Lutèce Diaries, 3: (Illustrated) Trans Tintin on rue Montorgueil, Superman in St.-Germain des près, Shoah Puppets on Mouffetard — the Journal of a Blood-sucking Critic

joseph yes gorgeous smallJoseph, “Yes gorgeous,” 2018. Acrylic, collage, and resin on wood. 110 x 80 cm. Courtesy Galerie Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris.

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Text copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

(Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation today. Just designate your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. No amount is too small.  Don’t miss  out on our upcoming coverage from Paris and Lyon of art, theater, film, puppets, and dance from around the world! Drop a line to artsvoyager@gmail.com with the words “Flash Me, Dance Insider & Arts Voyager” and we’ll add you to our list. Any and all references to my teeth and any blood from therein are hyperbolic poetic license; if I’ve made the journey from the Southwest of France to Paris, it’s not for the art but because  my dentist here is the best — and kindest — in the world and the only one in whom I’ve ever had confidence. And who would no doubt be distressed to learn that I did not head straight home after our last appointment.)

PARIS — Only a nut for culture and for a Paris retrouvé to which he’d re-taken (“First we’ll take Manhattan, then we’ll take Paris” — Leonard Cohen via Jennifer Warnes, tweaked) like the proverbial canard to water would think of strolling from the Grands Boulevards to the Seine in sub-freezing climes, traversing the most luminous river in the world — they say the light comes from all the souls that have found their final solace in her fathomless depths and all the hearts that have fused on her bridges, boats, and benches (“I started that” — Cary Grant to Audrey Hepburn in Stanley Donen’s “Charade,” pointing to the lovers necking on the quays from the deck of a bateau mouche) — and then hop-scotching from several openings in the gallery grotto of Saint-Germain-des-Près to the heights of the Latin Quarter to mouffe tard (work late) on the rue Mouffetard with a puppet hoarder of Holocaust detritus while surrounded by 50 hushed school-children, right after having three teeth extracted. And did I mention that I forgot the Ibuprofen, which I told myself would make me all the more able to empathize with the Shoah victims (later to have their fillings extracted after being gassed), but which only left me to grit the hemoglobin-soaked bandage over my gums and become the living embodiment of the blood-sucking critic?

joseph kiss smallJoseph, “What does a kiss mean,” 2018. Acrylic, collage and résin on wood. 110 x 80 cm. Courtesy Galerie Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris.

The most provocative piece of art I saw all evening was the illicit poster someone had painted on an entire building wall, near the arched gateway to the rue Montorgueil, of Tintin — celebrating his 90th birthday this year, and acting pretty frisky for his age — illicitly planting a tender wet kiss on the mouth of Captain Haddock, enough to make the mullahs of Moulinsart bent on upscaling the image of Hergé as a high-class painter piss their pants, but not enough to distract me from the Starbucks shingle which continues to tackify the entrance to one of the most typical passages of Paris, once memorialized by Claude Monet. Lingering 20 minutes later on the Pont des Arts to wait for the Eiffel to sparkle up (after shaking my head over the construction blight of the former Samaritain — when last seen, Kylie Minogue was diving off the roof of the late multi-block department store, one inspiration for Zola’s “The Happiness of Ladies,” in Leo Carax’s “Holy Motors” — being made over into a luxury hotel so that rich foreigners have a place to sleep until they can buy a place through one of the numerous real estate agencies which have replaced my favorite cheese boutiques and used record shops, and to pay hommage at the school on the Street of the Dry Tree where they once vainly tried to teach me about the imperfect past), I was relieved to see that the faux graffiti wall with which the city had replaced the chain fencing in an attempt to stymie the love-locks which had threatened to make the bridge fall into the river had been supplanted by a sleek glass barrier. After reconnoitering a dark corner on the Left Bank near the water that seemed propitious for a minimal-risk piss (I’ve been nervous ever since the police caught me relieving myself by a tree on the Ile St. Louis in 2005, when I hadn’t dared cite Malcolm McLaren in my defense: “Everybody pees on Paris, watch me now.”), I reflected that confined to clusters in the middle and at the top of the bridge lamp-posts that made them resemble bouquets for robots, the love-locks now actually had something to do with love. (One unclear on the concept wag had written on his, “Love doesn’t need locks,” before bolting it.) Prodded by the memory of a long-ago futile search for a public urinal on the rues Bonaparte and Visconti, I finally plunged down a stairway and mingled my waters with the crepuscular dew, spitting out the blood-drenched gum bandage in a poubelle at the base of the Nesle Tower — where an ancient royal Rapunzel once tempted various cavaliers who lost their heads for their gallantry — before heading to the galleries so that I could shut my trap and not reveal that I was one fangless critic.

