez! Allez, allez! Allez, allez le Stade Français!". There was still time for finger nails to be put at risk during a frenetic finale as the champions threw everything they could at Stade, but the floral fortifications held firm. Final score: 28-24 Stade Français!
After the players had completed their lap of honour, greeted as they went by their furiously flag waving fans (myself chief among them), and the sun had begun to cast ghostly beams through the fading smoke of the ear-splittingly fabulous post-match firework display, it was clear that it was going to be a while before anything as mundane as a packed train carriage was going to bother anyone there. Well, at least until Monday morning.
The explanation for this totally un-parisian lack of Metro-stress was to be found in a colour not normally seen on this type of occasion - nor for that matter on my normally uber-trendy travelling acquaintances - shocking, bright, neon pink.
Enough of the intrigue. Last Saturday afternoon I had been lucky enough to be a part of the crowd at the Stade de France to watch the Top 14 (French League) match between the reigning league champions and perennial Heineken Cup star performers, Stade Toulousain and the Parisian boys, Stade Français, currently languishing down the wrong end of the table and whose flower-emblazoned shirts bore witness to the time-worn maxim that only real men wear pink (tough looking thorny tendrils had been added just in case). It had been quite an afternoon's entertainment.
Spilling out from the train at La Plaine (Stade de France) station at a quarter past two - 45 minutes before kick-off - I could already feel the buzz. There was pink everywhere. Not only on the replica shirts, but on scarves, berets (this is France!), tracksuit tops and, of course, flags; a veritable rose-tinted sea (dotted with splodges of Toulouse red and black) flowing toward the stadium on a tide of expectation. The fuchsia frenzy didn't stop when you got there either, even the entrance to the players tunnel and the posts themselves had been daubed pink for the occasion.
Just after locating my seat - barely six rows from the pitch and resplendent, to my excitement, with a free pink flag - I was almost knocked out by the huge, inflatable rugby ball that had been bounced down from the top tier of the stands. I watched as it made its way over various heads towards a small-scale, portable set of posts (pink, of course) that stood in front of the crowd. A spectator in the front row caught the ball and lobbed it, with some difficulty, through the posts. This achievement was greeted by a raucous cheer from our section of fans who, as I then realised, were in competition with the other sections as to who could score the most "goals" in a set time.
The pre-match madness didn't stop there. Ten minutes before the start a cardboard Moulin Rouge (yes you read correctly!) was wheeled onto the centre of the pitch. This was joined shortly by a troupe of can-can dancers from the eponymous show-hall who defied the icy cold by completing a high-kicking routine that ended with a further two of their colleagues emerging from the windmill to present the match ball to the referee. I could only hope the match lived up to this!
It did! Toulouse were expected to win this one comfortably, but after ten minutes found themselves 6-0 down to a brace of penalty kicks from the Paris no. 15 Jerôme Porical. They were further rattled when their prop Jean-Baptiste Poux was sin-binned. The stadium was really starting to warm up now (no mean feat in that weather) and it fair exploded when Stade Français rumbled the resulting penalty scrum up to the Toulouse line and number 8 - Italian rugby legend Sergio Parisse - controlled and deftly scooped up the ball to dot down for the opening try, 11-0 Paris!
It was at about this point that I noticed my neighbour, a bespectacled, a fairly ordinary-looking middle-aged lady. I noticed her because because she was shouting and she didn't stop! If I'd had a small child with me I would have stopped-up their ears because this woman was turning the pink air blue. No player or official was safe from the tirade and when Toulouse wing, and French international, Vicent Clerc got the luck of the bounce and pounced for his club's first try, I thought my own ears were going to melt.
Worse was to come when the giant black and red number 8, Edwin Maka, thundered over the Parisian 22 and brushed past the despairing lunges of rose-clad defenders to score. It all looked like Stade's great start had been little but a mosquito bite on the back of a now very angry southern French rhino. 24-14 at half time. Things were looking bleak.
All hearts were somewhat warmed by a half time show consisting of speedo-wearing pom-pom girls, a mini-rugby club parade and a penalty competition between two junior teams. Shortly after the break it seemed that the Toulouse players still had their minds on those pom-pom girls as their back line parted to allow home scrum half, Fillol, to gratefully fall over the line onto an unguarded through ball. Now the energy of my flag waving was more than matching the decibel level coming through my left ear - though this was now tinged with a distinctly more positive tone.
Stade Français were now putting more and more flowing moves together, but were still lacking that killer punch and with seven minutes to go were still three precious points down. Cometh the moment, cometh the legend and after another attack had seemingly broken down, Parisse was there at the right time and on the right shoulder to collect the right pass and gleefully trundle under the posts for the try that sent the crowd into ecstasy: "Allez, allez! Allez, allez! Allez, allez le Stade Français!". There was still time for finger nails to be put at risk during a frenetic finale as the champions threw everything they could at Stade, but the floral fortifications held firm. Final score: 28-24 Stade Français!
After the players had completed their lap of honour, greeted as they went by their furiously flag waving fans (myself chief among them), and the sun had begun to cast ghostly beams through the fading smoke of the ear-splittingly fabulous post-match firework display, it was clear that it was going to be a while before anything as mundane as a packed train carriage was going to bother anyone there. Well, at least until Monday morning.
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