Flappers

Yesterday I charlestoned my way through a day in the life of a thoroughly modern woman of the 1920s at the Musée Galliera exhibition Les années folles: (1919 – 1929). A delirious collection of couture dresses and accessories captured the innocent decadence of this breathless decade, from sporty “anyone-for-tennis” ensembles to glitter-dripping cocktail frocks. Poiret, Lanvin, Worth, Patou – the names almost as dazzling as the outfits themselves. My favourites were the utterly chic little black dress from Chanel and the intriguingly named “Lesbos” dress by Lanvin – an exquisite absinthe-green and silver creation shown at the 1925 Paris exposition in the “Pavillon de l’élégance” (see the sketch above).
The crowds and the claustrophobic layout made it a bit of a challenge to move between the displays, but it did mean I got to hear some wonderful snatches of conversation. Like the elderly lady in raptures before the woollen bathing suits studded with brocade and sequins, only to turn away, shaking her head and saying to no-one in particular, “of course they itched dreadfully”.
Too too thrilling!

Toussaint

It was almost festive in the Montparnasse Cemetery yesterday, tombs bright with chrysanthemum and cyclamen, the aisles between the headstones crowded with visitors; gossiping, strolling, commemorating the faithful departed. This is the custom, it seems, on these days of All Saints and All Souls.
Granite glinted dully in the struggling November sun as the living bent to the task of sweeping, scrubbing, weeding and remembering. Some grim, some cheerful, some weary and resigned. Duty? Grief? Habit?
It is a tradition which I find foreign and old-fashioned, and yet I can appreciate that there is comfort to be found in ritual. Even if it seems strange to me to nominate one particular day each year for remembering those we have lost.
Great for the florists, though.

Surprise

It’s so typical of Paris. Just when you thought she’d revealed all her sightseeing secrets, she casually casts another jewel in your path. So it was on Sunday we stumbled across the Domaine National de Saint Cloud. I’d seen a picture of it on one of those Monuments Nationaux flyers you see in museum cashiers and hotel lobbies. Not having heard anything else about it, we’d assumed it would be some third-rate park or wannabe Jardin de Versailles.
It turned out, of course, to be a magnificent surprise. Four hundred and sixty hectares of manicured lawns, ancient forests, breathtaking vistas and monumental fountains, all perched above the Seine at the western edge of the city. There used to be a grand château; home to Catherine de Médicis (she got around, didn’t she?), Marie Antoinette and Napoleon amongst others, it was burned down during the Prussian siege in 1870. Now all that remain are the expansively lovely grounds laid out by le Nôtre, empty and echoing. They are an enchanting fusion of formality and wildness, with grandiose water-features (a 90-metre Grande Cascade) in stark relief against densely wooded groves. For us, the melancholy sense of lost grandeur was deepened deliciously by the red autumnal richness of the soft and mamfy* day; fragrant wood-smoke curling from half-hidden tea houses nestled rustically amongst the trees.
Enthralling to realise that all this is so close to the tourist-trodden trails of the capital, tucked away at the end of Métro lines 9 or 10, a serenely evocative treasure to discover. I am filled with delight by this city which continues to astonish me with new wonders and unexpected riches.

* from the self-styled acronym for "mists and mellow fruitfulness", with apologies to Keats.

Converted

When it comes to cathedrals, I’ve always been a Gothic kind of guy. Addicted to the vertical high of a soaring Gothic nave, I have dragged LSP* across half of Europe in search of spidery stone buttresses, jewelled rose windows, fan-vaulted cloisters and flamboyantly filigreed facades. (Phew. Alliteration overload. Sorry.)
Howsomever.
Eight days in Burgundy have opened my eyes to a different style of architecture: the Romanesque. Older, simpler and sturdier, this precursor to the flashy frippery of the Gothic has a particularly strong presence in Burgundy, with every village seeming to have an older, more steadfast example. And there are of course the stirring masterpieces of Fontenay, Vézelay and (what’s left of) Cluny which anchor this region so robustly in the Romanesque.
So what is it about this style which has converted me? Compare the following images:

