Countdown: 1... BLASTOFF!

On Wednesday, Paris was dark, overcast, wet, and rainy -- terrible condition for a long walk through town. That was exactly my plan; after blogging, and hoping that the rain would go away of its own accord, I set off, at about 10:50 in the morning for the Musee Marmottan Monet, located in the northern half of the 16^e arrondissement in Paris: this might have been my longest walk in Paris, and certainly the longest walk I have taken since the start of classes. The rain was on-and-off, but I got the chance to see some parts of the city I have never visited before, on the rive droite. My Turkish friend once remarked that the neighborhood in the southeast 14e arrondissement where the Cite Universitare International is located is très bourgeois, and I think he’s right. Paris has its fair share of poverty, beyond the ubiquitous homeless beggars whom I mention so frequently: I’m talking about cramped, lousy housing, etc, with high concentrations of racial and national minorities.

In any case, I eventually made it to the Marmottan at nearly 1:00 exactly. On the way, I passed the UNESCO building, which is apparently something of a local monument. The walls were covered with a thick covering of luscious green moss, and there is what appears to be a duck pond out front. Later, in the small park just across the way from the museum, however, I saw what is by far my favorite statue in Paris: a bronze monument to Jean de La Fontaine, the famous writer of fables, peering down at two of his most famous characters, the Fox and the Crow, which, if you remember the August entry on Parisian children, I mentioned that most French children can still recount from heart. Then it was into the museum, where no photos are allowed. The Marmottan Monet is an impressionist museum, featuring mostly Monet’s work, but also a few canvases by Cezanne, Degas, Pissarro, Sisley (I mentioned that I like him, didn’t I?), etc. There were several striking portraits of several of the impressionists (most notably Monet) and of their close family members.

It was very interesting to see Monet’s lesser-known works, some of which I found, well, ugly. Messy Japanese bridges, sloppy water-lilies, and bland Scandinavian landscapes were all the product of his palette (which I saw, along with his pipe, his pen, and the knife he used to sharpen it). Nor was there a strict chronological arc to the quality of his work: he painted good and bad paintings throughout his artistic career. His best paintings are those which strike a balance between the abstract techniques of impressionism, and the capacity of these techniques to nonetheless immediately depict real objects. When he lost his grip on his control of color, his paintings turned out sloppy, much like Jackson Pollack’s paintings; when his colors were too drab and representative, his paintings aren’t any better than Cezanne’s. For all of this, there are some beautiful Monet tableaux on display at the Marmottan: locomotives in the snow, water-lilies, Britain’s Parliament building, and, of course, Impression: soleil levant, the painting which gave the Impressionism movement its name.

The temporary exhibit was possibly even more interesting than the permanent collections. The topic was Neo-Impressionism, specifically, the work of the painter Henry Cross, and his collaboration with Georges Seurat, but also with several other Neo-Impressionists, such as Maximilien Luce. As with so much other art, I can’t explain exactly why, but I enjoyed looking at this “Neo-Impressionism,” distinguished from Impressionism by its smaller brushstrokes, and sharper distinctions between different bordering objects in the composition (to my eyes, anyway). The Neo-Impressionists had some truly excellent paintings of rural life, of boats, of bodies of water. At first, they painted using a technique known as pointillism, the use of tiny dots of color; later, around 1895, their brushstrokes became true strokes, but still remained small and concentrated. I really enjoyed Cross's pictures of lapping waves, of families of goats, of families of ducks, and of sunlight glinting off the water. Like Cezanne, he also painted naked women, but while Cezanne's tend to be bathing, Cross's are dancing and frolicking. Cross went through a fauvist phase, according to the art historians, but to be honest, I can't see much of a difference. All I know is that I enjoy looking at his paintings!

I left the museum, crossed back over the Seine, and arrived at the Musee Quai Branly, the Parisian anthropological museum. It was a bit of a shock upon first entering the building: unlike every other museum in this town, the Musee Quai Branly was built as a museum, and isn't simply a converted 17th-, 18th-, or 19th-century mansion! I was also surprised by the clientele: now I know where Parisians bring their five-to-ten-year-old children! There were so many little boys running around the exhibits!