joseph superman smallJoseph, “No time to lose (Superman),” 2018. Acrylic, collage, and resin on wood. 110 x 70 cm. Courtesy Gallery Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris.

If there had been any police patrolling in the area, Superman was waiting to rescue me, emitting scarlet beams of x-ray vision from both eyes over a collage of ’50s Life magazine ads lacquered into art by the eponymous Joseph and on display (through the end of the month) at the Galerie Roy Sfeir, the first on the rue de Seine if you’re coming from the river. (And one of the only galleries I spotted — not counting those hosting openings — where the gallerist wasn’t huddling behind a computer screen.) Behind twin bull-dog sculptures guarding the 12 or so oeuvres — most topped off by comic-book like soap-operatic bubbles a la Roy Lichtenstein — the gallery’s owner was discussing the “Yellow Vests” phenomenon with a client. When they asked my opinion (I’m not sharing theirs because I didn’t identify myself as a journalist) and then said they had no idea what I’d just said, for once I had a retort that headed off any comment on my accent:

“Itf becaufe I’fe juft come from fe dentisf.”

roy lichtenstein artist's studioAmong the 44 works whose recent installation has renewed the Contemporary Collection on view at the Art Institute of Chicago is, above, Roy Lichtenstein. Artist’s Studio “Foot Medication,” 1974. The Art Institute of Chicago, Gift of Edlis/Neeson Collection. © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein. The art by Joseph featured here evokes his American artistic ancestor.

Next I scrunched into the barely three-person-wide “Petite Gallery” — “Let the monsieur in, he’s actually here pour voir, pas pour boire” (to look, not to drink) — for a group exhibition that, in appreciation for the conviviality with which the ensemble welcomed a demi-sans-dent individual they had no idea was a blood-sucking critic, I’ll diplomatically refrain to comment on — before landing at my destination gallery, on whose exhibition, thanks to the flack who treated my modest request for three images *in the appropriate size* like she was doing me a favor even though she did know I was a journalist, I’ve not so diplomatically — okay, childishly — decided not to waste any more energy on here.

In contrast to the kind folks at the Petite Gallery, the Centre Pompidou is no doubt big enough to withstand a little biting criticism from a demi-sans-dent critic. So I was practically delighted to find matter for a rant in the mammoth “Without the Centre Pompidou, Paris wouldn’t be Paris” English-language poster that reared its head before me on the Boulevard Saint-Germain as I made my way towards Mouffetard for my Shoah puppet show. After mentally dispensing this pedagogy (this is what French commentators call it when they want to explain to you why you’re wrong and they’re right), I crossed St.-Mich and turned onto the rue des Ecoles so I could explore what the Latin quarter cinemas were offering before the show. In the lobby of the Grand Action, an apparently jet-lagged young woman with a Nordic accent (and so Nordically enveloped I can’t describe her better than that) was asking the ticket-seller, “Am I in Paris?”

