Paris a stage, kt merely a player

People are constantly intrigued as to why an Australian would be living in Paris, and I haven’t ever really bothered to think of a reason beyond the aesthetic, so it’s time I worked it out, and you’re all coming along with me.

It is no surprise that artists have always flocked to Paris. Her milky light in the mornings and afternoons is something I have never seen anything quite like. The way the streetlights glow in the afternoons, and shadows become long and distorted remind me of the work of André Kertesz, and every single time I see the Hotel De Ville I am warmly reminded of ‘Le Baiser’ from the wonderful Robert Doisneau.

Sadly, apart from art, I never learnt anything at school that really got me excited about learning, something that intrigued me so far that I would actively seek out extra information to quench a thirst I should have had. History was comprised of ancient Greece, a smidge of Egypt and touched slightly on our own brown land and, while interesting enough, the curriculum left me hanging on such fascinations as the Romans, world wars and how the incredible cities and natural formations of the world came about.

On any day in any part of Paris I can pass by an address that was once home to the inventor of something we today cannot live without, the last residence of an incredible writer, the grave of any of my photographic heroes, a cafe frequented famously by Hemingway or Picasso – hell even Piet Mondrian had his studio up the street from my apartment. It’s like being in the presence of greatness, despite their times having passed, everything left behind still moves us and, for me, they still pass within the crowds of the city at any given moment. In the Loire Valley I stood at the foot of Leonardo Da Vinci’s Tomb in a tiny church overlooking the city of Amboise, where inside the adjoint Chateaux I recently learnt that King Charles VIII had hit his head and died in 1498. I am addicted to reading about the history of France, and in particular Paris, and love to revisit the places and buildings mentioned. Once I was even reading a book over an espresso at Gare du Nord and in those very few pages a murder took place right at the station. I would liken it to living on a theatre set. The script, set and director could change at any minute, but the colours are always the same.

The professions that have existed through generations amaze me. There is a man still hand-carving crucifixes in his untidy shop window, the horloger now run by the daughter of the family, the street markets that pop up a couple of times a week selling all manner of country fresh goods,and the dozens of hand-painted babushkas on the walk from St Germain-des-Prés towards the Ladurée, founded in 1862, on Rue Bonaparte. Even the streets teach you history.  I love to imagine the man behind the shiny zinc comptoir of a café at 14 years of age, sweeping up the sugar packets, cigarettes and croissant crumbs, having worked his way up on little espresso shaped steps over the years, and today he fields the shouted requests from the waiters for coffee, wine or fresh juice, all without breaking a sweat.

Now why would someone so accustomed to wide open spaces have a desire to pay too much for a shoebox without a kitchen or a toilet? It’s a character-building exercise of course, because that little box with the slanted wall and view to the Opéra Garnier, Tour St Jacques and Sacré Coeur is my piece of Paris, and when I step outside I enter my movie scene, walk amongst the impossibly chic French women, handsome boys in suede moccasins and well-cut shirts, to find a spot in the sun in the park where a certain celebrated writer used to catch pigeons when there weren’t enough francs to go around. I can ride my bike past the Eiffel Tower (she still gives me goosebumps), peek through the cracks in the fence to Rodin’s lovely round- derriered men in his delightful garden gallery, revisit so many scenes of so many movies, or simply have a kip on the short grass inbetwixt the Louvre and the Tuileries garden.

So the answer remains quite similar, but I don’t need to explain why I love Paris, I just do, in so many ways. To attempt a full understanding wouldn’t be dissimilar to you explaining everything you love about the one you do. I’m just so happy that she loves me back.

PARLAY VOO ONGLAY?

So I have learnt to avoid the following:

Talking to strangers in the street, unless they display a similar accent, are wearing matching parkas (tourists=harmless) or have just told you in french that you have dropped your smile (“excusez-moi, mademoiselle, vous avez tombée votre sourire”)

This also goes for the types who have ‘petitions’ on ‘clip-boards’ fashioned from cardboard boxes, those with particularly ugly rings they have ‘found,’ and anyone trying to tie a friendship bracelet on you.

Speaking english. If someone came to me in any of my retail roles in Australia and proceeded to speak a foreign language at me, I would be telling them where to go, and it wouldn’t be somewhere nice-sounding. Its a respect thing, you try, and the French particularly appreciate it. Far too often I hear ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’  but well done les Americains, three words just doesn’t cut it.

Drinking cappuccinos. France borders Italy, but the coffee culture has skipped over France like a skim stone and landed in Melbourne, Australia. They don’t exist as we know them, they will cost you at least 5 beans, and it will be made from longlife milk with far too much foam.

Dismissing arondissements for being too high a number. Some of my best outings have been in the 20th arondissment, an area known as Belleville, high up on a hill with a spectacular view of Paris, dozens of cheap, laid back bars and restaurants frequented by young arty types, completely sans le bullshit. Brave the hill of Rue Oberkampf and discover the Fitzroy of Paris. J’adore.

