The Cluny Museum is dedicated to the history and art of medieval Europe. The Cluny has collected some magnificent and sumptuous art objects originating from all over the western world: crowns, crosses, tryptics, stained-glass windows, seals, columns, etc. "Medieval" is a fairly fluid period -- there are some Gallo-Roman pieces from before the common era, and there are even some drinking vessels from the 17th century. I visited on the advice of my friend Guillaume, who told me that it was thanks to his visit to the Cluny that he began to appreciate and enjoy medieval history (note: the 1-euro audioguide isn't worth it).
I was amazed by the condition in which some of the pieces have been preserved: one of the first items is a room full of the stained-glass windows, commissioned by Henry the Liberal, count of Champagne (yes, that's his name), dating from the 12th and 13th centuries, from Troyes France. Something as fragile as a pane of glass has survived for over 800 years on this violent planet! The oldest pane depicted Saint Nicholas, but a slightly newer pane pictured Saint Martin giving his cloak to the beggar, a recurring motif in my voyages.
The Cluny Museum, formerly a hotel, is attached to the ruins of a Roman Bath, the frigidarium, which contained the cold baths. It was cold out, and the poorly-insulated ruins were appropriately frigid. The frigidarium is now the home of the pilier des nautes, a 1st-century pillar from Lutecia (Roman Paris), which might be the oldest Gallo-Roman artifact with a legible inscription (there's a nice photo of a reconstruction online). Depicting Jupiter, Vulcan, and some other deities, it was a gift to the emperor Tiberius (r. 14-37 C.E.).
Many of the artifacts were elegant and well-made, but far fewer were truly interesting. Occasionally, though, I found real pieces of history -- an ivory plaque depicting Christ blessing the marriage of the Holy Roman Emperor Otto II to the Byzantine princess Theophano (c. 982), the cheery-looking Apostle, depicted as a Greek philosopher, which once decorated the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris (c. 1240s); the very graceful angelic sculptures of Poissy commissioned by Phillip the Fair for his grandfather Saint Louis; the 7th-century votive crowns from Visigoth Spain; the large iron canister once used to measure the dîme (tithe) in France; the reliquary owned by Saint-Louis, in which he kept the relics from three other saints; the Jewish wedding ring from Italy; the tapestry depicting a grape-harvest; the manual of medieval combat techniques; etc. I recognized, from my first visit to the Louvre, the elaborate and unique style of the enameled work in gold from Limousin and Limoges, which was kind of cool.
No, I did not neglect the museum's most famous piece, wall hanging known as La Dame à la Licorne, or the "Lady with the Unicorn." The work comprises six 15th-century Lyonnais tapestries, each one with the same woman, in a garden full of animals and other symbols, among which is always a unicorn. The first five tapestries depict the five senses; the woman is variously depicted with a bowl of fruit, with a harp, with rich perfumes, etc., and for touch, she is stroking the neck of the unicorn. The tapestries, first of all, really are quite beautiful, rich with color, and uniting the medieval themes of the garden of love, the bestiary, and allegory; the backgrounds bear the "thousand flower" motif, popular in the later middle ages. One of the great mysteries of the ensemble, however, is the sixth tapestry; a young girl is presenting the woman with the necklace which she is seen wearing in the other five tapestries, and on a tent behind them is embroidered the device A mon seul desir, meaning "to my one desire." Is this supposed to represent some sort of sixth sense? If so, what? In the high middle ages, the notion of love as the sixth sense was quite popular, but in the Renaissance, intellect was regarded as a sort of sixth sense. Have an idea? Send it in to the Cluny Museum!
~JD
"Le maintien a tout prix de l'axe economique des foires de Champagne aux ports d'Aiguesmortes peut etre considere juque sous le regne de Philippe VI comme le fondment meme de ce qu'on peut des lor appeler la politique economique officielle" [The maintenance at all cost of the economic axis between the faires of Champagne and the ports of Aiguesmortes can be considered to be the very foundation of what one might call the official economic policy, up until the reign of Philip VI] (Robert-Henri Bautier).