The line for the temporary exhibit on the samurai was very long (more than a 30-minute wait), so I decided to explore the fairly large permanent exhibits. The museum was divided into four sections: the Americas, Oceania, Asia, and Africa. I made it through all but Africa before I ran out of juice at 6:00, and decided to leave. While I was there, however, I saw some amazing objects: Zapotec and Mixtec rain idols, 2000-year old funerary masks from Colombia, statues of Quetzalcoatl, Taino shamanic vomiting spatulas, paintings by George Catlin of Plains Indians, Mohawk wampum, and artifacts from New Guinean "men's houses." I found a couple of amulets from Jewish populations of the Middle East, which I always find fascinating (I have been interested in "folk Judaic" talismans since I read the excellent Cultures of the Jews, especially the article on magic by Shalom Sabar). There were also some excellent pieces from India, although I'll admit that my favorite was a tiny bronze figurine of an airplane and pilot, sculpted around 1900, and probably meant for a local altar. I also saw a few Southeast Asian artifacts, although nothing was as impressive as what I had seen at the Musee Guimet. There was another bronze Dong Son drum, even larger than the first, and ornamented with frogs, as well as some beautifully-decorated Thai and Burman pots for betel nuts.

Eventually, I couldn't look at anything more, and wandered out, eventually finding a Metro station, riding to Port Royal, where I proudly spend my 64th and final meal ticket (I won). I returned to the dorm, and found myself involved in a number of tasks until past midnight, including trying to find a way to responsibly dispose of my pile of recycling. I finished packing at nearly 2:00 a.m., and awoke the next morning a bit before 8:00. I was out the door around 9:00, leaving my reusable Franprix bag with some foodstuffs and a few other articles outside of Jamie's room (again, Jamie, thank you for being such an awesome neighbor!). I hopped on the RER B, rode it to Charles to Gaulle, and went through the whole airport gauntlet. On the shuttle bus, I met a French family when I held the hand of their (very cute) little girl, so that she wouldn't fall over, and they wished me very happy holidays, in both languages. On the flight itself, which left slightly late, at about 1:30, I sat next to a girl my own age from Surinam, attending American University in Paris (trilingual, plus some Spanish; I don't know how some people can manage that), and read Voltaire's Siecle de Louis XIV, although I had difficulty at times with the turbulence. They fed me twice on the plane: I was surprised.

I arrived in Philadelphia, and was off to another security-customs-baggage gamut. I ran it, and the Agriculture section neutralized the banana and two kiwis that were in my backpack. They were very friendly about it though. In fact, all of the guards and officers on the American side of the border were friendly, and it took me some time to catch on that I was not encountering a series of unusually friendly personnel, but rather, a different culture than the one I have been living in for the past several months. On paper, I had a 6-hour wait, but it was really only a 3-hour wait, because of customs, the passage to the proper terminal, security, and the call to my Mother that I made to let her know that all was well, and that I was safe in Philadelphia airport. I ate the non-confiscated food, and then bought a couple of muffins to supplement it (I think I would just have preferred the fresh fruit). I nearly fell asleep before the 9:30 flight to Ithaca boarded, and I actually did fall asleep, while we were still taxiing, and 4th in line to take off. I sat next to a fellow Ithacan and IHS grad, class of 2004, who was returning home for the holidays. When I woke up, we were descending: somehow, I made it out of the plane, and was met by my wonderful parents. We drove back in the pouring rain, and I made it into bed around midnight.

I woke up the next morning around 8:00 a.m., shaved, and ate breakfast with my parents. My Dad, who is sick, headed off to work, and I spent until around 12:30 unpacking and organizing. It was sleeting, so I didn't take a run. Now it's evening: I'm warm, clean, and possibly even already adjusted to the time zone. Sam is coming home this evening. What more could I want? I'm home.

