ART
French Film, Wheelchairs,Art & Food
The French, as a nation, were probably the first to view cinema as art—and
earlier the first to give photography its due. This is institutionalized in
today’s Paris where we currently have four museums devoted to the art
of photography—to say nothing of ongoing expositions and fairs. And
now there’s a most wonderful national cinematheque and film museum in
an extraordinary new setting, whose initial exhibition is simply brilliant.
La Cinematheque Francaise opened its doors in September in a Frank Gehry building completed 10 years ago as the American Center—which folded as soon as it opened due to funding problems. Created just before his astounding Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, the greige stone structure has biomorphic metal awnings, turrets and eaves that presage the Spanish masterwork. Unfortunately the interior space was badly misdesigned and much was unusable.
About seven years ago the French ministry of culture took it over for the current purposes and began remodeling the interior. Completion was promised as long ago as 2000, but on and on it went until just now, though I have to say it was well worth the wait.
The opening exposition is called Renoir/Renoir, pairing in its main gallery the oils of the great painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir and his filmmaker son Jean. The walls are lined with the father’s works while two- and three-minute excerpts from two dozen of the son’s classic films play on a series of room dividers.
Topping it off, next to each small screen is another painting based on the theme of the movie. For example, next to a bullfight sequence from a film starring Anna Mangani is a painting of a matador; a dance-hall sequence is mated with a dancing couple. Jean’s masterwork, “The Rules of the Game,” which involves a hunting scene, is matched with a country landscape by the elder. What brilliant curation, yet so amazingly simple. Only the French.
Other floors of the building are given over to historical exhibits of equipment from the earliest to the most technically advanced instruments of motion pictures—cameras, projectors etc—plus posters and other ephemera from throughout the generations of film-making. Snippets from scores of classics, from Melies and Chaplin forward, play on small screens—even on the floor—all in dimly lighted spaces giving the effect of being in a movie house. There also are several little theaters where you can take in the full version of any of the museum’s endless historic collection of films of all nations.
Just rolling along…
You were probably wondering where the wheelchair comes in.
As it happens, my friend Judy James came to visit—the first time in two years—but a couple of ailments conspire to (temporarily we hope) limit her walking to a few hundred feet at a time. No way to flit about the town and wander through long galleries, so we rented her a collapsible chair.
The experience of pushing her through the streets of the city was remarkable. First off, visiting museums and restaurants as we typically do takes time and planning--especially planning complex bus routes and waiting for connections.
Taking the metro is out—only a few are handicapped accessible. The complicated Paris bus system can be a delight for seeing the city, but it’s often frustratingly slow in the late afternoon.
You learn how to board buses with the collapsible chair and secure it in the spot reserved for baby buggies; you learn to spot the wheelchair cuts in the curbs that are not deep enough and require you to tilt the chair back rather than roll it smoothly. (I gave Judy quite a few jolts before I learned to spot the high cuts.) You find that many Paris streets cant slightly toward the curb to allow water to drain off—but those bevels make it tough to push the chair because it wants to head toward the curb as well.
The museums have varying degrees of wheelchair access: the Pompidou has a set of elevators that make it very easy; the new cinematheque is even easier. The Grand Palais, which had a gorgeous exhibit (below), leads you through a ground-level parking garage to the freight elevator, which must be specially summoned at every level when you are following the plan of the exposition.
The Maillol, one of our favorite museums, at first told us we could not bring the chair into the building--I had to raise a little hell and call for the director before they "discovered" that it could be done easily and they even had a small secret elevator well hidden to take us to the second floor and back.
The Jacquemart-Andre museum, a grand old mansion where I later saw a splendid showing of the works of Jacques-Louis David—including “The Assassination of Marat” and that famed heroic equestrian of Napoleon—has no wheelchair access at all and no elevators to avoid its steep, winding staircases.
It was quite an experience, physically and psychologically--for her, more so, since this is her first time as a fulltime passenger, constantly fearing I might push her into traffic or run over another pair of feet and cripple them. I later learned my beloved second home city has a really bad rep among handicapped (or whatever euphemism we’re using today). I sure understand now what all the fuss has been about—I’m ready to join an access organization.
In any event, the weather was magnificent—sunny in the 70s for weeks—and loads of friends and family found they way here during the days Judy stayed. We whipped up a cocktail party for about 20, with gobs of foie gras, fine cheeses and assorted goodies to leaven the wine. Also had several great restaurant meals—and I use the word advisedly—while catching up with old friends.
Art from Vienna and Russia with love
The Grand Palais had this season’s universal favorite exhibition, a massive showing of turn-of-the-last-century Viennese artists. More than a hundred glorious works by Oscar Kokoschka—my personal favorite—plus Klimpt, Schiele and Moser. The mix of the expressionist and the erotic with hints of what was then the mysterious east, all in the vibrant colors with subtle design patterns that characterize the period made this a truly haunting show.
On a totally different level of interest was the Pompidou’s retrospective of the DaDa era—the whacky post-WWI movement that sought to turn all the arts and culture upside down; intentionally nonsensical but ultimately amazingly relevant to the later art of the century.