Showing posts with label St. Martin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label St. Martin. Show all posts
Friday, November 11, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
A trip to the Louvre
I spent a good six hours at the Louvre yesterday, looking at art and artifacts until I simply couldn’t bear to look at any more. All in all, though, I think that I passed through about 15% of the rooms, and probably didn’t “see” everything those rooms had to offer! Notwithstanding, I had a fantastic time, and saw some truly amazing pieces: however, not one of them was one of the items, such as da Vinci’s Mona Lisa (aka La Joconde) or the Venus de Milo, for which the Louvre is famous. The highest-profile object I saw, in fact, was the collection of crown jewels, which had almost no historical information posted -- the signs mostly just listed the number of precious stones which decorated each ornament (as with so many other institutions, it was Francois I who began the collection of “crown jewels”). So I’ve taken the trouble to name a few of the pieces which I saw which I thought were worth the trouble to find, and to which I can ascribe the highest interest-to-traffic ratio.
1) The first self-portrait: around the year 1450, Jean Foquet made a palm-sized engraving on a gold medallion of his own face. His is the first self-portrait, in all of Occidental art history, of which we know. It is well-executed, too, Fouquet having used extremely fine tools, including a needle, to scratch textured patterns on the black enamel. The birth of the self-portrait is very much associated with the Renaissance, in the spirit of the displacement of older, impersonal forms of representation: Ghiberti’s knoblike little bust appears on his famous golden doors, for instance. It is therefore surprising to find that the first self-portrait is not only found in France, and not in Italy, but appeared before the real burst of Italian influence in French art and architecture, inaugurated by Francois I. All the more reason to argue against a single monumental event, “the Renaissance,” in favor of the transitions and trends which confront the historian in nearly all lands and ages.
2) Helmet and shield of Charles IX: Created circa 1572, these gold armaments are for decoration, not for combat. The detail of the decoration of the shield is extremely fine, an example of the work of the school of Fontainebleau, and depicts the exploits of the Roman general Marius. (For those of you who don’t know, Marius was a sort of proto-Caesar, the general who professionalized the Roman army, and declared himself dictator-for-life, although he actually retired late in his career.) The cloth on the back of the shield is also very rich.
3) Napoleon’s tableware: displayed in one china closet are forty elements of one of Napoleon I’s 60-piece tableware. What is amazing about this set in particular is that the designs on the plates, each of which is unique, are based upon entries in Diderot’s Encyclopedia. There are scenes of people working, in workshops, fields, mills, smithies, and mines; there is a scene of young men swimming; there are humorous scenes depicting a schoolmaster. The set was completed by the Sevres porcelain industry, founded in 1740. Adjacent to the Encyclopedia collection is one of Napoleon I’s tea services, called the “Cabaret Egyptien,” completed 1808-1810. Each unique piece in the service depicts a person, place, or monument from General Bonaparte’s (he wasn’t yet emperor) Egyptian campaigns. There are portraits of sheiks, of beggars, of Beduins, and of a Jerusalem Jew; there are quiet oases and towering pyramids.
4) Cycladic figurines: There are galleries and galleries of fantastic Ancient Greek art, mostly pottery, which, if you have the patience to look carefully at the displays, and to listen attentively to the audio guide, will gradually walk you through the various styles, as they evolved, shifted, and went in and out of fashion, from the 3rd millennium B.C.E. to the 4th century BCE. One room, in six steps, shows the transition in sculpture, and contains a case of the feminine figurines, c. 2700-2300 BCE, and native to the Cyclades, most of which are just a few inches tall, but some of which achieved a height of several feet (the head still exists of one of these). Not only do these represent some of the earliest known art known in the western world, but there is a bit of a historical controversy swirling around these white clay manikins. Most of the figurines are in the shape of a standing naked woman with her arms crossed below her breasts, which has led some to claim that they were the work of a peaceful feminist society that was later displaced by hordes of the violent, misogynistic Hellenes, with the male-dominated mythology we all know and love. Regardless, the figurines have a mysterious and antique beauty, with their curving noses and rigid postures.
5) The scepter of Charles V: Charles had his golden scepter topped with a figurine of Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor (crowned Christmas Day, 800), to symbolically legitimize the Capetian occupancy of the throne, with deliberate links to antiquity. The scepter is extremely well-preserved, having lost only the white enamel that covered the fleur-de-lys budding beneath Charlemagne’s throne.
6) In this series of colorful Renaissance tapestries, each piece depicts hunting in one month. There is a great deal of action, and scenes of the life of the nobility, found throughout. The artists did not hesitate to include the odd scatological element: in July, right in the foreground of the piece, is a dog doing its business.
