Luce: The case of the pertinent painter

luce military transportMaximilien Luce, “Transport d’un blessé.” Oil on canvas, 1916, ©Ville de Mantes la Jolie, Musée de l’Hotel-Dieu.

Text copyright Paul Ben-Itzak
Images courtesy Ville de Mantes la Jolie, Musée de l’Hotel-Dieu

First published on the Arts Voyager on March 29, 2012, this story is re-posted today  with revisions to celebrate the upcoming exhibition  Les temps nouveaux, Seurat à Matisse, opening October 16 at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris and migrating to the Museum of Modern Art in New York next spring. The exhibition’s through-line is the critic Felix Fénéon, whose artistic inclinations and anarchist tendencies made him a natural compagnon de route of Maximilien Luce (1858 – 1941). It was also Fénéon who invited Luce to organize his first personal exhibition in 1888, at the Revue  Indépendante. See below for more on their connections, notably as detailed in Michel Ragon‘s  2008 “Dictionnaire de l’Anarchie,” published by Albin Michel. Like what you’re reading? Please make a donation to the Dance Insider & Arts Voyager today in dollars or Euros via PayPal by designating your payment to e-mail paulbenitzak@gmail.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check.

Imagine that Pissarro didn’t die in 1903 but continued to live and work for 38 years, extending his explorations in the various streams of Impressionism. Then imagine that he decided to consecrate the force of his talent and energy to more depictions of the poor sap, the working stiff, the pour conscript sacrificed as cannon fodder in a wasteful war, and the social movements championing them. Imagine that his brilliant palette became more dense, retaining the sense of color values he learned from Camille Corot, the precision he picked up from Georges Seurat, and his native curiosity, then augmenting them with the lessons of the Fauves, of late Claude Monet and even Pierre Bonnard. Well, you don’t have to imagine this artistic extension of a life; Pissarro’s friend, pupil, compagnon de chevalet and fellow anarchist sympathizer Maximilien Luce embodied it. Imagine, now, that you could see the living proof. Click here  to  read the rest of the article and see more images.

Image to word, Paris to New York: “From Eugène Delacroix to Neo-Impressionism,” by Guillaume Apollinaire

Feneon Orsay Theo van Rysselberghe_La Lecture par Emile VerhaerenFrom the exhibition Les temps nouveaux, de Seurat à Matisse, opening October 16 at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris: Theo van Rysselberghe (1862-1926), “Reading by Emile Verhaeren,” 1903. Oil on canvas, 181 x 241 cm. Gand, Musée des Beaux-arts de Gand. © www.lukasweb.be – Art in Flanders, photo Hugo Maertens. “After a serious physical and moral crisis,” notes “Le petit Robert” encyclopedia, Emile Verhaeren “discovered the poetic beauty of the modern world and the grandeur of human effort,” confident, under the influence of Hugo, Nietzsche, and Whitman, in mankind’s promising future, as his poetry fed on the new industrial landscapes and the emergence of the machine age. “Rallying to the cause of a fraternal socialism,” the encyclopedia continues, Verhaeren next published a series “powerfully lyrical” collections, including: “Hallucinated countrysides (1893),” “Tentacular Cities (1895),” and “The Tumultuous Forces (1902).” Its veneer seemingly almost monochromatic when viewed at reduced resolution as here, this painting is in reality a tour de force of Neo-Impressionism at its zenith. At first we resisted using it; compared to Seurat’s 1884 “Sunday afternoon on the Grande-Jatte Isle,” it seems closer to Delacroix than Seurat, the Neo-Impressionist device behind its construction not immediately evident. But studied at high-resolution, the make-up of the tableau is positively molecular. Only here, the dots’ intermittent interruption by strategically placed swaths of light or dark blue makes the divisionism almost invisible. In the Seurat you see the science behind the miracle; in the Rysselberghe the minutious effort is less apparent. Painted nearly 20 years later, the Rysselberghe is the natural evolution of the Seurat in its sophisticated employment of the tools of divisionism. Seurat broke the atom down into its particles; Rysselberghe put it back together again to be transformed into seamless light. And speaking of light, even the narrative — no Sunday finest here for Verhaeren’s audience, just sober business suits — is not so staid after sustained study: While his audience is costumed in somber blue, the reader/writer sports a smoldering vermillion — as if set on fire by the text. (This was just a year after Zola’s suspicious death by gas asphyxiation.) And every single one of the auditors maintains a skeptical disposition towards the writer. Add to this the drooping Greek statuettes — representing the Hellenic ideal the attainment of which, as Zola had pointed out 40 years earlier in heralding the Imressionist era, was the painter’s primary preoccupation before Delacroix and his successors arrived and relegated it to the academy (or, more recently, the first floor of the Met and the basement of the Louvre) — and the tableau on the wall of factory chimneys darkening the landscape which confronts Verhaeren’s embrace of industrialization with Maximilien Luce (another free-thinking painter to whom Verhaeren was close) or Camille Pissarro’s more sober view, and another synthesis, the confrontation of words with image — is complete. — PB-I