~JD


"J'ai trop aime la guerre; ne m'imitez pas en cela, non plus que dans les trop grandes depenses que j'ai faites. Prenez conseil en toutes choses..." [I loved war too much; do not imitate me in this, nor in the excessive expenditures that I made. Accept counsel in all matters] (Deathbed letter from Louis XIV to the Dauphin, as cited in Voltaire, Le Siecle de Louis XIV, 651).

Ecouen & Chantilly

Feeling relieved: I finished writing my 8-page paper on the Young Turk Revolution early this afternoon, and on Friday, I took a 2-hour test, an in-class essay, in which we were expected to analyze "La Cour du Lion," a poem by La Fontaine which criticized the court of Louis XIV. That being done, I could enjoy a double-chateau weekend with my fellow EDUCO students.
I got up, if not early, than earlier than I would have liked, in order to trudge my way off to the Place Saint-Sulpice where we met our bus. I sat with Joe on the way out to Ecouen, which is under an hour's ride north of Paris.

Ecouen now houses the nation's museum of the Renaissance. Built in the first half of the 16th century, during the Francois I / Henri II phase of French architecture, the chateau was owned by Anne de Montmercy, constable of France, the second-richest man in France, after the king. Yes, "Anne" is a woman's name in French, too, but he was named after his aunt, Anne de Bretagne, the wife of Louis XII, whom you may remember from my post on Langeais, where Anne and Louis hooked up on Christmas half a millennium ago. In any case, this Montmercy character owned 120 castles across France, and this was just one of them, decorated in fantastic Renaissance style, and even more embellished with some of France's finest Renaissance art objects and artifacts. We had two guides, who led us through both castles; our guide was mediocre, but the other one, apparently, was nothing short of horrendous.

I was quite impressed with Anne's home-decorating style. There were ornamented cornices, frescoes depicting scenes from the Old Testament on every chimney, Corinthian columns, open scallop-shells around every corner, and carved fleurs-de-lys, crescents, rainbows, and other insignia throughout. Anne's personal symbol is an A and an M joined together by a sword, and his animal of choice is an eagle lacking feet and a beak (don't ask me why). Flanking one courtyard enterance were copies of two of Michelangelo's famous pieces, now known as the Rebel Slave and the Dying Slave, of which the originals are now a the Louvre. In fact, this is where the originals stood, from the time of Anne (who acquired them from Michelangelo, who had originally sculpted them for a papal tomb) until the time of the French Revolution. Even the floors were once richly, richly painted, with military and vegetable motifs, the yellows, blues, and greens standing out most prominently in the reconstruction in the center of one room.

But Ecouen is also a museum, and it contains, if you ask me, a greater wealth of art than the Cluny does (or maybe I just prefer the Renaissance to the Middle Ages? Beats me). Perhaps what most dazzled me was the collection of gilded-silver drinking vessels, purely for display purposes, which were never used. The masterpiece of the chateau was among these, a 16th-century German-manufactured cup in the shape of Daphne being transformed into a tree -- personally, I found it rather ugly and ostentatious. Really, however, the chateau housed art in every media known to Renaissance Europe. There was a large display of 16th-century Majolica-style plates, richly-painted ceramics in a style developed in Spain, and brought back from Italy by French artists. A few of these were even modest enough that I wouldn't mind having them in my house. One of the most famous pieces in Ecouen is the series of ten 16th-century Flemish tapestries depicting the story of David and Bethsabée. I tried very hard to get a good picture of this, but the lights were too dim (for the preservation of the tapestries, no doubt), so, unlike the other pieces I'm describing, you won't find pictures on FB. Something I found rather curious about the composition, however, was the far-left side of the first tapestry in the series, which was a separate "panel" if you will (what is a tapestry but a Renaissance comic book with insulation functions?), showing a man sitting and reading from a book -- reading the story of D & B, in other words, which the artist went on to vividly illustrate. Why choose to begin a composition this way? In any case, the tapestries were finely-made.