7) Jewel cabinet of Empress Josephine: elegantly ornamented with classical scenes and a butterfly motif, this large dresser later passed on to Napoleon’s second wife, after he divorced Josephine. The piece is one of the best-preserved in the Imperial style.
8) Objets d’art from Limoges: Among the piles and piles of medieval relics and sacred objects of gold and ivory found in the Louvre are several rooms filled mostly with the products of goldsmiths’ workshops in Limoges, a region in Southwest France. The Limoges artisans had a very recognizable style, using the same colors of light blue and pale green precious stones, very shallow lines, and faces of traced characters in relief.
9) Throne of Napoleon I: The blue-and-gold seat is surprisingly modest, given the kind of pomp to which Napoleon was given in his imperial garb. Moreover, just around the corner, you can see a painting of the throne, in the background of a full-length portrait of Napoleon I. Either the chair has been well-restored, or has been well-preserved, because the colors seem not to have faded at all!
10) Tapestry of Saint Martin: I found my old friend, Saint Martin, in an Icelandic hagiographic tapestry, dating from between the 14th and 16th centuries. I recognized many of the scenes: the cutting of the cloak, the healing of the sick, the raising from the dead of a hanged man, and the transportation on board a ship of Saint Martin’s remains. A very good tapestry, but mostly interesting just for old times’ sake!
Thank you, Bruno, for inviting me to your apartment! I had a wonderful time with you on Sunday evening, and look forward to seeing you and your family again soon. Maybe your daughter won’t be so afraid of me next time…
~JD
“Mille pensers dormaient, chrysalides funebres/ Fremissant doucement dans les lourdes tenebres,/ Qui degagent leur aile et prennent leur essor,/ Tentes d’azure, glaces de rose, lames d’or” [A thousand thoughts slept, funereal chrysalises, softly shaking in the heavy dusk, which lift wing and take flight, tinted with azure, iced with pink, bladed with gold]. ~Beaudelaire, "XLVIII. -- Le Flacon”
Monday, August 29, 2011
Culture and History in Tours, Part III
Today, I visited the Musee de Beaux Arts of Tours; the building used to be the Palace of the Archbishop, but has now become a museum featuring paintings, furniture, and a few sculptures, principally from the 17th-19th centuries.
I really don't know very much about art history, and I'm trying to teach myself to at least understand European art, so long as I'm here. I know the real superstars of European Art -- Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Monet, Picasso, etc. However, beyond the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the Impressionists, I don't know eras and schools. The Musee de Beaux-Arts has a couple paintings by big-name Dutch artists: a Rubens painting of the artist's clients posing with the Virgin, and a very small (but rather beautiful) Rembrandt of a biblical journey in the desert. There was also a painting by Monet, but not a very good one: there is none of the beautiful color in it that one finds in, say, his paintings of water lilies, gardens, haystacks, etc.
But most of the paintings were French and 18th-century. I am going to speak as if they were representative of 18th-century French painting: if they weren't, then the following observations are all fallacious. Most of the paintings depict classical or biblical subjects, or else are allegorical, in which case they generally derive their symbolism from classical motifs. There were paintings of Hercules chucking some dude into a lake, the faulty judgment of Paris, Apollo about to have sex with a shepherdess, Achilles arguing with Agamemnon and getting told off by Athena, Hector and Andromache saying their last goodbyes, Octavian discovering the dead Cleopatra, David immediately after his victory over Goliath, Judith holding Holophernes's severed head, Jesus resurrecting Lazarus, etc. For the most part, the painters tried to depict crucial emotional moments in all of these scenes: so it's Hercules still holding the poor guy by the crotch, and Lazarus just rising up while onlookers stare with wonder. As far as portraits go, apparently during Louis XIV's reign, it became fashionable to pose young women in the act of playing the guitar.
