Lutèce Diary, 31: Vote Origami!, or, Blood on the Metro floor

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

(Like this article? Cet article vous plait? Please make a donation today so we can continue covering the Paris arts world / Penser à faire un don aujourd’hui alors qu’on peut continuer d’ecrire sur le monde de l’art a Paris in Dollars or Euros by designating your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. Paul is also looking for a sous-location ou échange de bons procédés (logement contre travail, garde de chat, etc. — plus ici sur ses talents) en région Parisienne a partir du 25 mai, Le contacter à artsvoyager@gmail.com.)

PARIS — The inspiring thing about living in France during a European Parliamentary election campaign is the plethora of political parties (34 at last count — each accorded equal space) that sprout up on the cadenzas of steel placards installed in front of schools and other public buildings. What’s left this observer most incredulous ahead of Sunday’s vote (France holds its elections on Sundays, so more people can actually vote) is not the “Partie Animaliste” nor the “Partie Esperanto” nor even that the parties on the Far Right seem to have an easier time finding brown faces for their posters than those on the Left but that the slogans for the major parties or figures are so banal. Thus with Benoit Hamon — the Socialist candidate for the last presidential election who polled all of 6 percent and took his party down with him — we can count on “Hope Returning” if his new party “Generation” wins. (Which generation? French political parties aren’t particularly strong on nomenclature. A party calling itself “New Center” has had that name for 12 years.) And it’s certainly not the hashtag which makes Europe Ecology (the Greens; it was Danny “Le Rouge” Cohn-Bendit, the leader of the May 1968 student rebellion now retired from politics, who came up with that rebaptization) the party I’d vote for if I could vote: “Vote for the climate!” Okay…. exactly which climate would that be? I mean, who’s going to vote *against* the climate? Actually, I should have said “would have voted for until Saturday,” which is when I discovered the “Mouvement Francaise des Plieurs (Folders) de Papier” while heading out from the Marché des Producteurs de Vin on the Boulevard Reuilly and no, this was not a wine-tasting inspired hallucination because I didn’t have a drop, apart from the turnip and colza seed tapenade and okay, a nip or two of prune juice and more foie gras than a kid from California should probably boast of nibbling. And if it had been a hallucination, it would have owed more to the number of times I’d been folded, wadded, spit out and bled (that last literally) in the days before I stumbled onto the boutique of the MFPP and confronted its origami-filled window (with no cranes in site) after falling down a set of stairs onto the rue Coriolis in the 12th arrondissement. (Not far from the Bercy Tunnel, which a sign informs passersby was “re-imagined” by several students, all named and all female. After which I ate my canned couscous and tuna salad — recuperated in the book exchange box off the rue Jourdain in Belleville earlier — on a bench under a canopy of trees above the Yitzhak Rabin Peace Garden facing a ruin wall and above yet another dry water basin, this one dear to me because years ago my step-mother and I had lunched there with a water rat. If I could found a single-issue party in France I know what it would be and so do you. Votez water!) The boutique was closed, apparently for the “Events of Me,” the poster for one of which I hope it won’t mind me cribbing from an associated website page:

origami

First (being folded up and spat out-wise), there was the Belleville artist-activist on the rue Tourtille — 200 yards from where the Paris Commune made its last stand at the bottom of what’s now the parc Belleville– who’d promised to rent me, at 25 Euros a pop, a “petite chamber without door” which turned out to be a petite couch outside the bedroom without sleep, her non-artistic snoring keeping me up all night. When I brought her a bag of fresh croissants, pain aux raisons, and chocolatines (pains au chocolate to you, bub) on the first morning, all she could say was “You got crumbs on the floor” after I grabbed a couple for me as she was giving me the bum’s rush out the door. But the kicker was when several hours after I’d spent my whole morning writing and publishing a piece on an anti-BoBo demonstration the artist-activist and her five BaBa Cool (not to be confused with “BoBo,” “BaBa Cool” means “ageing hippy”) friends were holding Sunday, she waited until the last minute to tell me I had essentially no minutes — the timeline she gave me was physically impossible to meet — to get my back-breaking valise out of her atelier, and which meant that instead of being able to bring the suitcase to the cat-sitting up the street off the rue Belleville (the gig was starting that evening) after I’d retrieved my cat Mimi across town in the 13th arrondissement, I had to lug my Samsonite all the way across town and stow it at the friend’s where I was fetching Mimi, from which I’d then need to haul it back to Belleville when I had enough time to do so. When I tried to explain this to her, she held up her hands in twin peace signs. (Yes, this is the kind of person who starts an argument and then when you simply try to respond, holds up the peace signs to end the discussion, inverting where the violence is actually coming from.) Then there was the friend of 20 years, a specialist in American literature and film, who I discovered had more empathy for the American culture in the abstract than the suffering American in front of her, whom she put in a position where he faced a Hobson’s choice between breaking his hernia and sciatic-afflicted back again or something so dire I can’t even talk about it. (Or as I put it to her in a later e-mail: “I hope no one ever treats you like you treated me this afternoon.”)