All of the chateau's masterpieces, it seems, were made in Germany. In addition to the cup, there was an impossible-to-photograph goldsmith's bench, owned by Auguste I, Elector of Saxony, which had very, very fine carvings down the length. Even more magnificent and ostentatious was the so-called "Ship of Charles Quint," made in Augsbourg around 1580, a clock in the shape of a great galley. Little figures of human beings were stationed around the deck of the clock-ship, including an enthroned Charles Quint in the center, many of whom nod their heads or otherwise move about when the clock is in motion, which it wasn't at the time we visited.

However, I found that by far the most interesting collection was the one which I found by myself, after or guided tour was over (done at what felt to me like a running-pace), in our thirty minutes of free time. Hidden away at the end of a wing is the Iznik collection of Ottoman ceramics, many of them created under the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent. Beautiful floral swirls on white backgrounds characterize the 16th-century manufactures of the town of Iznik, for which the collection is named. The collection used to belong to the Cluny Museum, but was sold, and thereby dispersed, near the end of the 19th century. Only the diligence of the museum's curators managed to reunite the fabulous collection, over the course of the second half of the 20th century, of around 450 pieces now on display.

We packed back onto the bus: our next stop was Chantilly, known for its cream, its lace, its horses, and, yes, its castle, which was also owned by Anne de Montmercy and his descendants, including the Conde family and the Ducs d'Aumale. Chantilly is really a gem, from the outside, nearly as beautiful, in my opinion, as Chenonceau. The current edifice is mostly a 19th-century reconstruction of a 16th-century chateau nearly entirely destroyed in the French Revolution. The building is now the Condé Museuem (Musée de Condé), which, according to our guide, is the second most-visited art museum in France, after the Louvre (I have difficulty believing that it is more visited than the d'Orsay). First, of course, we had to have lunch at the chateau's kitchens. I'm not going to whine about it for too long, but I had some difficulty securing a vegetarian option; however, the conversation was good (and mostly in French), there was bottomless wine served, and the food itself wasn't bad.

After ungluing ourselves from our seats with difficulty, we took a tour of the castle-turned-museum, and then the gardens. When you enter, one of the first things that you see is an allegoric fountain statue of Louis XIV laying low (terrassant) the Fronde, the great rebellion (really a series of rebellions) the kingdom faced 1648-1653, during Louis's minority. It was the Grand Condé, once proprietor of this chateau, who led the most significant resistance to royal authority (he was unhappy that he and his military buddies hadn't received enough promotions and honors during the Thirty Years' War); there was a significant political reason, in other words, for this fountain's strategic placement!

The Chantilly Chapel, which I believe is part of the original castle (I could be wrong) is pretty amazing. It has a high-vaulted ceiling, with Anne de Montmercy's distinctive AM-Sword emblem. He also depicted himself and the rest of his family in stained glass. At the far end of the chapel is an unpretentious black urn, which contains the hearts of all of the Princes de Condé -- I don't know if it also contains alcohol, or what, but they're still there.

There is a nice collection of 17th-, 18th-, and 19th-century paintings in the Condé Museum. Many of them have Oriental themes, partially because the Duc d'Aumale went on campaign in Egypt with General Bonaparte, and, like the future Emperor, came back with an orientalist fascination. There are some famous portraits of the Cardinals de Richelieu and de Mazarin, a painting of Madame holding a portrait of Monsieur, many horse-themed tableaux (Chantilly is the French capital of horses), a great painting of an aging Moliere, and various depictions of the Grand Condé. There is a room of paintings depicting Louis XIV's campaigns, one of which I recognized from the cover of my copy of Voltaire's Siecle de Louis XIV. There are also a few pieces of historical interest relating to the Grand Condé, including the chest he used when he was on campaign, the pink diamond he kept about his person, and the cabinet used to hold his mineral collection. The grounds of Chantilly were by no means the gardens of Versailles, but they were certainly very pleasant to stroll through, in the early evening. They were liberally strewn with larger-than-life marble statues of personae from the Grand Siecle, including Moliere, and, of course, Condé. It's only fair to mention here that our guide was far, far more knowledgeable about Chantilly than he was about Ecouen, and not only had more to say, but could also answer questions in a straightforward manner.