Furniture-analysis is a skill I'm going to need to learn. Thanks to the professor of civilization at the Institute, as well as a little prior knowledge of "baroque," I understand the very basic differences between Louis-Quatorze, Louis-Quinze, and Louis-Seize furniture. I really don't know Louis-Treize, Imperial, or anything else, though. Throughout the museum, I would look at a bureau or dresser (they're easier than chairs), make a guess, and then look at the placard, to see if I was right. Happily, I was still wrong 50% of the time. Still it was a real moment of triumph when, while examining a wooden dresser, and hopelessly torn between designating it as Louis-Quinze and Louis-Seize, I read the placard to see that art historians had designated it as "epoque Transition." The rule of thumb is as following: if the piece is ready to fall over due to gold ornamentation, it's Louis-Quatorze; if it's very curved, voluptuous, and sexy, it's Louis-Quinze; if it has straight lines and geometric motifs, it's Louis-Seize. ASAP, I will be uploading pictures of the artwork from the museum onto Facebook.
Also, the museum had managed to acquire quite a few of the Cardinal de Richelieu's personal furniture. He was into classical busts and statues, apparently, which dated back to the 2nd century. There was a painting of his nephew, the Duc de Richelieu, on horseback, as well as a few paintings of the Cardinal and Louis XIII campaigning in Italy: in the backgrounds, battles played out, while in the foregrounds were Louis and the Cardinal on horseback. In 1629, France went to war in order to intervene in the succession of the Spanish Hapsburgs. France backed the Duc de Nevers against the rival claimant, the Duc de Savoie. On May 6th, the French armies were successful in crossing over a pass in Mantua, and there is a painting depicting the victory, as well as several following victories. In spite of Albino Black Sheep, France was victorious in more than a few battles and wars!
There was a whole room devoted to paintings of the city of Tours. It was wonderful to look at paintings of a town other than Ithaca, and recognize the landmarks! The towers of the Cathedral's facade, the dome of the Basilica of Saint Martin, the massive tower from which the Duc de Guise escaped, the bridge over the Rue National, the various steeples... Although the 19th- 20th-century paintings were not terribly interesting, there was a fantastic, haunting picture of "Judith victorieuse," from 1874, painted by some dude named Thirier. However, for the most part, the painters of the museuem were would-be Rembrandts, would-be Davids, and would-be Monets. Also interesting, a great deal of the explanatory placards had "Saisie Revolutionnaire," or "Revolutionary seizure" printed on them!
Close to the ruins of the old Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the 19th-century reconstruction, is the Museum of Saint Martin, dedicated to the hagiography of the saint, and the history of the building. Sam or Shea, I hope you’re reading this (please ignore all of the hagiographic rationalization). For the rest of you, the following information at least makes a good story; furthermore, Saint Martin is one of the most important French saints, nearly 4,000 churches in France alone bearing his name.
Saint Martin was born in the first half of the 4th century; dates are disputed. Because his father served in the Roman Army, he was obligated to join the alae scolares, a mounted company of the Emperor Julien. However, soon after the incident with the beggar and the cloak (see “First Look at Tours”), he visited the Emperor to personally tell him that he refused to serve -- Julien, according to legend, was the first of three Roman emperors Martin would personally meet.
He became a hermit, and, it seems, it was during this stage in his life that two bizarre events occurred. The first involves his survival in spite of a pine tree falling on him (or, maybe, just missing him). There seems to be some confusion about this episode: a villager was chopping down the tree, and yet, there was believed to be something sacred about the tree, and it seems odd, not only that a villager chose to chop down a holy pine, but also that Martin didn’t hear the axe blows. Mr. Secular Historian says that this episode probably reflects the memory of Martin ordering the destruction of a tree associated with local idolatry, and the surprise of local peasants that he did not die on the spot. Other tales describe his overturning of idols, etc., and destruction of a holy tree might have been part of his dissolution of local pre-Christian cults.
The second is even stranger, and even Mr. Secular Historian has difficulty rationalizing it. A Jew (the stained glass in the cathedral depicts him with the red pointed cap used to designate Jews in the Middle Ages) placed a small statue of Saint Martin in his house; soon after, thieves stole some of the Jew’s property. The Jew whipped the statue, after which Martin persuaded the thieves to return the stolen goods. I have no idea what aspect of Martin’s character this story is meant to teach, other than, perhaps, a susceptibility to anthropopathic violence.
When the previous bishop of Tours died, the locals universally wished to elevate the hermit, Martin, to take his place; Martin, however, preferred to remain distant from worldly affairs. The villagers, therefore, resorted to deception: while one of them distracted Martin by begging alms from him on the highway, others grabbed him, bringing him to Tours, and declaring him their candidate. He accepted the post, but before long, made a compromise, going into semi-exclusion at Marmoutiers (which I might visit in the next few days).
