Paris

Monet and Mitchell in Paris

-Bonjour Joan, bienvenu à Paris.
-Merci beaucoup, Claude, I’m so happy we could meet here at the museum. Thank you for inviting me.
-You’re very welcome but before we look at pictures, I need to make a little confession. When I received your letter, I thought you were the girl who wrote songs, and I wondered what we would have to say to each other. Don’t get me wrong, they are lovely songs but not really my thing and I’m relieved to find you are not only a painter, but one whom I admire.
-Merci Claude and may I say, coming from you it is a great compliment.
-Shall we sit for a cup of tea? We cannot smoke in the galleries. Even I am forbidden. Seems grossly unjust, nevertheless…

Monet lit his pipe, Mitchell fished a cigarette from her purse, and they began to talk.
-I love your later work. I appreciate what came before but they do not move me in the same way. The haystacks, Rouen, London, they are beautiful to be sure, but to me, they are of the past. But the work from the last few years of your…
She stopped, suddenly unsure of what to say.
-A technicality, my dear, we will speak of it later, but I’m beginning to understand your reputation for speaking your mind. In any case, the later works are certainly more about impressions than observations. They are what I see but filtered by my senses and memories. Perhaps I should call them sensations?
-I’d stick with impressions, Claude, it feels right.
-Very well. I’m not surprised that the more abstract works most appeal to you.
-Yes, we speak the same language. But the power is also in your palette. It’s more expansive, mauves and reds are there. They never were before.
-That is true.
-And your brush strokes are freer. They flow as if you had learned to fly.
-I would like that. But, if I may, I see a similar progression in your art. I worried about your early paintings—all that black. I thought you were at war with yourself.
-Maybe so, or maybe it was a reflection of the world I lived in or the struggle for acceptance.
-Perhaps, but often I think that struggle is essential to art. If it’s too easy, one becomes a painter of toys, of poodles and balloons. But you grew. I thought you may have resolved some conflicts. Your work matured without softening, you drew us into your world and allowed us to feel the emotions within you. It’s a rare gift.
-It’s not something I can explain.
-There’s no need. It’s there for those who choose to see.
-And you, Claude. The world waits in long lines to share just a touch of your vision.
-Not really. Certainly, they attend my expositions, but only to take a photograph to prove they were there—here in Paris, or wherever—to people who really don’t give a shit. I’m not sure they ever see the paintings. But enough. I want to talk about color. After most of the black was gone, you began to add solid blocks of mauve and magenta at what seemed to me a most unexpected time and place.

-You don’t like them?
-On the contrary. They attract and refresh the eye, while adding gravitas to the entire composition.
-You did much the same.
-Close, but not the same. I splashed some similar colors among the greens and blues, but I have never painted those solid blocks with the same confidence as you.
-You’re very generous, but I’m not sure it was confidence I felt.
-All the same, I want to talk about your yellow. I don’t know how you do it. The color is astonishing, as if you are painting the sun. You seared my eyes and brought me joy at the same time. There’s nothing like it.
-I’d love to see your interpretation.
-They weren’t right. I destroyed them.
-I’m sorry.
-It’s quite all right. The world has you.
-I don’t know what to say.
-Nothing. But you should get together with Vincent. Now there’s a man who knows yellow.
-Those sunflowers. My God.
-Yes. They can make you believe.
-Almost. But tell me about what I see as your movement toward abstraction. No one else was there with you.
-The truth is I could no longer see very well. I think to truly understand, you must come to Giverny.
-I would like nothing more.
They looked at each other with a shared understanding, a true meeting of compatible souls.
-Claude, I have to ask. If it’s too painful you don’t have to answer, but—aren’t you dead?
Monet relit his pipe as he considered how to answer.
-Technically, I suppose that’s true, but the real truth is that my life is my work. And it remains, as will yours.

A Sunset Cruise

–on the Seine

I’ve been living in Paris six years now, and I’d never seen it from the river. Always thought it must be just a tourist thing.

I was wrong.

It’s a different perspective on the familiar, a reminder of just how beautiful this city is, and a great way to spend an hour at sunset. Next time I’m going to upgrade to a boat with cocktails.

All photos were made on the iPhone 13 Pro. I wasn’t paid to say that, but I’d be happy to boost the share price.

And you can never have too many pictures of the Eiffel Tower.

SEBASTIÃO SALGADO

The World’s Most Important Photographer

A bamboo hut designed by Colombian architect Simòn Vélez sits in the middle of the most commercial quarter of Paris. Inside is a collection of photographs by Salgado joined by the theme of water, the most precious fluid on earth. They are art of the highest order, shockingly beautiful. They are an appeal to the world’s conscience and they are a wake-up call.