The blood comes in, or spilled out, when I reached into the pouch of my back-pack (found in 2015 outside the anarchist bookstore up the street from where I was subletting on the rue Voltaire) inside the Metro on the Place d’Italie, after I’d deposed the suitcase and picked up Mimi, to look for my reading glasses so that I could actually understand the Metro map and figure out the shortest route across town to the cat-sit near the Place des Fetes, only to look down and see blood dripping onto the Metro floor, Mimi’s cage, my grey Marseille jeans, the (fortunately red) back-pack right under where two days earlier a pigeon I’d scooted away from my bench on the Ile St. Louis — where I was feeding a batch of ducklings and their mama after their heads had appeared one by one marching towards me from the ramp leading up from the Seine like a fleet of submarines slowly emerging on the distant horizon — had shat on it. The blood seemed to be spurting out from my hand; in my haste to fetch the glasses I’d forgotten that in my haste to evacuate the artist’s atelier I’d also stuffed two razors into the pouch. Tearing off a patch of toilet paper from the same pouch and hoisting Mimi over one shoulder and the large white bag barely containing her litter box, litter, and cat food over the other, I hurried towards the escalator to the line 7, on the way dropping a surplus bag which another passenger treated as if it contained a bomb. “YOU DROPPED YOUR BAG YOU DROPPED YOUR BAG!!” “IT’S EMPTY DON’T WORRY DON’T WORRY!” (This was actually the second bomb scare and the second evacuation and the umpteenth incident of being treated like an inconvenience and not a human being I’d experienced in two days. On Monday at the Gare de Lyon, the third train station to which I’d been shuffled just to change my ticket, as the French train company — or “Oui.SNCF” as its website has now been renamed; if the client is massively rejecting you, just change your name to “Yes” — continues to close up sales points with live people to chase its clients to the Internet so it can subject us with more advertising and hire less of them, after I’d waited for an hour with the incomprehensible take a number system the SNCF now has, the ticket-buying room was evacuated when no one claimed a small gray valise. I should add that later that evening, after my dentist appointment, at train station number four, the Gare de l’Est, I finally found a human being who agreed, after initially telling me “I can’t do anything, it’s the machine which decides,” like those Boeing computers which recently killed hundreds of passengers, that the ordeal his employer had put me through merited waiving the 12 Euro ticket change fee. Although the bandage in the middle of my front lower teeth — I’d just had a last tooth extraction — may also have had something to do with it.)

Speaking of blood — and getting back to the finger-cutting incident at the Place d’Italie — it was probably seeing the wad of toilet paper caked with blood that I was maladroitly holding around my forefinger that inspired the short-gray-haired lady across the aisle from me on the Place des Fetes-bound line 7, after glancing at me sympathetically a couple of times (making me wonder if I’d somehow managed to get some of the blood on my cheeks), to reach into her purse and fetch me a folded fresh paper handkerchief. “Merci Madame. Merci beaucoup.”

At this point I had to decide: Do I ask the cat-sitting client for a band-aid the moment I arrive, and thus make it more likely that she’ll figure out that the red swatches on my jeans and red drops on my back-pack are blood that I’m bringing into her house for 10 days — remember that at this point, with the denture back in the shop, I had one lower tooth — or say nothing and risk a finger infection? Fortunately the client provided a convenient segué when she showed me the plastic jug of lemon-wedge infused white wine vinegar with which she washes the dishes. “Speaking of vinegar, could I use some of that? I cut my finger.” “Certainly, but do you also want some argyle? The vinegar is fine as an anti-septic, but the argyle will close the wound.”

Which it and she did, physically and psychically.