The first is the gloriously Gothic crossing and transept of the Eglise St. Ouen in Rouen. Delicate, dizzying perfection. The second is the aisle of the Romanesque Abbaye de St-Philibert in Tournus. Rough, massive and uneven; and yet, to me, so much warmer and more eloquently moving. Because I realise that what captivates me about Cathedrals is not so much the genius of the architecture itself, or the beauty of the buildings. Rather, it is the people who built them, and the subsequent generations of men and women who came to worship and marvel, who leave such a powerful imprint on the place.
Somehow I feel closer to the countless artisans and pilgrims before me when I can see the flawed humanity of their creation – the rough-hewn chisel marks forming an infinitely more immediate connection than the exquisite coolness of smooth stone.That’s not to say I’ll never go Gothic again in my historical ramble through religious architecture… but for true resonance, it’s (good, old) Romanesque for me.

* Long-Suffering Partner

Elegy/Apology

Dad used to love telling the story of the time he took my brother and I to see Marcel Marceau. I’ve always been a bit mystified by Marcel’s choice to tour Australia in the 70s, and by Dad’s decision to take two toddlers to see him, but I guess French mime was seen as incredibly sophisticated children’s entertainment back there and then.
The story goes that we were each bought a box of Jaffas (just in case Marcel failed to excite us, it was thoughtful to provide a crunchy sugar/chocolate rush as well).

All the Australians reading this will know exactly where it’s going.
After a silent rollercoaster ride of gesture and expression, walking against the wind and feeling along invisible walls, Marcel was working up to his final image of exquisite pathos. The hushed audience edged forward in their seats and held their breath as time seemed to slow... and then… and then… a shattering candy cascade was unleashed as hundreds of Jaffas bounced and rolled deafeningly down the aisle.
Dad maintained that Marcel never truly recovered, and would wake up in cold sweats at the memory of that fateful Sydney show.
I’m sorry Monsieur Marceau. I don’t really remember your show, but as far as the Jaffa incident is concerned, I’m sure it was my brother’s fault.
I hope now you’ve found quiet. And peace.

Trying times

It’s Rugby World Cup time in France, and the oval ball is everywhere – even on the Eiffel Tower, transformed into giant goalposts for the occasion. Everyone has jumped on the rugger wagon, and you can’t turn a page or a corner without seeing an oval-shaped object: chocolates, phones, books, hats. Everything is fair game (I kill myself). This being Paris, you can even pop into Chanel to get your gear on the way to the game.
Every company, brand and institution is falling over itself to prove its close ties to the game. There is Société Générale, the financial partner of the IRB; Toshiba, official TV provider; Eden Park, official clothing brand of the French team, and Vivien Paille, official provider of dried pulses and vegetables. (True.) My favourite advertisement, however, is this one: You know the World Cup is in France when rugby has its very own foie gras. Initially unconvinced by this tenuous link between ball sports and duck liver, my skepticism is blown away by the logic of the copywriting: "rugby and foie gras, two expressions of the same terrain". Of course! Rugby is really popular in the south-west of France, and that’s where they force-feed poultry to make foie gras! Crystal clear. That’s not drawing a long bow at all. Or, to use a more appropriate metaphor, kicking a very, very long goal.

Pavarotti's Botti

The sad death of Luciano Pavarotti yesterday reminded me of my favourite apocryphal story about the great tenor. It seems he was being interviewed on a live satellite cross as part of a televisual tribute to our very own antipodean diva, Dame Joan Sutherland. When asked what special message he would like to give to the soprano, in front of millions of viewers, his loud, effusive and heavily-accented reply was:

“I would like to give her a big kiss from my bottom…”

Cut to a frozen-smiled Joan, blinking to camera. Pan to a mortified host, silently sweating. Pull back to a bemused studio audience, holding its breath. And gingerly cross back to Luciano, finally ready to finish his sentence:

“…of my heart.”

Considering where it came from, that’s a BIG kiss.

Bravo!