Many deeds and miracles are attributed to Martin: he cured the sick, raised the dead, healed a leper by embracing him, and opposed Aryanism and pre-Christian cults. He was a sort of Apostle of the Gauls, and traveled through what are now France, Austria, and Italy. The chair of the Emperor Valentine caught fire when he refused to pay proper respect to Martin, and Martin dined with the Emperor Maximus. He died on November 8th, 397, and was reburied at least twice; since then, his corpse has since been destroyed in one of the many destructions, natural or deliberate, of his basilica in Tours. Pilgrimages began in the fifth century, and have included such celebrities as Clovis and his wife Clotilde, Pepin the Short, Charlemagne, Alcuin of York, and Charles the Bald. His original chapel has grown in spite of fires and Norman pillaging, transforming from the Romanesque to the Gothic style (“Angevin Primitive,” to be precise) in the late twelfth century, the date of the oldest standing ruins. A decorated half-dome remains from the 11th century, however; and just enough remains of the original painting to see that it depicts Martin’s coronation. In the Revolution, the Basilica became the “Martin Stables.”
Whew, that's a lot for today. Hope you enjoyed it!
~JD
"De toute facon, l'assignat, dont la circulation atteignait 45 milliards, ne pouvait plus survivre: il ne valait pas davantage que son cout de fabrication. Les planches en furent publiquement brisees a Paris, le 19 fevrier 1796" [In any case, the Revolutionary currency, of which 45 million units were in circulation, could no longer survive: it was worth no more than its cost of creation. Its minting-plates were publicly shattered in Paris, February 19th, 1796] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p.110-111).
Monday, August 1, 2011
First Look at Tours
Before I begin to describe my meanderings, let me be absolutely clear about the weather in Touraine: it's hot. On Monday, at around 2:00 PM, an outside thermometer read 33 degrees Celsius, (91 degrees Fahrenheit).
Sunday evening, shortly after writing the last update, Mme. Avertin drove me to the Institute of Touraine in order to show me the local geography. She also showed me the Loire, the longest river in France, which flows through Tours. Swimming is strictly prohibited, due to the swift current, and unpredictable undercurrents due to shifting sand and stones. And unlike the gorges in Ithaca, this isn't "forbidden" with a wink and a nod; the Loire is strictly off limits.
I began to fall asleep on the drive back, but before I crashed, back at the Avertins', I met the other student living with my host family. Her name is Misaki, and she is Japanese -- she has been staying at the Institute for a month already, to learn her third language, French. According to the house rules instituted by the Institute, dinner occurs promptly at 7:30 each night, and I awoke from a nap I hadn't realized I was taking to M. Avertin knocking on my door to call me to dinner.
A note on French dinners: all Gaul is divided into three parts, at least as far as mealtimes are concerned. The first is soup (chez les Avertin, vegetable), followed by the main course (gratin or the like), followed by cheese and fruit. The Avertins cook somewhat heavier meals than what I typically eat at home, but I appreciate that they willingly accommodate my vegetarian diet.
The next morning (I awoke in the middle of the night, and had to read L'Homme Revolte for an hour), Mme. Avertin drove me again to the Institute, where I arrived at 8:15 AM sharp. I registered, received my student ID, and was told which room to report to in order to take a 9:00 oral examination. I waited with two other students, a girl from Spain and a girl from Japan: we swapped stories as best we could in the language which all of us knew a little bit, but none of us knew fluently. Ironically, had we tried to communicate in English, we probably could have communicated more effectively: the Japanese girl had spent a year and a half studying in Pennsylvania; the Spanish girl had studied English; and I consider myself nearly fluent in the language. My interview lasted just about 10 minutes, during which I showed the evaluator that there is in me as much French as in the average box of freedom fries. I was free to do as I pleased until 10:00 AM, and I explored the neighborhood around the Institute, buying a half-dozen postcards, and strolling by the Loire.