by Guillaume Apollinaire
Translated by Paul Ben-Itzak

Text from the August 7, 1911 issue of L’intransigent, as reproduced in “Chroniques d’art, 1902-1918,” Published by and copyright Gallimard, 1960, with texts assembled and annotated by L.C. Breunig. Art from — and courtesy — Artcurial’s September 24 auction of Ancient and 19th century art in Paris (for the Delacroix), the exhibition Félix Fénéon (1861-1944), Les temps nouveaux, de Seurat à Matisse, opening October 16 at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, where it runs through January 27 before migrating to the Museum of Modern Art (for the Rysselberghe, Seurat, Cross, and Signac) and the Dance Insider & Arts Voyager’s archived coverage of the 2012 exhibition “Maximilien Luce, de l’esquisse (draft) au chef-d’oeuvre,” at the Musée de l’Hotel-Dieu in Mantes la Jolie (for the Luce).

“The academic painter Delacroix.”

— Art History course description, Bard College, 2019

An updated edition of Paul Signac’s rare booklet, previously issued in a very limited edition by La Revue Blanche, has just been published.

“From Eugène Delacroix to Neo-Impressionism” is the title of this brief work which Paul Signac has dedicated to the memory of his companion, the great painter Georges Seurat.

Seurat has still not received the recognition he deserves. Beyond the merits of the innovations which they brought to art thanks to the application, which he was the first to practice, of Neo-Impressionist theories, his works have, in their drawing, their composition, the very discretion of their luminosities a style which sets them apart and maybe even above the work of the majority of painters, his contemporaries.

Un dimanche après-midi sur l'île de la Grande JatteGeorges Seurat (1859-1891), “A Sunday afternoon on the Grande-Jatte Isle,” 1884. Study. New York, NY, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / image of the MMA.

No painter makes me think of Moliere as does Seurat, the Moliere of “The Bourgeoisie Gentleman,” a ballet full of grace, of lyricism and of good sense.

The Neo-Impressionist painters, of whom Paul Signac is the most gifted and the most famous, are those who, to cite our author, “founded, and, since 1886, have developed the technique referred to as ‘divisionism,’ which utilizes as a means of expression the optical mix of tones and tints.” This technique can be traced to the art of the Byzantine mosaicists, and I even recall a day on which Signac, in a letter to Charles Morice, evoked the Libreria de Siene.

But we don’t need to look back that far.

In his book, Signac abundantly demonstrates how this luminous technique, which brought a sense of order to the Impressionist innovations, was foretold, even applied, by Delacroix, to whom it had been revealed by an examination of the paintings of Constable.

Artcurial fall 2019 Eugène DELACROIX - Deux études de figures drapées - © Artcurial smallFrom September 24’s  Artcurial auction of ancient and 19th century masters in Paris: Eugène Delacroix, “Two studies of draped figures.” Image courtesy and © Artcurial.

Signac scrutinizes even more closely the impact of the Impressionists and of their precursor Jongkind.

Then he gets to Seurat who, in 1886, exposed the first divisionist painting, “A Sunday afternoon on the Grande-Jatte Isle.”

Pointilism was thus born and went on to produce magnificent works which nobody dared ridicule. Today painting seems to be following a path directly opposed to that which the Neo-Impressionists took. Delacroix’s two celebrated slogans, “Grey is the enemy of every painting!” and “Banish all Earthen colors” would mystify the young painters who want to return to the basics of forms and drawing, just as before them there was a return to the essentials of composition, light, and color intensity.

Au contraire, the new painters paint in hard to reproduce grey tones and search out the elegance of Earthen colors.

Feneon Orsay, Henri-Edmond Cross, The Golden Iles, smallHenri-Edmond Cross, “The Golden Isles,” between 1891 and 1892. Oil on canvas, 59.5 x 54 cm. Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. © Patrice Schmidt/musée d’Orsay, distribution RMN.