If there had previously been any doubt in my mind, I definitely knew I was in Paris when I scaled the mount St. Genevieve, one of the oldest streets in Lutèce (the city’s name in Roman times), and definitely knew I was still inevitably an American in Paris when I paused to pay the obligatory homage to Hemingway at Papa’s former roost up top the rue Cardinal Lemoine, more or less catty-corner from Descartes’s former digs on the rule Rollin, and where I resisted the temptation to channel the Gorilla Girl inside me and amend the Paris is a Moving Feast citation “Lucky the man who has spent part of his youth in Paris” with “and the semi-toothless blood-sucking journalist who’s still here.” Speaking of youth and ecoliers, in the courtyard at the end of the alley leading to the Mouffetard theater of the Art of the Marionette I was immediately surrounded by 50 schoolchildren decidedly mouffing tard, no doubt for the educational value of a puppet show about the Holocaust or Shoah, as it’s referred to here.

Despite the presence of several superficially stereotypical Jewish puppet characters (a bent-over Hasid, an Einstein-lookalike with a magic cigar box hanging from his neck) designed after the now exhausted Czech National Puppet Theatre model what I liked about the endearing Alexandre Haslé’s production of Daniel Keene’s “The Rain” for the Lendemains de la veille company was that despite what I said above, as there’s nothing in the piece explicitly linking it to the Holocaust the message is not limited to that one deportation and period. As Haslé suggested in brief comments after curtain, the simple plot premise — an old woman surrounded by the possessions neighbors gave her before boarding trains of no return when she was a girl — could apply to many contemporary situations and displaced populations. He cited, somewhat vaguely, “Italy, Spain — even France.” Perhaps because I’ve just finished reading Joe Sacco’s graphic novel “Palestine,” with its depictions of Palestinian families given an hour to quit their ancestral homes before Israel blows them up in acts of collective punishment for the first Infitadah — I’d add Palestine/Israel to the tale’s potential resonances. Which is a way to say that what I appreciated in this tale and its presentation was the universality of its message’s application. For this reason, I was encouraged that their parents and teachers had let the school-children mouffe tard. One of the problems I have with the “Yellow-Vest” movement which has been the chou-chou of the French media for the past two months is its “Me First” mentality. In this context any measure that fosters empathy — I’ve never seen a crowd of children so quiet and enraptured — in the next generation is a welcome tonic.

I’d love to stay and cat, but I’ve got a busy day ahead: This time the dentist is taking out a nerve, after which I’ve blithely made a date with Agnes Varda and Sandrine Bonnaire (following another rendez-vous with Bernhardt), et dans laquelle il n’y aurait aucun risque que je morde.

joseph happiness smallJoseph, “Happiness,” 2018. Acrylic, collage, and resin on wood. Courtesy Galerie Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris.

 

Family Reunion: George Sand reviews “Lucretia Borgia” for Victor Hugo

lucrece borgia comedie francaise Christophe Raynaud de Lage oneElsa Lepoivre and the Comédie-Française in Victor Hugo’s “Lucretia Borgia.” Christophe Raynaud photo courtesy Service Presse, the Comédie-Française.

Correspondence between George Sand & Victor Hugo
Translated by Paul Ben-Itzak

Through April 1, 2019 at its salle Richelieu in Paris, the Comédie-Française is reprising Victor Hugo’s 1833 “Lucretia Borgia,” with Elsa Lepoivre, Gaël Kamilindi, and the troupe’s director Eric Ruf — who also designed the scenery — performing the principal roles, under the direction of Denis Podalydès, with choreography by Kaori Ito. When the play was reprised in early 1870 at the Theatre Porte-Saint-Martin, the Great Man’s Paris colleagues tasked George Sand with sending the author, exiled for 18 years in the Channel Islands, a personal account of the play’s triumphal return to the Paris stage. (Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation today. Just designate your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. No amount is too small.)

George Sand to Victor Hugo:

My great friend, I’ve just come from “Lucrèce Borgia,” my heart full of emotion and joy. I’m still thinking of all the poignant scenes, all the charming and devastating words, Alphonse d’Este’s bitter smile, Gennaro’s harrowing arrest, Lucretia’s maternal scream; my ears are still ringing with the acclamations of the packed audience shouting “Long live Victor Hugo!,” imploring you as if you could actually heed its call, as if you could hear it.