Lutèce Diary, 30: Hop to it or, the Universe in a Grain of Lapin

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

(Like this article? Cet article vous plait? Please make a donation today so we can continue covering the Paris arts world / Penser à faire un don aujourd’hui alors qu’on peut continuer d’ecrire sur le monde de l’art a Paris in Dollars or Euros by designating your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. Paul is also looking for a sous-location ou échange de bons procédés (logement contre travail, garde de chat, etc. — plus ici sur ses talents) en région Parisienne a partir du 25 mai, Le contacter à artsvoyager@gmail.com.)

PARIS — At a vernissage in a store-front gallery on the rue Cascades last night I received a graphic proposition with reproductive implications: 46 variations contained in (or slightly spilling over from) a single rabbit’s profile, sometimes reversed (from right-leaning to left-leaning) and revealing the infinite possibilities if not for skinning a rabbit than for being creative in and around its skin, at least when your name is Kristin Meller, who seems to thrive on setting rules (or limitations) when she’s making art, here in the sense that the universe for this ongoing series is circumscribed by the exoskeleton of Peter (or Pam) Cottontail. And Beatrix Potter has nothing on Kristin Meller.

I’m in a quandary because the minute I start attaching words to what Meller’s going for here — I almost said “has achieved” but her universe isn’t finite like that, and she explains that this is an ongoing series (divided into six sub-series: Cosmic, Bush, Blood, Space, Dreams, and Dust, as in Decay) — I’m imposing on her art a language that isn’t hers. In fact, in creating now 60 linotypes and resultant linographs (in French, linogravures) with the rabbit as a starting point, theoretically associated with themes related to dreams, death, and blood, Meller told me last night, she didn’t think, at least not with her brain. “It was a graphic proposition.” Or as I observed to her after she told me this, “I see so many artists these days who *start* with a cute concept that’s immediately obvious, and here you’ve done the inverse.” There’s nothing cloying about Meller or her work. (Neither can one describe it as ‘naive’; she’s too politically engaged and technically sophisticated for that.) If the rabbits do suggest stories, I have the feeling that these narratives, or personages, came afterwards, following the artistic impulse. Which is not to say they’re ho-hum, or limited: Where I saw a peacock in the layers of multi-colored plumage covering one rabbit’s body, Meller described a fish, referring to its shape. And it helped me find a more global idea — and that conforms with Meller’s political  societal concerns — to hear her explain that in four linographs grouped together on the wall near the window facing a newly liberated green space across the narrow winding street high atop Belleville, one suggested a Japanese person zooming along on a scooter trailing exhaust; the other a Mexican vomiting (although Meller might have put it this way: “That one’s Mexico, and that one’s Japan” — the colors of the former did indeed mimic those of the Mexican flag) ; another a balloon at the heart of which floated, somewhat tenuously, a vaporous, fragile, surrounded planet, which balloon a spike threatened to pop (“When I see a balloon, I want to pop it” Meller told me gleefully); and another the earth bursting. In other words — Meller confirmed this to me — the climate crisis. The statement was much stronger than the hashtag for the French Green party in the upcoming May 26 European Parliament elections: “Votez climate.” How can one ‘vote’ for the climate? The problem isn’t the climate, but that — as the British might put it — it’s hotting up.

Speaking of getting fried, another series posted near the door opening to the stairway leading down to the courtyard outside the atelier Meller’s shared for more than 25 years with her partner Raul Velasco — who had cooked up a batch of his patented beans and avocado-infused pico de gallo for the vernissage — featured rabbits who, like transparent electric fish, all seemed to be electrified in their reddened veins within as if they’d received a sudden shock. “It’s blood,” Meller enlightened me.

Another pair resembled amoeba, two more opposed an interior vagina and a wheel whose spokes were comprised of multiplying male sex organs (maybe) and my favorite a pair of rabbits coupling but so elegantly that ‘fusing’ is a better term.

Here’s to more fusion and less frisson for all of us.

PS: If we’ve not illustrated this article — you can check the exhibition poster published earlier this week here if you like — it’s because Meller rightly says she doesn’t want people looking at her work online, she wants them to come to the gallery. Which you can do if you’re in Paris through May 28, perhaps making a Bellevilloise day of it during the week-end of May 24 – 26, when the neighborhood celebrates its artists with the Portes Ouvertes de Belleville.