Here were the icons of the era: the iron with nails protruding from its flat surface, the signed urinal, the sugar cubes in the bird cage, the abstract films and the filmed dreams. The movement was succeeded by surrealism, but out of it came lasting figures such as Max Ernst, Francis Picabia, Christian Schad and Max Beckmann. Plus, of course, Marcel Duchamp, who taught us that almost anything could be art. He may really be the most influential figure of the century in that special way—which is not to suggest he was as great an artist as, say, Picasso, Matisse or Pollack.
Two group shows played off each other interestingly. One, a sort of 20th Century retrospective called “The fire beneath the ashes: From Picasso to Basquiat” featured plenty of the usual suspects: Dubuffet, Rothko, Bacon, Giocometti, Guston as well as those two main guys in the title. (Basquiat remains very big here, while his rep back home has gone up and down.)
What made it really worthwhile, however, was the inclusion of many artists we don’t see or hear about much in the USA, such as the remarkable French sculptor Germaine Richier, the abstractionist Joaquin Torres-Garcia, Louis Soutter and Gaston Chaissac.—all worthy of serious attention.
The second show, held in the remarkable glass house of the Fondation Cartier (fully accessible), brought together a world-wide group of more than 50 younger, rising artists—aged 20-30—who were sponsored by older artists associated with the foundation. They provide a cross section of exactly what’s going on now: A surprising amount of easel painting—the Japanese influenced by anime—plus loads of photos and videos galore, along with some intriguing installations.
This show, plus a couple I saw in New York recently, pointed up the comparatively low level of crap we get from Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art (in that ghastly building, accessible as it may be).
I almost bypassed a special exhibit of late 19th Century Russian painting at the (very accessible) Orsay, but it turned out to be much more interesting than expected. No great painter of genius was uncovered but many noteworthy figures were shown—some influenced as you would expect, by the early impressionists.
Solidly on their own, the landscapes of Arkhip Koundji used light in a magnificent, almost Vermeerish way. A startling pyramid of skulls pecked at by vultures in a surreal dessert, entitled “Apotheosis of War” might have been done yesterday—as might Nickolai Gay’s “Golgotha,” flat and boldly outlined against an abstract background. Then there was Redkine’s famous study of a barefoot Lev Tolstoy. Well worthwhile, after all.
Eating the whole thing
Then there is the art of cuisine—which I never even consider bypassing. As it happens, the second week in October is “the week of the taste” in this town, where many restaurants whip up special little tasting menus with accompanying wines. Such was the case with Au Gourmand, getting to be one of my favorite new-wave bistros—right at the northern tip of the Luxembourg Gardens.
A new treat, in the rising price range, was La Table du Lancaster, off the Champs Elysses, run by Michel Troisgros, scion of a family whose landmark dining place in Roanne has held three Michelin stars since time began. There’s an Asian touch to this elegant spot, in décor and food alike.
The week’s featured menu (90 euros) showed off all the specialties that gave it it’s rep: marinated sardines touched with truffles; beautifully “lollipopped” frogs legs with an amazing tamarind sauce and perfectly crusted fried pigeon with an exotic variety of grapefruit.
But even that paled (in price as well!) before Judy’s pre-birthday dinner at Pierre Gagnaire, the true inventive genius among all France’s three-star chefs. His 10-course autumn tasting menu included such masterworks as an aspic of black olives with mousse of foie gras topped with nuggets of marinated octopus and other shellfish; later came slices of lobster bathed in a tarragon cider with a salad of fresh cepes dusted with tobacco powder (enchanting and denicotinized).
Each and every course was complex with diverse ingredients working together symphonically. This is not that intellectualized, “scientific” food that’s having a rage in some places. This is food for the mouth and perhaps the soul. (The dessert course itself comprised six different items!) I selected three different wines to match the progress of the menu, bringing the total price close to what I get in rent for a month at my Paris apartment. But worth every centime—to us anyway.
Still, most of our dining is at chefs’ bistros where you get marvelous contemporary cuisine at far more reasonable prices—usually under $50 with a decent wine.
A couple such dinners were with a pair of long-lost Chicago journalists, Diane Abt of WBBM-AM and Mike Zielenziger, once of Sun-Times. They just returned from a 7-year stint in Japan for Knight-Ridder, he with a completed book on that country to be published next year, she with a new career as an artist. Her website (www.dianeabt.com) shows some delicate, ethereal streetscapes highlighted by touches of Japanese calligraphy. Check ‘em out.
Not too much political activity on the surface, other than everyone watching with glee the Bush mess: if this be schadenfreude let us make the most of it. Then, too, there are concerns about how close this bird-flu thing will come now that it’s in Europe, which is indeed a threat though taken in a calm and measured way.
The jazz scene enlivened a bit by a two-day gig at my local club by Chicago’s Ernest Dawkins—and a forthcoming appearance by Dave Liebman, one of my favorite tenor-men. Hope to catch him before I’m outta here on Nov 1—which gives me time for a few more fine meals as well.
A bientot.
--Don