One can’t say, when it comes to an already consecrated work like “Lucretia Borgia,” “The play was a huge success,” but I’ll say it anyway: You have scored a magnificent triumph. Your friends at [the journal] Rappel — who are also my friends — asked if I would be the first to inform you of this triumph. I do believe I would like to be! Let this letter, therefore, bring you news of this beautiful evening.

This evening reminded me of another, no less beautiful. You probably were not aware that I was there at the opening night of “Lucretia Borgia” — 37 years ago to the day, they tell me.

I remember that I was seated in the balcony, as it happens sitting next to Bocage — the first time I saw him. We were, he and I, strangers to each other; shared enthusiasm made us friends. We applauded together; together we proclaimed, “Isn’t it wonderful?!” During the intermissions, we could not stop ourselves from speaking, from gushing, from reciprocally re-playing this scene or that scene.

Certain minds share a literary conviction and passion that immediately makes them part of the same soul and imbues them with a fraternity in art. When the play ended, when the curtain came down with the tragic cry “I am your mother!,” our hands immediately sought each other out. And they remained entwined up and until the death of that grand artist, that dear friend.

And now I’ve found “Lucretia Borgia” just as I left her 37 years ago. The play has not aged one day; no folds, no wrinkles. Its lovely form, as clear and firm as Paros marble, has remained absolutely intact and pure.

On top of this, here you have touched, here you have expressed with your incomparable magic the emotion that strikes us the most in the guts; you have incarnated and realized “the mother.” It’s as eternal as the heart.

“Lucretia Borgia” just might be the most powerful and high-minded of all your plays. If “Ruy Blas” is more happy and glittering, the idea behind “Lucretia Borgia” is the more tragically pathetic, the more striking, and the more profoundly human.

What I admire above all is the daring simplicity on which the robust foundations of the three principal situations are constructed. Classical theater proceeded with this same calm and strong vast scope.

Three acts, three scenes, all that is needed to pose, to bind, and to then unravel this surprising sequence of actions:

The mother insulted in the presence of the son;

The son poisoned by the mother;

The mother punished and killed by the son.

This superb trilogy had to issue from one single effort, like a grouping of bronze sculptures. And so it did, no? I even recall how you did it.

I recall under what conditions and in what circumstances “Lucretia Borgia” was, in a certain manner, improvised, from its beginnings in 1833.

lucrece borgia comedie francaise Christophe Raynaud de Lage twoElsa Lepoivre and the Comédie-Française in Victor Hugo’s “Lucretia Borgia.” Christophe Raynaud photo courtesy Service Presse, the Comédie-Française.

The Théâtre-Française presented, at the end of 1832, the first and only performance of “Le Roi s’amuse.” This performance was a rough battle, progressing and concluding amongst a storm of catcalls and a storm of booing and bravoing. In the subsequent performances, which would triumph — the boos or the bravos? A big question, and an important test for the author….

But there were no subsequent performances.

The day after the opening night, “Le Roi s’amuse” was banned by “by proclamation,” and is still waiting, I believe, for its second performance. At the same time that “Rigoletto” continues to play day after day.

This brutal confiscation was a great wrong to the poet. It must have been for you, my friend, a cruel moment of anger and pain.

However…. At the same time, Harel, the director of the Porte-Saint-Martin, came to ask you for a play for his theater and for Mademoiselle George. The catch was that this play, he needed it right away, and “Lucretia Borgia” only existed in your head — the writing had yet to begin.

No matter! You as well, you wanted your revenge. You told yourself what you’ve never ceased telling the public since, in the preface to “Lucretia Borgia” itself:

“To give birth to a new play, six weeks after the banned play, is another way of reading the riot act to the government. Another way to show that it’s the one who is being penalized. A way to prove to it that art and liberty can sprout up in one solitary night under the very foot that maladroitly tries to crush them.”