At the age of seventy-eight, Salgado continues to travel the world, bringing light to earth’s most remote locations, calling attention to the fragility of our ecosystem and the responsibility of humanity to preserve the natural world and the indigenous communities threatened by encroaching industrialization. His photographs are gray scale (black and white), because color would make them pretty. They’re not, but they are beautiful. And frightening. And informative. And most of all, powerful.

This is photography at its best: beautiful images that strongly convey an unambiguous message. Living on this planet is a privilege, and if we are to continue we have the responsibility of stewardship. We cannot continue to exploit resources without replacing them. We cannot continue heating our homes and powering our vehicles with the fossil fuels that are destroying the atmosphere. And we cannot continue to support and accommodate corrupt politicians who profit by wielding power over beneficial legislation. I’m looking at you, Joe Manchin.

Salgado and his wife Lelia, a Brazilian writer, have devoted their lives to this call for action, and taken their commitment beyond photography with the creation of an NGO to revive the forested land owned by their family.

“ Our non-profit organization, Instituto Terra, has planted more than 2.7 million trees belonging to more than 300 endemic species. […] The return of this tropical microclimate has attracted birds and animals that have not been observed there for several decades.” – Sebastião Salgado

If you’re in Paris before September 22, see this exhibit. If not, buy one of his extraordinary books. Then pour yourself a glass of water and think about how lucky you are.

Fresh Air

Those clouds you see are the visible manifestation of the world’s collective sigh of relief. France has refused to stumble down the path of intolerant populism. The election is over, the good guys (comparatively speaking) won, the relief is palpable. We can now kick back, have another glass of wine and contemplate the rising cost of baguettes. France has, for the moment, come to the rescue of democracy.

Macron’s margin of victory (17 points) would be considered a landslide in the US, here it was thought to be close because five years ago, he won by almost twice that. That’s because five years ago no one knew who he was. They do now, and never stop complaining, but still returned him to office because the threat of Le Pen’s anti-immigrant racism was more than they could swallow. Thank you.

It’s been said that the French vote with their hearts in the first round and with their heads in the runoff. It’s also true that as soon as he (they’ve all been men so far) takes office, the president becomes Public Enemy Number One. So re-election is a triumph for Macron, hasn’t happened since Jacques Chirac in 2002.

Enough politics. Paris was a treat today. Warm, sunny, puffy white clouds, the tourists are back, the masks are off, the cafés are full, and people are smiling.

Happy to be here.

Orwell’s Roses

I’ve been reading Rebecca Solnit’s Orwell’s Roses, a book about the importance of beauty in our lives. In 1936—before leaving England to join the battle against fascism in Spain—George Orwell planted roses in his garden. It seems at first to be an unremarkable occurrence; after all roses were and continue to be extremely popular plantings in ornamental gardens and the English have always been fond of gardens. But Orwell was a man who dedicated his life to the struggle for human rights and was willing to put his beliefs on the line as a soldier for the POUM, one of many factions who took up arms against Franco’s forces of repression. Solnit uses Orwell’s garden as a metaphor for the human need of beauty, especially in perilous times when the battle against totalitarianism is pitched.

Do I hear an echo of today’s headlines?
Putin, Xi, Bolsonaro, Orban, Duterte, Trump. The world is once again faced with the rise of dictators and wanna-bes.

In 1936, Spanish Fascists backed by Nazi Germany and Italy, staged a dress rehearsal for World War II with a violent overthrow of the elected Republican government of Spain. Republicans expected the west—France, Great Britain, United States—to come to their aid, reasoning that surely these democracies would recognize the need to oppose Hitler. It didn’t happen. Roosevelt’s isolationist policies, Chamberlain’s belief that Hitler could be appeased, Leon Blum’s brief tenure as French president, contributed to keep the west sidelined. Franco’s professional military and Hitler’s arms destroyed the fractious defenders whose anarchists, Stalinists, and Trotskyites wound up fighting among themselves in the pursuit of ideological purity. Wounded and disillusioned, Orwell returned to his English garden.

The Retirada began. At least 500,000 Republican survivors trekked across the Pyrenees, expecting to be hailed as heroes in France. Instead, the French imprisoned them in relocation camps, another WWII dress rehearsal, this time for the Vichy government’s treatment of Jews.
In 1936,George Orwell planted roses.
In 1939, Pablo Casals went to the internment camp at Argelès, France and played Bach’s Suites for Unaccompanied Cello for the hungry, displaced inmates.
Last night, I went to the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord to hear Sonia Wieder-Atherton play the same music while Charlotte Rampling recited a number of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Ms. Wieder-Atherton is an extraordinary musician. Ms. Rampling is, of course, a marvelous actress. Bach. Shakespeare. Magic. Seventy minutes of beauty that banished the fears and nightmares of the world outside.