Lutèce Diaries / Post-mod American in Paris, 24: Mic-Mac sur le Boul Mich or, Ping-pong paddle wielding journalist armed only with I.F. Stone’s Weekly surrounded by riot police near Luxembourg Gardens + Why the Mass Deportation & Denaturalization of the 1950s makes ICE look like it takes its marching orders from AOC

Lutece may 68 two

Parisians march to demand liberation of American journalist… No, seriously, this is who the “Yellow-Jackets” (as I prefer to call them, even if the translation isn’t literal) like to think they are. Marcelo Brodsky, “Paris, 1968,” from the 1968 series “The Fire of Ideas.” Featured in the Arles exhibition 1968, What a Story! Courtesy of the artist, HFFA NYC & Rolf Art Gallery.

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

Like what you’re reading ? Please let us know by making a donation so that we can continue this work, or hiring Paul Ben-Itzak to translate your document. Please designate your PayPal donation in dollars or Euros to paulbenitzak@gmail.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. 

PARIS — Seriously, all I want to do is find a playmate. In addition to fixing my teeth so she’ll be able to see me and finding a way to make what comes out of my mouth (words) fetch (earn) what comes into it, this is why I came to Paris. C’est quand meme assez simple. On Saturday, March 2, I met a pretty dazzling — let’s say awesome — candidate.  Someone who made my heart bouge as it hadn’t done since junior high school. So I returned to the same table-tennis court — at the Jardin des Explorateurs which abuts the Luxembourg Gardens — this past Saturday, paddles and balls in hand (by which I don’t mean les bijoux familial — inside joke), hoping she’d be back.

Lest you think me an obsedé, it wasn’t just for the girl, although I love the way she made fun of my defensive stance, picked up from the Chinese kid who slaughtered me in the city-wide 9-12 year-old San Francisco championships whose spin balls I couldn’t touch. There was also the excuse of a brocante (antiques stand sale) on the boulevard Montparnasse, as well as my embarrassingly virgin visit to the ‘loriette’ — gazebo to you, bub — at the top of the Jardin des Plantes since my return to see if the oldest, and heretofore crumbling, metal structure in Paris had succeeded in inspiring enough private donations to be restored (our mayor preferring to spend the same amount of money on 30-minute New Year’s Eve light shows), plus the lure of having my thermos coffee at my various favorite fountains and ponds at the Luxembourg.

I almost cried at seeing the kangaroos at the Jardin des Plantes: at the realization that I’d been too addicted to this screen to come get re-acquainted with them earlier. Hoofing it to the Jussieu Metro — in pleine student-land — on an instinct I crossed the rue Linne to check the latest offerings of a bookstore I know…. There on the ‘giant books for 1 Euro’ shelves he was waiting for me: I.F. a.k.a. Izzy Stone, in “The Haunted Fifties,” an original language compilation of the first 10 years of the independent journalist’s I.F. Stone’s Weekly. I say waiting for me because it was a reminder that Stone’s success in getting an initial 5,000 and ultimately 20,000 readers to subscribe at $5 a pop may be a way for me to go… Until I remembered that a) Stone started out with a mailing list of newspaper readers already familiar with his product, b) the ‘market’ is exponentially more flooded with words (and columnists) today and c) no one has time to read. (Not even a recent French cultural minister, who confessed as much in an interview since become infamous.)

I won’t go into all the details of Izzy Stone’s project and the connivances and conniptions of McCarthyism to which many of the initial essays are devoted because if I did we’d never get to Saturday’s near-riot in Paris which found a certain ex-San Francisco youth ping-pong championship runner-up surrounded by CRS national police while trying to impersonate Forest Gump sitting on a bench with his paddles waiting for a potential sweetheart, but among the startling (to me) revelations in Stone’s book was the December 21, 1953 piece “A Few who Fought Back,” his report from Chicago’s Walsh Hall on the National Conference to Repeal the Walter-McCarran Law and Defend its Victims, sponsored by the American Committee for the Protection of the Foreign Born, “one of the last functioning Popular Front organizations,” Stone explains. (As you’ll see, the piece is not entirely irrelevant to a site devoted to translation between languages… and cultures.) It seems that the Walter-McCarran Law and various other manifestations of McCarthyism had prompted a mass deportation and denaturalization campaign that by comparison makes ICE (the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service) look like it takes its marching orders from newly elected Left-leaning Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez:

“The deportation drive cuts across every basic liberty,” Stone writes. “Fifteen editors associated with the radical and foreign language press have been arrested for deportation or denaturalization…. The foreign language editors arrested are elderly folk editing papers which are dying out as the process of assimilation steadily cuts into the number of Americans who still read the language of ‘the old country.’ Almost one third of those arrested for deportation are trade union members or officials…. One of the leading victims of the current drive, Stanley Nowak, was present in Chicago. After ten years as a Democratic member of the Michigan State Legislature, part of this time as floor leader, he is facing denaturalization proceedings. This Polish-born legislator played a role in the organization of the automobile industry…”