You went to work right away. In six weeks, your new play was finished, learned, rehearsed, performed. And on February 2, 1933 — two months after the war over “Le Roi s’amuse” — the opening night of “Lucretia Borgia” was the most smashing victory of your dramatic career.

As easy as pie, this work was born a finished masterpiece, solid, indestructible and eternally durable. And it was applauded last night like it was applauded 40 years ago, like it will be applauded 40 years from now and for eternity.

The effect, huge from the first act, grew from scene to scene until it exploded in the final act.

Here’s what’s incredible: This final act, we already know what’s going to happen, we know it by heart, we expect the entry of the monks, we expect the appearance of Lucretia Borgia, we expect the knife being thrust by Gennaro.

And yet…i. We’re still taken aback, terrified, our breath taken away, just as if we didn’t already know what was going to happen; the first strains of “De Profundis,” interrupting the saloon song, send a shudder through our veins, we hope that Lucretia Borgia will be forgiven by her son, we pray that Gennaro won’t slay his mother. But no, you’re intractable, inflexible master; the crime must be expiated, the blind matricide must punish and avenge all these crimes, they also perhaps blind.

The play was admirably mounted and performed in this theater where it is at home.

Madame Laurent was really superb as Lucretia. I don’t under-rate Madame George’s beauty, force, and pedigree; but I must confess that her talent only moves me when the situation does. It seems that Marie Laurent can make me cry all by herself. She had, like Madame George, in the fist act, that horrible scream of a wounded lioness: “Enough! Enough!” But in the final act, dragging herself at Gennaro’s feet, she’s so humble, so tender, so supplicating, she’s so afraid, not of being killed, but of being killed by her son, that every heart in the theater melts like hers and with hers. No one dares applaud, no one dares move, everyone holds their breath. And then the entire audience rises to call for her and acclaim her at the same time as they do you.

You’ve never had an Alphonse d’Est as real and as handsome as Mélingue. He’s a Bonington, or, even better, a living Titien. One can’t imagine someone more princely, more like an Italian prince, more like a prince of the 16th century. He’s simultaneously ferocious and refined. He prepares, he conceives, and he savors his vengeance in an artistic fashion, with as much elegance as cruelty. We look on terror-stricken as he claws at the velour scenery like a magnificent royal tiger.

Taillade has just the tragic and fatal figure called for by Gennaro. He strikes exactly the right tones of lofty and ferocious bitterness, in the scene where Gennaro is both executioner and judge.

Brésil, admirably costumed in a fake hidalgo, has great allure as the Mephisto-like personage of Gubetta.

The five young lords — all artists of real value, lead by Charles Lemaitre, exhibiting pride in performing — look as if they might have stepped out of a painting by Giorgione or Bonifazio.

The direction is of an exactitude, that is to say a richness which revives more than anyone could ever wish all the splendor of the Italian Renaissance. Monsieur Raphael Félix has rendered you not just royally but artistically.

However — and he won’t fault me for telling you so — there’s someone who has celebrated you even better than him: the public, or rather, the people.

What an ovation for your name and for your play!

I was so happy and elated for you after this just and legitimate ovation. You deserve it 100 times over, my dear great friend. It’s not my intention here to sing the praises of your power and your ingenuity, but one can at least thank you for being the fine artisan and indefatigable worker that you are.

To think of what you had already accomplished in 1833! You renewed the art of the ode; you had, in the preface to “Cromwell,” penned the manifesto that served as the blueprint for the dramatic revolution; you were the first to reveal the Orient in “Les Orientales” and the Middle Ages in “Notre-Dame de Paris.”

And, since, what works and what major works! What ideas stirred up, what forms invented! What efforts, what audacities and discoveries!

And you don’t let up! You were aware yesterday in Guernesey that “Lucretia Borgia” was being reprised today in Paris, you had calmly and peacefully discussed the chances of this performance, then at 10 p.m., at the very moment that the entire audience was acclaiming Mélingue and Madame Laurent after the first act, you went to bed so that you could get up as usual at the break of dawn, and they tell me that at the very moment that I’m finishing up this letter, you are illuminating your lamp, as you resume tranquilly working on your latest creation.