At 10:00 AM, back on campus, the new students, numbering in the forties, most of them planning on staying exactly one month, congregated in a small, stuffy classroom for orientation. Although most students were no more than three years older or younger than me, 10-15% were over thirty, and one man looked to be in his sixties. The first speaker covered administrative details, but the second speaker, the instructor of civilization (that's his title) had a real presentation, complete with a slide show. He described the twice-weekly excursions that the Institute organizes, sending interested students to various castles, most of them in the Loire Valley, but some as far as Brittany and Normandy (the regions in the far north of France, for those of you uncertain of your French geography). French castles are gargantuan, ostentatious, cold, and according to M. Avertin, all the same. Notwithstanding, I hope to attend these excursions, and tell you my own verdict.
A pair of instructors took us on a tour of the city, showing us several of the monuments of Tours, including the many churches. Just a block from the Institute are the remains of the Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the nineteenth-century church dedicated to the same saint. The original basilica, now completely destroyed above ground, was build in late antiquity, I believe in the 5th century. The Normans burnt it down in the 10th century, but it was soon rebuilt, in the 11th. Saint Martin and his basilica seem to be rather high-profile (Sam or Shea, please correct me concerning this factoid). Martin was a soldier (and son of a soldier) in the Roman army in the early 4th century, beginning his career when Constantine was in power, but had not yet consolidated his rule, or embraced Christianity. Martin refused to fight (Christians were forbidden from warfare in that era), but it was during this time that the famous story about him and the beggar occurred. The beggar lacked sufficient clothing to ward off the chill of the day, but Martin was unable to legally give him his cloak, because half of it belonged to the Roman army (soldiers payed half of their own expenses). Therefore, he cut his cloak in half, and gave half of it the beggar (the sketch inside the church shows him cutting his cloak horizontally with his sword, and keeping the upper half). In reference this anecdote, Europeans apply term "St. Martin's Summer" to what Americans call an "Indian Summer."
I explored Tours for the rest of the day. I found that the public library will be closed until August 15th, and that public restrooms require a fee. I ducked into a small bookstore, as much to stay out of the heat as to look for books. Although the shop was small, I thought to pick up a volume of Baudelaire, the great 19th-century French poet. What I found in the poetry section was a bookshelf groaning under the weight of Baudelaire volumes. Nearly two whole shelves held copies of "Les Fleurs Du Mal," available in six editions, and fearing for the integrity of the bookshelf, I kindly relieved it by purchasing a copy. There is such a glut of editions of "Fleurs Du Mal" on the market, that the market has assigned a paperback copy the same value as a single scoop of ice cream.
I returned to the Avertins' in the evening, and pounded out the beginning of this post before running back to the Institute for a night in a cocktail lounge with a group of my fellow students. There were Korean, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Maltese, Italian, English, German, Swiss, Swedish, and Colombian students, as well as one awkward, stupid American who felt entirely out of place among the intelligence, charm, wit, and social grace that collectively displayed by the highly-educated children of the European upper crust (the Asians kept to themselves). Somewhat surprising was the attitude towards alcohol consumption: there was none. To a group of students aged 15-22, sitting in a bar chatting, drinker beside non-drinker, is perfectly normal. Although the 15-year old ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail, nobody questioned her, or anyone else's, right to be there. As the evening wore on, I felt a little bit more comfortable: a Spanish student and I talked about our countries' respective debt crises (halfway through the evening, the Senate's decision to raise the debt ceiling broke on to the TV screen), and the two students from Malta were friendly and sociable, as were the Russian students.
A note here about the Russian student, just for Maya. Meeting women my age who have arrived straight from Moscow and environs has done nothing to dispel the stereotypical images of Russian females I have learned from Bond films. They are confident sexy polyglots who dress in black, and often in leather.
After falling into bed late that night, I awoke on Tuesday, fully adjusted to the French time zone. I left for the university, and arrived early, and found my name on a bulletin of course assignments. I had more than an hour to wait, and sitting outside of my classroom reading Camus, the other students began to filter in; all in all, three Koreans, three Russians, an Australian, a no-nonsense Italian, a Japanese girl, and a Japanese gentleman old enough to be my grandfather, who displayed as much enthusiasm and Francophilia as the rest of the class combined. Our class has two instructors, one for written instruction, the other for oral instruction. The oral instruction was just the sort of thing I need: practice listening to song lyrics, distinguishing similar sounds, etc. I learned this song, by Ben l'Oncle Soul. I really, really hope to serenade someone someday with this melody. In case a certain Mother of mine is interested in other aspects of instruction, I will gladly oblige.