I also made it to the Louvre this weekend, just for about an hour, but it might have been the best hour I have spent there yet. I visited the Italian statuary collection, and saw the originals of the Rebel Slave and the Dying Slave, whose copies ornamented the courtyard of Ecouen. Really, the whole room, and the adjoining rooms, are full of good things -- the statures that once flanked the entrance to the Borgia's palace, a marble bust of a young woman with an elaborate lace collar (yes, Mom!), Cupid reanimating Psyche with a kiss, an enormous statue of Jupiter, etc. Many of these, amidst the other statues, were really 2nd-century Greek and Roman statues restored in the 16th and 17th centuries (taken from the collections of Mazarin, Richelieu, and others). It was extremely interesting to see how the people of the Renaissance and the Grand Siecle re-imagined the missing pieces of these statues. For instance, there is a truly incredible black marble statue from antiquity, representing an elderly fisherman; but its 17th-century owners thought that the subject was Seneca the Younger in his death throes (Seneca was commanded by Nero, I think, to commit suicide)! Likewise, the waist downward of a statue of a seated pharaoh with his hands on his knees was dredged up, dating from the 2nd millennium B.C.E., I think. The upper half was completed, and looks somewhat like other seated statues -- except it infinitely less detached from reality, and has so much more the semblance of a human being in time and space.

~JD

Sa Majesté Lionne un jour voulut connaître [One day his majesty the Lion wanted to know]
De quelles nations le Ciel l'avait fait maître. [Of which nations Heaven had made him the master]
Il manda donc par députés [He summoned his delegates]
Ses vassaux de toute nature, [His vassals of every kind]
Envoyant de tous les côtés [Sending from all sides]
Une circulaire écriture, [A circulatory letter]
Avec son sceau. L'écrit portait [With his seal. The writ explained]
Qu'un mois durant le Roi tiendrait [That for one month the King would hold]
Cour plénière, dont l'ouverture [An outside Court, of which the opening]
Devait être un fort grand festin, [Would be a very great feast]
Suivi des tours de Fagotin. [Followed by the tricks of Fagotin].
Par ce trait de magnificence [By this stroke of magnificence]
Le Prince à ses sujets étalait sa puissance. [The Prince spread forth his power to his subjects]
En son Louvre il les invita. [He invited them into his Louvre]
Quel Louvre ! Un vrai charnier, dont l'odeur se porta [What a Louvre! A real charnel house, whose odor wafted]
D'abord au nez des gens. L'Ours boucha sa narine : [Immediately to the noses of the people. The Bear plugged up his nostril]
Il se fût bien passé de faire cette mine, [He had just made this face] (?)
Sa grimace déplut. Le Monarque irrité [His grimace displeased. The irritated Monarch]
L'envoya chez Pluton faire le dégoûté. [Sent him to Pluto, to turn up his nose]
Le Singe approuva fort cette sévérité, [The monkey strongly approved of this severity]
Et flatteur excessif il loua la colère [And, excessive flatterer, he praised the rage]
Et la griffe du Prince, et l'antre, et cette odeur : [And the claw of the Prince, and the den, and this smell]
Il n'était ambre, il n'était fleur, [There no amber, there was no flower]
Qui ne fût ail au prix. Sa sotte flatterie [That wasn't garlic to it (?). His foolish flattery]
Eut un mauvais succès, et fut encore punie. [Had poor success, and he, too, was punished]
Ce Monseigneur du Lion-là [This milord the Lion]
Fut parent de Caligula. [Was kinsman of Caligula]
Le Renard étant proche : Or çà, lui dit le Sire, [The fox was close; and then, the King said to him]
Que sens-tu ? Dis-le-moi : parle sans déguiser. [What do you smell? Tell it to me, speak without concealment]
L'autre aussitôt de s'excuser, [The other immediately excused himself]
Alléguant un grand rhume : il ne pouvait que dire [Alleging a terrible cold: He could only say]
Sans odorat ; bref, il s'en tire. [Without sense of smell. In short, he withdrew]
Ceci vous sert d'enseignement : [This serves as a lesson]
Ne soyez à la cour, si vous voulez y plaire, [Be, at the court, if you wish to please there]
Ni fade adulateur, ni parleur trop sincère, [Neither a drab adulator, nor too sincere a speaker]
Et tâchez quelquefois de répondre en Normand" [And try sometimes to respond in Norman].