Winter Light

Yesterday the sun came out, and Parisians were quick to follow. Saturday, the 18th of December, the last weekend before Christmas, but when the sun appears in December, shopping can wait. The last few weeks have been gray. Not cloudy, not much rain, just a dull gray roof sitting there like an absence of inspiration.

I finished (until the next revision) my novel. I actually typed “The End” for the first time. The next day, the sun appeared. Now that’s what I call a good omen. I picked up my phone, left the apartment, and became a photographer again. And what better place to go than Le Jardin du Luxembourg.

The iPhone camera is a marvel. When I started out in photography, (Attention! the following text contains geezer reminiscences. Young people are advised to avoid) every workshop speaker offered the same advice. It was phrased as either: “F8 and be there” or “The best camera is the one you have with you.” Technology made F8 irrelevant, Steve Jobs took care of the rest.

A few more words about the novel. The working title is A Small Betrayal, and I realized while writing that many of the scenes grow out of images that stick in memory. That’s a good thing and reason enough to revive this blog. It may take a while because WordPress has evolved in the time I’ve been away from it. I have some learning to do.

ENVIRONMENTAL ART

A wise and dear friend of mine invited me to a showing of a film called Legacy by Yann Arthus-Bertrand. https://www.yannarthusbertrandphoto.com
Legacy is a compilation of five films and still photographs he has made over the years assembled into a 360 degree immersive projection experience. The images take us from an imagined fiery birth of the earth to the all too real present days of over-population and over-consumption.

Legacy: Yann Arthus-Bertrand Photo:©2020 Jess Holmes

It is a spectacular testimony of concern for the planet and its inhabitants, a warning, and a message of hope. It is also the crowning achievement of a brilliant career dedicated to the preservation and rehabilitation of our environment.
Arthus-Bertrand’s genius lies in his extraordinarily skillful and artistic aerial and terrestrial photography and videography, but also in his ability to take an idea from concept to fruition. What elevates great visual art to the realm of genius is Arthus-Bertrand’s commitment to the preservation of the planet.

Legacy: Yann Arthus-Bertrand Photo:©2020 Ron Scherl

And what translates commitment to action is the Good Planet Foundation that grew out of Arthus-Bertrand’s work. https://www.goodplanet.org/fr/
Legacy was initially an exhibition of still photographs and video, now a projected environment of images and extraordinary music by Armand Amar playing as part of the Jam Capsule program of videos at La Grande Halle of La Villette. https://lavillette.com/programmation/jam-capsule_e882

AND MORE

Alexander Brinitzer Photo:©2020 Ron Scherl

Paris is, of course, chock full of environmental art but there’s always room for more and Alexander Brinitzer is doing his part. With the approval of M. Sack, the proprietor and cordonnier, Alexander has livened up our little corner of the 15th and put smiles on the faces of our neighbors. At least I think so. It’s very hard to see smiles beneath the masks.

Check out the work of this talented young man:

@alexanderbrinitzer and @akbshead

Paris is not Burning

Macron and the Gilets Jaunes

I don’t live in the Elysée Palace, nor do I shop on the Champs-Elysées, which left me relatively unaffected by the manifestations of the last few weeks. I’m sure I’d feel differently if I was on a once-in-a-lifetime tour and Saturday was my day for the Louvre and the Lido, but I live here now and I’m learning to shrug like a Parisian.
Last Saturday evening, a Métro ride that should have been 30 minutes took 90, but the restaurant held my table and my friends were still on their first bottle of wine when I finally arrived. This week I shopped around the corner and went home to roast a chicken and dine with Netflix.
The election of Emmanuel Macron wiped out France’s traditional ruling parties—the Republicans on the right and the Socialists on the left—leaving voters with a choice between Macron’s new baby, République En Marche and Marine LePen’s Front Nationale, which has been rechristened the Rassemblement National. So, of course, the left put all their hopes and votes on Macron and the first thing he does is lower taxes on the wealthy.
To be fair, he did say he would do this as part of a plan to reform the French economy and bring it into the 21st century. He also pledged to modernize labor laws and reduce carbon emissions. What many didn’t realize was that all these reforms would hit hardest on the working class, increase the income gap, despair, and anger of people who were already struggling with 10% unemployment and high taxes. Then came the fuel tax hike.
Macron sold it as an environmental issue—and certainly it is—France has to end its dependence on fossil fuels, but this is a tax that punishes the wrong people.
The gilets jaunes began as a grassroots, leaderless effort in rural France where people are dependent on cars to get to work, take their kids to school, and shop for groceries. Public transportation outside the big cities is inadequate or non-existent. The people who can least afford it were asked to shoulder the cost of cleaner air and that was the trigger to get them in the streets, because when the fear of going hungry is real, cleaning the air is an abstract concept that doesn’t seem to have very much to do with day-to-day survival.
Now I have to tell you that I don’t know how real and widespread the fears of the working class are. Taxes here seem high to an American but they are far from the highest in Europe and they do fund a remarkably comprehensive social safety net including a very effective health care program.
Many thought the protests would die out when Macron agreed to delay the gas tax rise, but it has spread in two ways: it’s become a general protest against Macron personally, the president of the rich; and it has been joined by extremists from both ends of the political spectrum who saw an opportunity to exercise their right to vandalism. Protests were smaller throughout the country this week, but this movement is not dead despite the lack of leaders. No one has yet taken credit, but the adoption of yellow vests as a symbol was a brilliant political move. They are ubiquitous because all French drivers are required to carry them in their cars in case of breakdown on the road, and I’m certain news photographers and videographers are extremely grateful for the high visibility.
These are perilous times throughout the world. Authoritarian figures are popping up everywhere to take advantage of widespread discontent and the inequality spawned by dishonest and immoral politicians. In France, Marine Le Pen lurks in the wings.

A Sunny Sunday

Square Saint Lambert

6 May 2018

I sat next to a woman just as she sighed with satisfaction and closed her book: Avant que les Ombres s’Effacent. Louis-Philippe Dalembert. Before the Shadows Fade turns out to be the story of a Polish Jew who flees Nazism to Haiti, of all places. Turns out Haiti had passed a law in 1939 guaranteeing asylum for the persecuted, and citizenship to all who asked. I keep getting drawn back into this story, first with the surprise of discovering the similar policies of Mexico, and now Haiti, two countries who saved many thousands of Jews turned away by the United States.

My parents adored Franklin Roosevelt—so much so that as a kid I thought he must be Jewish—but FDR bowed to the isolationists and anti-Semites in clamping down on European immigration. US visa offices were closed and all applications had to be approved by the State Department in Washington. People like Hiram Bingham and Varian Fry did their best, but their efforts were severely hampered by their own government.

I don’t know how much the American public knew at the time. I can only assume my parents were misinformed.

But, hey. It’s a beautiful day in Paris and this piece was supposed to be just an impressionistic summer observation of an ex-pat with a camera.

Reading woman left and was replaced on the bench by a young boy wearing glasses and reading Harry Potter et la Coupe de Feu. That’s more like it.

There’s a man juggling on the green—not very well—and the green is crowded. Balls are landing all over but the sun worshipers are happy and cheer him along. There are lots of kids on wheels and lots more kids with balls and when the two intersect, a few tears flow, but dads are there to brush them off and get them back on the bikes. Seems like a lot of dads watching kids, which would make me wonder about the divorce rate if I weren’t so intent on a sunny day.

Beach towels, football jerseys, books, and selfies. Young women in bikinis, sunglasses, and straw hats, winter pallor slick with oil. The young are all on the green, the rest of us seek benches in the shade.

Let’s close this with an unusual war memorial. I just can’t help it. If anyone can tell me who the three gentlemen on the left are, and what the inscriptions “T.O.E.” and “A.F.N.” stand for, I’d appreciate it.

Merci beaucoup.

The Louvre

Family in town so we’re doing the right things. Today was the big museum with the pyramid and the lady from the DaVinci Code novel. She is there. I know because I’m tall and my camera is bigger than most.

This is some really athletic art appreciation, something like a rugby scrum. I know nothing about rugby but I imagine it takes strength, determination and some sharp elbows to work your way through the scrummy thing, which is exactly what’s needed to get to see the lady in question. But all I really need is to get close enough to get a picture, so I’ll always have the memory.

I used to think people took pictures of pictures to have the memory and avoid the gift shop, but here’s the thing: It’s not the art, it’s the experience. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

Paris ☑Louvre ☑What’s her name ☑

Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all snobby about this, wonder why people do it, and then blame Facebook. Not me. I live in the real world and I’d rather blame Facebook for much bigger crimes.

I see nothing wrong with people taking pictures of art. I’m glad they do it. Glad they support the museums with their tickets and glad the museums have wised up and allow it. I’m not sure what people take from the experience, but it certainly can’t hurt.

Shoot Pictures. Not People.