I attended an optional class until 5:30 PM, on technical business terminology. After this, I found the library, hidden on what the French call the second floor, and Americans call the third. After picking up a couple of books on French history, I read for an hour, until I returned back to the Avertins for dinner (we had eggplant that night! It was good, but not as good as yours, Mom!), and then walked back, through the rain, to the Institute, where students were congregating for an activity similar to that of the night before. Unfortunately, the first bar we entered couldn't accommodate us all, and some of us were shunted to a second, where I ended up being stuck at the table of Korean girls, who spoke nothing but Korean. Irritated, and unable to sit by any of my friends, I left, and here I did something stupid, which I hope I will not do again, ever. I became lost. Although I had a map, it had mostly disintegrated from the rain, and I wandered for about a half an hour before I again found the central street in Tours, the Rue National, and around eleven, I was safe and sound the Avertins'. I finished off this entry, and then decided to call it quits for tonight.
Love to all of you,
~JD
"Je me revolte, donc nous sommes" [I rebel, therefore we are]. ~Albert Camus
Sunday evening, shortly after writing the last update, Mme. Avertin drove me to the Institute of Touraine in order to show me the local geography. She also showed me the Loire, the longest river in France, which flows through Tours. Swimming is strictly prohibited, due to the swift current, and unpredictable undercurrents due to shifting sand and stones. And unlike the gorges in Ithaca, this isn't "forbidden" with a wink and a nod; the Loire is strictly off limits.
I began to fall asleep on the drive back, but before I crashed, back at the Avertins', I met the other student living with my host family. Her name is Misaki, and she is Japanese -- she has been staying at the Institute for a month already, to learn her third language, French. According to the house rules instituted by the Institute, dinner occurs promptly at 7:30 each night, and I awoke from a nap I hadn't realized I was taking to M. Avertin knocking on my door to call me to dinner.
A note on French dinners: all Gaul is divided into three parts, at least as far as mealtimes are concerned. The first is soup (chez les Avertin, vegetable), followed by the main course (gratin or the like), followed by cheese and fruit. The Avertins cook somewhat heavier meals than what I typically eat at home, but I appreciate that they willingly accommodate my vegetarian diet.
The next morning (I awoke in the middle of the night, and had to read L'Homme Revolte for an hour), Mme. Avertin drove me again to the Institute, where I arrived at 8:15 AM sharp. I registered, received my student ID, and was told which room to report to in order to take a 9:00 oral examination. I waited with two other students, a girl from Spain and a girl from Japan: we swapped stories as best we could in the language which all of us knew a little bit, but none of us knew fluently. Ironically, had we tried to communicate in English, we probably could have communicated more effectively: the Japanese girl had spent a year and a half studying in Pennsylvania; the Spanish girl had studied English; and I consider myself nearly fluent in the language. My interview lasted just about 10 minutes, during which I showed the evaluator that there is in me as much French as in the average box of freedom fries. I was free to do as I pleased until 10:00 AM, and I explored the neighborhood around the Institute, buying a half-dozen postcards, and strolling by the Loire.
At 10:00 AM, back on campus, the new students, numbering in the forties, most of them planning on staying exactly one month, congregated in a small, stuffy classroom for orientation. Although most students were no more than three years older or younger than me, 10-15% were over thirty, and one man looked to be in his sixties. The first speaker covered administrative details, but the second speaker, the instructor of civilization (that's his title) had a real presentation, complete with a slide show. He described the twice-weekly excursions that the Institute organizes, sending interested students to various castles, most of them in the Loire Valley, but some as far as Brittany and Normandy (the regions in the far north of France, for those of you uncertain of your French geography). French castles are gargantuan, ostentatious, cold, and according to M. Avertin, all the same. Notwithstanding, I hope to attend these excursions, and tell you my own verdict.