And if you think Central American (and other dark-skinned) migrants to the U.S. have it bad now, Stone continues:

“The most numerous and widespread abuses have occurred in the treatment of Mexican-Americans. Reports to the conference from Los Angeles pictured terror and lawlessness — the use of roadblocks and sudden raids on areas in which persons of Mexican origin live, the invasion of their homes without warrants, the exile to Mexico of native-born Americans of Mexican parentage. The Mexican-American community is kept steadily ‘churned up’ to maintain it as a source of cheap labor in constant flux.” During the first six months of 1953, the conference was told, “more than 483,000 persons were deported to Mexico — while almost half a million others were being brought in for low paid agricultural work.”

Others who would no doubt form the base for the founding of the United Farmworkers a decade later. At about the same time I was having those first pre-teen crushes, my hippy alternative school in San Francisco would take us on a week-long field trip to work with the Farmworkers in La Paz, California.

So having found the Luxembourg Gardens closed — no doubt indicating that there must be a “Yellow Jackets” (I’m purposely mistranslating “Gilets” for the allusion to guepes, bees, as the so-called “Gilets Jaunes” are just as annoying) demonstration taking place somewhere within five miles — my hoped-for reunion with her (the pre-teen crush’s) reincarnation in Paris in 2019 was about to be ix-nayed (Pig Latin for ‘nixed’). There I was on a partly cloudy Saturday afternoon, reflected rays of Sun emerging to flirt intermittently from the red brick buildings en face, ping-pong paddles circa 1973 and I.F. Stone circa 1950s flanking my carcasse circa 1961 with its heart preserved at the age of 12 like Forest Gump (it was seeing Tom Hanks bringing his paddle to a reunion with his amour d’enfance that had inspired me to bring my pair with me on this trip to Paris) when, all of a sudden, a caravan of ten CRS or national police vans and cars silently pulled up outside the western fence of the park. (Already I’d noticed a phalanx of the vans on the side street leading to the closed entrance of the Luxembourg.)

Lutece may 68 one

What the Boulevard St.-Michel DID NOT look like Saturday: From the Arles exhibition 1968, What a Story! Courtesy of the Paris Prefecture of Police, Memory and Cultural Affairs Department. Atypical among the archival photographs and posters on the May 1968 student and worker rebellions which have enjoyed a resurgence in during last year’s  50th anniversary of May ’68, what I appreciated about this photograph is that it humanizes the policemen.

At about this point a park security guard made the rounds to inform all of us that the park was closing.

A Saturday afternoon in Paris and not only were they closing an anodyne park whose greatest attraction is three concrete ping-pong tables (and thus vetoing my albeit remote chance to find what this city is supposed to be made for) — the tables take up more space than a nearby Lilliputian playground any respectable kindergartner would be ashamed to frequent — but the Luxembourg Gardens …. The Luxembourg Gardens which, as gardens and as the seat of the people’s representatives — the grounds are presided over by the French Senate, whose members are elected by the country’s 10,000 mayors — was being closed to the people to whom it belonged. (The counter-argument would be that this was to protect the landmarks — a fair one, given the vandalization of the Monument to the Unknown soldier at the Arch towards the beginning of this media-anointed “Yellow-Jackets” movement.)

Still, I could hardly imagine hoards of “Yellow Jackets” darting over from the Boulevard St. Michel a block away where it turned out the march was taking place, invading the gardens and, what — occupying the ping-pong tables? Moving their iron chairs to the edge of the grand fountain before the Senate building? (Officially interdit, as I had learned when it took a 7-foot tall guardian less than a minute to run over and wag his finger at me after I tried this bold move.) Adapt Marie Antoinette’s response to the bread riots — “Let them eat cake!” — by following Hemingway’s example and stuffing the pigeons bathing in the Medici fountains under their shirts to twist their necks and make pot au feu? My own deepest antipathy was directed at the marchers — at this point a motley medley of chronic demonstrators, chronic members of the dwindling French Communist party, or, judging by the different flags that flew above the crowd who eventually, respectfully, made their way up the Boul Mich towards the Place Royale, various other groups, including the unions, trying to latch on to the “Yellow Jackets” — for almost ruining my Saturday. It’s a sort of interest group politics that doesn’t give a shit about any one else, as long as they can have their little manifestation party.