Expecting normality. Any day could bring your local metro platform completely decked out with Ikea furniture, a protest about the weather meaning your bus isn’t running today, the proprietors of the cafe downstairs dressing as Portuguese women and dancing to an accordion, the most random shop window displays you have ever seen or being chased down the street by a ‘statue’ street entertainer dressed as an Egyptian Pharaoah. It keeps you on your toes and is certainly never boring.

Don Draper

One sunny day a very lovely little Irish lady with a mean fetish for transport of the enviromentally friendly variety let me have a spin of her vintage Peugeot bicycle through the swirl-paved streets of Montorgueil and I was won over. I had to have one. It was suddenly necessary, after close to three years posing as a Parisian, to represent myself as a true citizen by riding my own bike.

A couple of days later, on a hangover, I received a text telling me she was on her way to the flea markets at Montreuil and would I like to join, just to check it out. After having replied with an affirmative, I picked up the phone a couple of times to send a bail message, but chickened out. Time was ticking and so I flew through the shower, grabbed an icy-cold Perrier and was en route.

As we wandered past stands full of hardware and rusty bits of stuff that looked like they could have once either constituted an engine or been props of the chainsaw massacre saga, hats, sunglasses, rugs, vintage clothes and outlandish amounts of hair combs I saw a happy looking blue bicycle in the distance. I quickened my pace in case someone should snap it up before my arrival and the vendor saw my widened eyes and insisted I take it for a test. Interesting ride position, leather saddle, stiff brakes, gear shift on the frame and the fact that it was from the fifties were all I needed for a oui, je le veux….

A couple of new tyres, a flashing tail light and a very cute bike shop man later he was ready to go, and the next week I couldn’t get enough. I rode all over, through huge intersections, down bike lanes, bus and bike lanes (also known as tank and kitten lanes) and I was now a fully fledged Parisienne. I named him (because vélo is masculin) Don Draper, mainly because he is retro and I’d like to ride him all day. You will hear more about our adventures together.

Photos without homes

I predict this venture to be a lot like my photos – about everything and anything, and in no particular order. It is probably for this reason that I have never attempted to exhibit my work, because I have no idea how I would organise it and the prospect is too much for my 56 Enter-scoring brain.

Don’t get me wrong, this is what I have been placed on this planet to do, as my father has done, and continues to do, before me. It’s where my heart lives and I have long ago come to terms with the fact that I may have to work in some other field to keep an apartment and enough cash to buy a pint and some beignets de legumes after a day in the sun. I’m no go-getter, and admire people who can keep kicking their own rear end to stay motivated to succeed. But I am on the way to being bi-lingual (that’s kind of a big deal in Australia), have danced on stage for Ghostface Killah and can now stomach 12 Jagers in a night. If that counts as an accomplishment, then I’m claiming it.

So my photos float about on Facebook, sometimes being printed and sent home with folded sugar packets and letters on fancy Parisian paper, occasionally bringing a smile to the people, so that’s me satisfied. They also remind me of where I’ve been and what I’ve done these last two years, and they bring back memories vividly. I love especially to draw attention away from the everyday, to look beyond the walls we see, to see patterns and textures we wouldn’t normally have noticed, and to encourage others to look up and see whats happening on the next levels of vision.

I am still amazed at dogs here in Paris. Whether its a designer dog in a glasses shop, a boxer peering sadly through the bars of a ground floor apartment window, or a shitzu sniffing at my toes as I check out the racks in H&M, it astounds me. So I have a bit of a collection of dogs, and especially love the little scruff who lives at the café Le Conti at Odéon. He wanders the street and is a part of the furniture of this lovely little quarter tucked in behind Eglise St Germain-des-Prés.

The Catch-Up

 

Welcome.

It’s been a long time coming and while I’ve been meaning to document my adventures for a long time, the thought of writing all about oneself  online and hoping someone cares has not been a selling point. So before various other blogging amigos get out the cattle prod, I’m giving it a go.

From the top…..

I had a job I loved, a perfect job really, I photographed cars. All day long I spent taking photos of cars, two of my very favourite things. I had a great crew of people and got abnormally excited (for a girl) at the sound of the new C63 starting up, or a brand spanking 612 Scaglietti rumbling out of the showroom into the sunshine to make love to the camera. I had my heart set on a 67 Impala in mint green with cream interior, flanked by a heavily tattooed rockabilly boyfriend. So I liked cars, boys didn’t always know how to take it, but I didn’t care.

So the company got sold, I turned into a cash-generating robot and started generally hating photography, and cars. This I couldn’t stand and one day, cruising down Chapel street in my black Hyundai company car, found a park outside STA travel and ran in and demanded that the agent book me onto something tout de suite. Ten weeks later I was to be on a little boat sailing the crystal waters of Croatia, bussing through fields of sunflowers and oranges in Spain, to end up in the city where I fell in love for the first and only time – Paris.

Blah blah same old travel stories, beers on the roof of the boat, the smell of diesel as we took off in the morning, stories of pirates raiding other boats, clubs in caves, Australians going missing after partying in the same clubs we did, beaches, ferries to islands for my 25th birthday, tomatoes everywhere, champagne with sugar and OJ, new mates, picnics, language fragments, hours in buses, lugging of backpacks, lots of churches, sunburn and cocktails at sunset.

The rest is about Paris, my lover.