The art of Neo-Impressionism drew but a small number of adepts. It requires, in effect, a lot of application and science, not to mention talent.

The meticulousness that it demands discourages artists who are inconstant or in a rush.

maximilien luce, the dredging machine in RotterdamMaximilien Luce, “The dredging machine in Rotterdam.” Oil on canvas. Courtesy Ville de Mantes la Jolie, Musée de l’Hotel-Dieu.

It has furnished modern art with a number of very beautiful and very luminous works, those of Seurat, of Henri-Edmond Cross, of Luce, of Van Rysselberghe, etc., which are rightly admired today and which the future will remember.

Paul Signac’s little booklet marks an important date in the history of contemporary art.

Paul Signac, Le Temps d'HarmoniePaul Signac (1863-1935) , “The Time of Harmony: The Golden Age is not in the past, it’s in the future (Retort),” 1896. Oil on canvas, 65.5 × 81 cm.  Kasser Mochary Foundation, Montclair, NJ.  Kasser Art Foundation, image © Nikolai Dobrowolskij.

A novel for our times: ‘The Book of the Vanquished’ (Excerpt of Michel Ragon’s ‘La mémoire des vaincus,’ in English translation and in the original French)

by Michel Ragon & copyright Éditions Albin Michel 
Translation copyright Paul Ben-Itzak

Today’s publication of this excerpt is dedicated to the memory of Eileen Darby, who would have been 83 today. To read about Eileen’s extraordinary life as a Grande Dame of New York, click here. Eileen, you really hit the nail on the wall!

“The ideal is when one is able to die for one’s ideas. Politics is when one can live for them.”

— Charles Péguy, cited on frontispiece, “The Book of the Vanquished.”

“Books can also die, but they last longer than men. They get passed on from hand to hand, like the Olympic flame. My friend, my father, my older brother, you have not entirely slid into oblivion, because this book of your life exists.”

— Michel Ragon, Prologue, “The Book of the Vanquished.”

Part One: “The little girl in the fishmongers’ wagon” (1899-1917)
(Excerpt, 1911-1912.)

“As for me, I’m just a poor sap! For those of us at the bottom of the heap, there’s nothing but bad breaks in this world and the one beyond. And of course, when we get to Heaven, it’ll be up to us to make the thunder-claps work.”

— Georg Büchner, “Woyzeck,” cited on the frontispiece of Part One of “The Book of the Vanquished.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be the vanquished than the victor.”

–Vincent Van Gogh, cited in Lou Brudner’s preface to “Büchner, Complete Works,” published by Le Club Français du livre, Paris, 1955.

Translator’s note: With the exception of Fred and Flora, who may be real, may be fictional, or may be composites, all the personages cited below and in Michel Ragon’s novel are based on real historical figures, notably Paul Delesalle (1870-1948), the Left Bank bookseller. Adopting the pen name Victor Serge, Victor Kibaltchich (1890-1947) would become a noted Socialist theorist who, like Fred later in “The Book of the Vanquished,” eventually broke with the Bolsheviks. Rirette Maîtrejean was his actual companion. Raymond-la-Science, René Valet, and Octave Garnier were real members of the Bonnot Gang, the details of their denouement as recounted by Ragon accurate.

 

Every morning the cold awoke the boy at dawn. Long before the street-lanterns dimmed, in the pale gray light he shook off the dust and grime of his hovel at the end of a narrow alley flanking the Saint-Eustache church. Stretching out his limbs like a cat he flicked off the fleas and, like a famished feline, took off in search of nourishment, following the aromas wafting down the street. With Les Halles wholesale market coming to life at the same time, it didn’t take long for him to score something hot. The poultry merchants never opened their stalls before they’d debated over a bowl of bouillon, and the boy always received his portion. Then he’d skip off, hop-scotching between the trailers loaded with heaps of victuals. Every Friday he’d march up the rue des Petits-Carreaux to meet the fishmongers’ wagons arriving from Dieppe, drawn by the odor of seaweed and fish-scales surging towards the center of Paris. The sea — this sea which he’d never seen and which he pictured as a catastrophic inundation — cut a swathe through the countryside before it descended from the heights of Montmartre. He could hear the carts approaching from far away, like the gathering rumbling of thunder. The churning of the metallic wagon wheels stirred up a racket fit to raise the dead, amplified by the clippety-clop of the horseshoes. Numbed by the long voyage, enveloped in their thick overcoats, the fishmongers dozed in their wagons, mechanically hanging onto the reigns. The horses knew the way by heart. When the first carriages hit the iron pavilions of the market, the resultant traffic jam and grating of the brakes rose up in a grinding, piercing crescendo that reverberated all the way back up to the Poissonnière quartier. The drivers abruptly started awake, spat out a string of invectives, and righted themselves in their seats. Those farther back had to wait until the first arrivals unloaded their merchandise. The horses pawed the ground and stamped their feet. The majority of the men jumped off their carts to go have a little nip in the bistros just raising their shutters.