I actually like French president Emmanuel Macron because he’s trying to rise above all this, and imagine France’s global role, living up to its historic importance. For example, no one was lobbying for him to commit the country to restoring some 80,000 artifacts to their African countries of origin. He just thought it was right.

Ultimately, I think they’re trying to pretend they’re the ’68ers, the student and worker rebellers of May 1968, only they’re mistaking appearance for substance. This isn’t just me saying this; the majority of voters I talk to here in Paris agree that if the initial motivations and cause of the “Yellow-Jackets” were comprehensible, now they have no idea what they want; it’s tout et n’importe quoi. And ultimately the biggest winner will be Marine Pen’s Front National, currently matching the French president’s party in leading polls for the upcoming European Union elections.

jardinplantessm17th-century drawing of the Loriette on top of the Jardin des Plantes.

Me, after observing that my local sanitaire — public toilet — on the other side of the park’s fence (the one where I’d recently rescued 2000 years of Western, Hindu, and Chinese Philosophy) was also now surrounded by mask-wearing and shield-holding black-garbed riot police, I decided to make my way over to St. Mich. A couple of blocks down the boulevard, their procession from the Seine carefully controlled by the ranks of riot police who flanked them on all sides, it was clear to me that this tame assemblage did not risk to tumble down the side streets and trash their own gardens. After crossing the street and continuing down a side street a block or so towards a university building, once the marchers and their police escort had passed I decided to return to St. Mich and sit down on a bench to enjoy the rarity of this main Paris artery completely emptied of cars and buses. Looking up at the Hausmanian balconies bathed in late-afternoon Sun, the perpetual, timeless aspect of the boulevard that being divested of cars lent it enabled me to fill the pavement with the demonstrators of 50 years ago. Later, walking down to the barred entrance of the garden allowed me to venture even further back; an organ de barbary grinder was turning his handle to feed the pock-marked cards of music to his instrument, hoping to find some clients in the groups of frustrated tourists clustered in front of the locked gates, their guides trying to explain in Italian, French, English, and Russia the reasons for the unexpected closure. (On my first Paris trip in 2000, which coincided with a museum guards strike, I arrived at the Rodin museum to find it closed with a sign posted on the locked gates apologizing, “For those who are making their first trip to Paris, sorry.”)

After, returning to the wind-swept Loriette above the Jardin des Plantes to enjoy an umpteenth cup of thermos coffee as I gazed over the green tiles of the Mosque of Paris and witnessed a steady stream of huffing and puffing tourists and natives arrive triumphantly at the summit of the wooded labyrinthe, smiling to join me in the small cupola, then marveling at the sculptures in the outdoor Tino Rossi sculpture garden that lines the Seine after you cross to the quays from the Jardin des Plantes, I thought, these “Yellow-Jacket” complainers, they don’t realize what they have. They’re living in the most marvelous place in the world, surrounded by all this beauty, and they still have to find something to grouse about it. Meanwhile, the government is worried, no doubt prompted by the institutional memory of the eight or so previous rebellions whose blood still cakes the streets of Paris.

Arriving at a statue of a divided man whose head was resting on his waist over the inscription “Arthur Rimbaud, with his feet always in front of him,” after thinking “That’s me” even if my sciatic-dogged dogs felt less stable than the sculptured poet who died young and stayed pretty looked, I overheard a mother explaining to her five-year-old, “Do you see those things below his elbow? They’re vowels. It’s because he wrote a poem, ‘Les vowels.’” And thought: If a mother can still school her child on the important things, the boy’s real cultural, literary, and intellectual heritage, maybe there’s hope for France after all.

Lutèce Diaries, 19, “L’amour en fuite”: As Romeo’s teeth lie bleeding, love leaks out

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation so that we can continue this work. Please designate your PayPal donation in dollars or Euros to paulbenitzak@gmail.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. 

PARIS — So there I was at dusk, heart broken and sentiments seeping out, teeth throbbing and gums bleeding profusely into a bandage I was trying in vain to grit (hard to grit when half of your teeth are gone; I’m in Paris to have them replaced), staggering up the rue des Martyrs towards the Montmartre cemetery and the grave of the man I blamed it all on: François Truffaut. To read the rest of this article on our sister site The Paris Tribune, click here.  To read more Lutèce Diaries, click here.