(Jean de la Fontaine, Fables, livre VII, fable 6).

Les Enfants Francais

The Avertins' grandchildren are currently staying with us, here in Tours. Arthur is ten years old, Dauphne is eight. Having several years' experience as a counselor at a summer camp, and possessing a fair knowledge of what to expect from American children, I have tried to get an idea of what French children are like from Arthur and Dauphne.

Dauphne and Arthur are very friendly and energetic, surprisingly courteous, and some of the best-behaved children I have met (although Dauphne occasionally needs reminders from her Papi to cut the chatter at the dinner table). Both of them are excited to help me learn French, defining and spelling words that they use, on demand, and when they passed the Institute on a guided tour of Tours, they wanted to visit Misaki and me (classes were all over, though). When I told Dauphne that she was my "petite professeur," she ran and told the nearest grandparent. They are very fond of their Uncle Jerome (whom they call "JJ"), who lives in Tours, and often comes to spend the evening with his parents, and a few nights ago, they passed the night with him, and in the morning, baked cookies.

In French literature class (an after-class elective at the Institute), the professor told us that all French children can recite by heart La Fontaine's famous poem of "Le Corbeau et le Renard" ("The Crow and the Fox"), and proceeded to demonstrate that forty years had not dulled his memory in the least. I prompted the two, by asking if they knew La Fontaine. Dauphne shook her head, but Arthur remembered him, with a little bit of prompting from his grandparents. As I had hoped, he began to recite the famous poem; however, after six lines, he stopped, unable to remember the rest of the words: I didn't press the matter, and the conversation turned to other matters.

Daphne owns a Nintendo DS, which she calls a "Nintendo DS." Which is strange, because the word for "screen" in France is "ecran;" therefore, shouldn't it be a "DE" or "ED?" Or maybe, it's simply cheaper for the manufacturer to create a single mold, and not worry about translation? I haven't asked her what "DS" stands for, though.

I haven't seen Daphne or Arthur reading, but I'm not home most of the time, and I don't see them when they're in bed. I don't know whether they read before they go to bed or not.

Both children finish absolutely everything on their plates, and the last two night in a row, Daphne has eaten her dinner, but refused dessert.

Curious as to whether they knew the historic friendship between our two countries, I showed the two children a picture of the best-loved American in France. Zero recognition. When they learned that the man in the picture's name was Benjamin Franklin, the situation did not change. Neither of them had heard of him. I am certain that I would not have recognized a picture, of, say, Lafayette, when I was ten years old, but I would have known his name. Unfair comparison? Probably; to my understanding, French aid during the American Revolution made a significantly greater difference in the history of the US (i.e. victory) than it did in that of France.

I played "cache-cache" with the children last night. "Cacher" is the verb "to hide" in French, and the game was identical to "hide-and-go-seek." Daphne was small enough to slither under the bureau while Arthur counted to "cinquante" (fifty), but I was too large to fit anywhere other than underneath the desk which holds the family's desktop computer. M. Avertin came home just as Arthur had begun searching, and asked me what I was doing under the desk. I explained to him that "on est en train de jouer a cache-cache," and he began to laugh (but Arthur didn't hear me). We had a good chuckle about it at dinnertime.

Is this a representative, random sample of typical French children? Of course not. How much you read into the above observations is your own decision.


~JD


"Mais l'inegal bilan de la vente des biens nationaux a pu localement modifier la hierarchie des sympathies et des haines; la ou les paysans ont ete frustres par la conquete bourgeoise de ce qu'ils attendaient, les conditions sont mures pour un retournement d'attitudes" [But the unequal result of the sale of national property could change local relationships of sympathy and antipathy; where the peasants were frustrated by the bourgeois conquest of what they had long awaited, the conditions were ripe for a reversal of attitudes] (Vovelle, Chute de la monarchie, p. 233).