On this particular Friday, at the rear of one of the wagons sat a small girl. Her naked legs and bare feet dangled off the edge of the cart, and the boy noticed nothing more than this white skin. He drew near. The girl, her head leaning forward, her face hidden by the tussled blonde hair which fell over her eyes, didn’t see him at first. As for the boy, he only had eyes for those plump swinging gams. By the time he was almost on top of them, he could hear the girl singing out a rhymed ditty. He approached his hand, touching one of her calves.

“Eh, lower the mitts! Why, the nerve!”

Click here to read the rest of the excerpt, followed by a partial excerpt of the original French, on our sister magazine the Maison de Traduction.

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, 29: For sale, Lutèce or, They took Paradise (and San Francisco, and Brooklyn) and put up one large bistro

belleville maison d'air protestNot just a lot of hot air: Residents of Paris’s historic Belleville district, seen here protesting on a recent Sunday up top the parc  Belleville outside the shuttered Maison d’Air, are worried that the mayor of Paris wants to sell the space to a private concessionaire who will turn it into another BoBo bistro. Images courtesy Collectif for the Maison d’Air for Residents.

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

PARIS — Yesterday afternoon in a courtyard atelier on the rue Tourtille — not far from where on May 28, 1871 the Paris Commune made its last stand and where at 3 a.m. on November 14, 2015, when I was living in the same building, a distant car alarm awoke me to the news of the massacres — a group of artists and activists was busy making signs for an ambulatory protest Sunday against the ongoing privatization of Belleville, specifically talk of plans by the mayor of Paris to sell off the closed site of the Maison de l’air up top the parc Belleville just below the belvedere (offering one of the most spectacular views of the city, including the Eiffel tower) to a private concessionaire who will no doubt lease it to yet another restaurant (because G-d knows if there’s one thing we need in Belleville, it’s more restaurants). Or, as the collective “Convergence Belleville” put it when news of the mayor’s intentions first surfaced in 2017, ‘Yet another BoBo bar-resto in a working-class neighborhood where the residents have other needs,” one of the group’s recent suggestions being to make the site into a municipal museum for the 20th arrondissement. The arrondissment’s longtime Socialist party mayor, Frédérique Calandra, has countered — in a 2017 interview with the Parisian newspaper — that rehabilitating the building, in particular getting rid of the asbestos, would not be “cost-effective” for the municipality to undertake and that “the creation of a new place of activity in upper-Belleville will also allow us to re-enforce security in the sector,” which she said is mined by drug trafficking, begging the question of why retaining the site as a public forum (say, for activities serving the young people the drug dealers prey on) would not do this better than a privately held restaurant in a public space where you have to pay to enter. And Danielle Simonnet, Calandra’s opponent from the France Insoumis party in the last municipal elections, insisted, in an interview with the same newspaper, that “this project will only re-enforce the ongoing gentrification of the neighborhood.” Or, as another artist-activist and long-time Belleville resident put it to me recently, “They want to turn Paris into one big restaurant.”

belleville maison d'air manifesto

Poster for the ongoing opposition to possible plans by the City of Paris to sell the space now occupied by the Maison d’Air up top the parc de Belleville to a private concessionaire, who residents fear would turn the now public space into a private restaurant. 

I’ve seen this happen before first-hand, in Brooklyn’s Greenpoint and in San Francisco’s Mission District. First the Yuppies / BoBos/”Hipsters” are content to just alight in the neighborhood to eat, then they want to live there (which drives housing prices up and indigenous artist and ethnic populations out), then, as opposed to the truly ethnic restaurants and foodstuffs stores (Latino in the Mission, Polish in Greenpoint, Chinese and Algerian or Moroccan in Belleville), the generic BoBo / Yuppie / Hipster-geared restaurants move in, with their faux-hip (or faux-ethnic, in other words ethnic food made by white people) menus, often interchangeable. The restaurant “Thank God for broccoli” — that’s not my translation, it’s in English on the marquee — might sound to you like it should be in Brooklyn but in fact it sprouted up on the rue Piat down the street from the belvedere of the parc Belleville.