George Sand

hugo house views of guernseyThomas Singleton, “Views of Guernesey,” circa 1870. Set of 12 prints: Eight large albumen prints mounted on cards; four unframed prints. Various dimensions, from 13 x 20 cm. to 27.5 x 39 cm. Part of Christie’s 2012 Collection Hugo sale in Paris. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012. To read more about the Collection Hugo sale — and what it revealed about the vast Hugo legacy — on the Arts Voyager please click here.

Victor Hugo to George Sand:

Hauteville-House, February 8, 1870

Thanks to you, I was there at this performance. Through your admirable style, I saw it all: the theater, the play, the dazzle of the show, the magnificent space, these powerful and tragic actors inspiring the shudders of the crowd, all those riveted heads, this people moved, and you, the embodiment of glory, applauding.

For 20 years I have lived under quarantine. The saviors of property have confiscated my property. The coup d’état has sequestered my repertory. My plague-infected plays are quarantined; the black flag hangs over me. Three years ago, they let “Hernani” out of jail only to send it back as quickly as possible, the public incapable to mount enough hate for this brigand. Now it’s “Lucretia Borgia”‘s turn. She’s free. But she’s already being denounced; she’s highly-suspected of being contagious. How long will she remain at liberty?

You’ve just given her a perpetual get-out-of-jail free card. You are the great woman of our century, a noble soul for everyone, a kind of living posterity, and you have the right to proclaim. I thank you.

Your magnificent letter could not have been more timely. My solitude is often strongly insulted; they say whatever they like about me; I’m someone who prefers remaining silent. Allowing oneself to be calumnied is a strength. For that matter, it’s natural that the Empire defend itself by any means possible. It’s my target, and I’m its target. From over there are sent many projectiles against me which, given that they need to traverse the sea, have, it’s true, a big chance of falling in the water. Whatever they may be, they only serve to affirm my thick skin, the outrage only hardens me in my certitude and in my will, I smile at their insults; but, in the face of sympathy, in the face of adhesion, in the face of friendship, in the face of the energetic and tender cordiality of the people, confronted with the applause of a city like Paris and the approbation of a woman like George Sand, this solid and pensive old fogey feels his heart melt. They love me just a little bit after all!

hugo one portraitsFrom a set of four salt prints after photographs taken in Jersey, the first of the Channel Islands in which the poet took refuge in 1852 before moving to Guernesey in 1855: Atelier Hugo-Vacquerie (Charles Hugo or Auguste Vacquerie), “Portraits of Victor Hugo, 1853-55.” The prints were part of Christie’s 2012 Collection Hugo sale in Paris. Copyright and courtesy Christie’s images Ltd. 2012.

At the same time that “Lucretia Borgia” gets out of jail, my son Charles goes back in. C’est la vie. One must accept these things.

You, in your life, out of so many throes which have tested you, you would forge light. In the future you will guard the august aureole of the woman who protected Women. Your entire oeuvre is a battle; and that which is a battle in the present is a victory in the future. He who is with progress is with certitude. What touches us when we read you is the sublimeness of your heart. You spend it all on thought, on philosophy, on wisdom, on reason, on enthusiasm. And what a powerful writer you are! I will soon have something to celebrate, because you will soon have a success. I am aware that one of your plays is being rehearsed.

I’m happy every time that we exchange letters; my reverie has need of these sparks of light that you send me, and I thank you from the depths of my heart for having taken the time to turn towards me from the heights of this summit where you reside, great spirit.

My illustrated friend, I bow before you.

Victor Hugo

Excerpted from “Pendant Exil, 1852-1870,” Nelson, Editeurs, Paris. Victor Hugo returned to France on August 31, 1870, after the collapse of the empire of Napoleon III.