A pair of instructors took us on a tour of the city, showing us several of the monuments of Tours, including the many churches. Just a block from the Institute are the remains of the Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the nineteenth-century church dedicated to the same saint. The original basilica, now completely destroyed above ground, was build in late antiquity, I believe in the 5th century. The Normans burnt it down in the 10th century, but it was soon rebuilt, in the 11th. Saint Martin and his basilica seem to be rather high-profile (Sam or Shea, please correct me concerning this factoid). Martin was a soldier (and son of a soldier) in the Roman army in the early 4th century, beginning his career when Constantine was in power, but had not yet consolidated his rule, or embraced Christianity. Martin refused to fight (Christians were forbidden from warfare in that era), but it was during this time that the famous story about him and the beggar occurred. The beggar lacked sufficient clothing to ward off the chill of the day, but Martin was unable to legally give him his cloak, because half of it belonged to the Roman army (soldiers payed half of their own expenses). Therefore, he cut his cloak in half, and gave half of it the beggar (the sketch inside the church shows him cutting his cloak horizontally with his sword, and keeping the upper half). In reference this anecdote, Europeans apply term "St. Martin's Summer" to what Americans call an "Indian Summer."
I explored Tours for the rest of the day. I found that the public library will be closed until August 15th, and that public restrooms require a fee. I ducked into a small bookstore, as much to stay out of the heat as to look for books. Although the shop was small, I thought to pick up a volume of Baudelaire, the great 19th-century French poet. What I found in the poetry section was a bookshelf groaning under the weight of Baudelaire volumes. Nearly two whole shelves held copies of "Les Fleurs Du Mal," available in six editions, and fearing for the integrity of the bookshelf, I kindly relieved it by purchasing a copy. There is such a glut of editions of "Fleurs Du Mal" on the market, that the market has assigned a paperback copy the same value as a single scoop of ice cream.
I returned to the Avertins' in the evening, and pounded out the beginning of this post before running back to the Institute for a night in a cocktail lounge with a group of my fellow students. There were Korean, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Maltese, Italian, English, German, Swiss, Swedish, and Colombian students, as well as one awkward, stupid American who felt entirely out of place among the intelligence, charm, wit, and social grace that collectively displayed by the highly-educated children of the European upper crust (the Asians kept to themselves). Somewhat surprising was the attitude towards alcohol consumption: there was none. To a group of students aged 15-22, sitting in a bar chatting, drinker beside non-drinker, is perfectly normal. Although the 15-year old ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail, nobody questioned her, or anyone else's, right to be there. As the evening wore on, I felt a little bit more comfortable: a Spanish student and I talked about our countries' respective debt crises (halfway through the evening, the Senate's decision to raise the debt ceiling broke on to the TV screen), and the two students from Malta were friendly and sociable, as were the Russian students.
A note here about the Russian student, just for Maya. Meeting women my age who have arrived straight from Moscow and environs has done nothing to dispel the stereotypical images of Russian females I have learned from Bond films. They are confident sexy polyglots who dress in black, and often in leather.
After falling into bed late that night, I awoke on Tuesday, fully adjusted to the French time zone. I left for the university, and arrived early, and found my name on a bulletin of course assignments. I had more than an hour to wait, and sitting outside of my classroom reading Camus, the other students began to filter in; all in all, three Koreans, three Russians, an Australian, a no-nonsense Italian, a Japanese girl, and a Japanese gentleman old enough to be my grandfather, who displayed as much enthusiasm and Francophilia as the rest of the class combined. Our class has two instructors, one for written instruction, the other for oral instruction. The oral instruction was just the sort of thing I need: practice listening to song lyrics, distinguishing similar sounds, etc. I learned this song, by Ben l'Oncle Soul. I really, really hope to serenade someone someday with this melody. In case a certain Mother of mine is interested in other aspects of instruction, I will gladly oblige.
I attended an optional class until 5:30 PM, on technical business terminology. After this, I found the library, hidden on what the French call the second floor, and Americans call the third. After picking up a couple of books on French history, I read for an hour, until I returned back to the Avertins for dinner (we had eggplant that night! It was good, but not as good as yours, Mom!), and then walked back, through the rain, to the Institute, where students were congregating for an activity similar to that of the night before. Unfortunately, the first bar we entered couldn't accommodate us all, and some of us were shunted to a second, where I ended up being stuck at the table of Korean girls, who spoke nothing but Korean. Irritated, and unable to sit by any of my friends, I left, and here I did something stupid, which I hope I will not do again, ever. I became lost. Although I had a map, it had mostly disintegrated from the rain, and I wandered for about a half an hour before I again found the central street in Tours, the Rue National, and around eleven, I was safe and sound the Avertins'. I finished off this entry, and then decided to call it quits for tonight.
Love to all of you,
~JD
"Je me revolte, donc nous sommes" [I rebel, therefore we are]. ~Albert Camus
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