If rising housing prices not just in Belleville but across Eastern Paris indicate that it’s already too late, Versailles — er, the BoBos — has won (Bellevilloise artist friends tell me that a 60 square meter apartment off the rue Cascades recently sold for over 700,000 Euros or $820,00), in my own ramble late yesterday afternoon up the rue Fontaine du roi terminating on the Boulevard Belleville, before heading up the rue Belleville to Tourtille I found signs that food may actually save the neighborhood…. as well as the exact corner where, according to lettering on a bench outside the “Cantine de Babelville” situated there, the marriage between Belleville, then the second largest community outside Paris, and Lutèce was consummated in 1860. Although “consummated” is probably gilding the lilly. As Christiane Demeulenaere-Douyère observed, in “The ‘annexation’ as seen by Eastern Paris: Worries, hopes, and dissatisfactions” (Editions de la Sorbonne), reflecting community unease — including fear that food prices would go up! — with the planned annexation, the municipal council of Belleville actually voted against it in 1859, an expression of popular will the city of Paris promptly ignored, not only gobbling up the neighborhood but dividing it.

If the bad news is that like the rues Jean-Pierre Timbaud and Oberkampf which lead up to the boulevard Belleville before turning into the rues Couronnes and Menilmentont, the rue Fontaine du roi is littered with still more faux ethnic restaurants, crowned by a meta-bar / resto / “hostel” whose title is the only thing about it exclusively in French (the menu being dominated by Yankee English), the good news late yesterday afternoon, food and working-class ethnic populations-wise, came first in the Algerian and Moroccan French restaurants and bakeries setting their cakes, omelettes, savory and honey-sticky pastries, olives, and various peppery salads and condiments out on the sidewalks for the end-of-day Ramadan break-fast, and then at “The Paris Store,” my source for all num-nums Chinese and where, browsing the Ramen noodles racks for dinner (I’d walked all the way from the Meridian on the Left Bank after a long pause in front of the Fountain of the Four Corners of the World and was too tired to cook), I noted that certain flavors, predominantly fish and crustacean, had been highlighted with “Good for Hallal” signs…. Meaning the Chinese grocery store wasn’t marketing just to its own, but was taking into account the religious/dietary needs of its French Arab clientel for Ramadan. (I’d later pour my soup over day-old “Viking Bread” — I wanted to test out the fortitude of the new choppers — from the bakery at the corner of Tourtille and the rue Belleville which sells both Arab and non-Arab French breads and pastries.)

In other words, what may save Belleville is that more than I’ve seen in Greenpoint and the other ethnic neighborhoods of Brooklyn and even in San Francisco’s Mission District, these communities aren’t just catering to their own (and to the BoBos) but to each other. There’s not the inter-ethnic strife I’ve seen or heard of in other cities, e.g. between the Korean- and Black-Americans in South Central Los Angeles or even Greenwich Village. And the mayor should get some credit for this: When French Chinese commerce threatened to encroach on French Arab groceries, boulangeries, restaurants and butchers several years ago, she put a stop to it, in the name of preserving the neighborhood’s diversity.

This is also what I love about the twice-weekly outdoor market on the Boulevard Belleville: Squeezing through the crowds of French Arabs, French Africans, French Asians, and even a few BoBos, 99 percent of the time politely moving forward despite the crush, negotiating with the largely French-Arab fruit, vegetable, olive, date, pepper-filled crepes, cheese, fish, fresh mint, and merguez vendors — okay, le bouffe est aussi pour quelque-chose, the food may have something to do with it.

And it’s for the Maison d’Air site’s potential as a place of more inter-community exchanges — not another bistro — that the various militant organizations will be de-ambulating throughout the streets of Belleville and Menilmontant Sunday, beginning at 4 p.m. on the Place Gambetta. Or, as the Collectif for the Maison d’Air  for residents puts it on its manifesto (see above): “We dreamed of this place, and we will not renounce… we will not abandon our dreams. We want this place to be a place of sharing, of invention, of culture, of invention, of debates and fetes for the quartier.”