On Friday afternoon, EDUCO sent its students to the Cezanne exhibit at the Musee Luxembourg. We had a private guided tour, which was quite a good idea (and, of course, didn't have to pay for anything), because otherwise, the paintings would not have had much significance. Back in September, I visited the Musee d'Orsay and wrote that "I fail[ed] to appreciate [Cezanne], even after having seen his famous Pommes et oranges." I nevertheless looked forward to this visit, hoping that I might gain such an appreciation.
Knowing a bit about his life and times is helpful, or, at the very least, interesting. Born in 1839, Cezanne was the son of a Provencal banker, but, against his father's wishes, he aspired to become a painter. He stayed at Aix-en-Provence under the pretext of studying law, but really studied painting. He eventually made his way to Paris, where he worked at the Academie Suisse, which is a double misnomer: there was nothing Swiss about the academy (it got it's name from its manager, Charles Suisse), nor was it a formal academy, in the sense of instruction; it was a workshop. Despite his bourgeois background, Cezanne never received any formal academic training in painting. He did, however, have an angry, quarrelsome personality, and frequently fought with others; once, when he was staying with Monet, the two had a fight, and Cezanne stomped out, slamming the door, and sent a note to Monet shortly thereafter demanding that he be sent his painting materials, etc. He was nonetheless good friends since a young age with Emile Zola, who became an early spokesman for the Impressionists, writing articles on art criticism, and drawing attention to the school of artists. Later, Zola and Cezanne drifted apart, Zola understanding Cezanne's artwork less and less.
After arriving in Paris, Cezanne painted very gloomy cityscapes, empty of any human presence. There was a view of Parisian roofs as seen from his apartment's window, and another called "Le Quai des vins," painted in 1872. His one cityscape with human inhabitants is "La Seine a Bercy," which is actually just a copy of a painting by Armand Guillaumin, which the latter gladly lent to him. In all fairness, it wasn't a particularly happy time in France: after a brutal war against Prussia which ended Napoleon III's Second Empire, France had been thrown into civil war, in an incident that has become known as the Paris Commune. 20,000 French people died in the first week alone, and arrests and executions of participants continued throughout the next year: thus was born France's 3rd Republic. In any case, it took Pissaro and an 1874 move from Paris to Auvers-sur-Oise to get Cezanne into putting color in his landscape paintings.
The impressionists are well-known for setting up their easels outside, but I had never realized until now that this was partially possible thanks only to recent advances in chemistry. Before, painters had to be their own chemists, developing their own pigments, and carting around an enormous amount of glass bottles and vials: premixed colors in lead tubes allowed them to considerably lighten their load, and make composition less of a hassle.
Cezanne had a thing for painting naked women outdoors, most famously as bathing. You can actually see something of a progression in this vein. His first such painting was the "Tentation de Saint-Antoine, painted in 1870, which is the only Impressionist painting I know of with a religious theme. The women are rather ugly and unfeminine, and though this changes somewhat by the appearance of later pictures of naked women bathing, the women are never nymphs. No wonder Saint-Antoine didn't succumb!
Cezanne is also known for his still-lives, usually of fruit and bread, most of which doesn't look any good at all. The food, I mean, of course. I've never really understood why Cezannes unappetizing peaches draw such crowds (at least the milk in Vermeer's Milkmaid looks tasty enough to drink), and I'm glad that I had an art historian with me to give me the answer. Cezanne was the first to begin breaking perspective, and to paint in compartments, so to speak. Objects stand unrealistically, and tables and tablecloths bend in ways that they shouldn't. For instance, in one painting, the viewer can see just a little bit into the milk pitcher standing on the table, in a way he shouldn't realistically be able, from the angle at which the painting seems to be taken. This prefigures cubism, with its multiple perspectives, etc., in way which art historians understand much better than I do!
In the end of the day, I'm still not really certain if I enjoy Cezanne. Nick and I were speaking the other day about this, and we both feel that there are just some paintings we enjoy, and others we don't and we can't offer any excuses. Which is exactly why I'm planning on paying a visit to some of my very favorite Dutch painters tomorrow, at the Louvre!
~JD
"La galère est aussi la règle pour tous les hommes surpris aux cultes interdits, tandis que les femmes sont envoyées dans les prisons ; quant aux responsables de ces réunions, ils risquent la mort" [The galleys were also the rule for those men surprised when at forbidden cults, while women were imprisoned. As to those responsible for such meetings, they risked death] (Robert Mandrou, Histoire des Protestants en France, p. 190).
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Le Centre Pompidou
I would like to dedicate this post to the unknown Frenchman who helped me out of the predicament I will presently describe.
It was another overcast morning; I got up late, and walked north, going by my usual route, following the North-South axis of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. While I was just about to cross over to the Ile de la Cite (the island on the Seine where Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle are located), one of the deaf-mute Romani girls with the charity petitions started heckling me, and chased me for some time. I dodged around groups of other pedestrians, and was wondering why she was so persistent in going after me in particular, when there were so many other victims around, when she sideswiped me on my right side, and I felt her going for my wallet, which was in my pocket. I instinctively clamped my hand down on it; but she continued to push into me; I'm not a violent enough person to push back, but, out of nowhere came a French man, who looked to be in his sixties, and bore a striking resemblance to Winston Churchill. With an outstretched finger, he stopped the girl cold, and said, in very clear French "Laissez les gens tranquilles" (leave the people alone); she scrammed, and I thanked the man, who smiled at me.
I continued on my way, and arrived at the industrially-inspired architecture of the Centre Pompidou. It is impossible to accurately describe this mass of pipes and colored tubes with words; search for a photo online, or check out my FB photo of the to-scale model. In any case, it was the first Sunday of the month, so admission was free -- to the permanent collections. My student ID, strangely, didn't get me into any of the expositions, but I decided that the permanent collections would be enough for me. While getting my ticket, I met an American senior from New York City, and we chatted a bit; she wished me good luck (which I need), and I headed off to explore.
The enormous escalator gives a fantastic view of Paris; as I was ascending to the upper floors which house the museum's main collections, I spotted the Pantheon, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre-Coeur, the Tour Montparnasse, and a slew of other Parisian landmarks.
I decided to look at the Modern Art, and to look at the earlier selections first, before browsing the later Modern, and the Contemporary exhibits. There was some OK Picasso, who's style is fairly recognizable, as well as some paintings by his friend Georges Braque, of whom I had never heard before. I particularly liked the room of Fauvist paintings, many of which were landscapes which made me think of upstate New York and of Maine. "Fauve," in French, literally means "tawny," and has similar bestial connotations to the English word; the phrase was first coined by the art critic Louis Vauxcelles, who, upon seeing a classical-style sculpture among all of the Fauvist paintings, remarked that the artist as "Donatello parmi les fauves" (Donatello among the tawny beasts). Matisse, writing about the inspiration of the movement, explained that "on ne peut pas vivre dans une menage trop bien fait" (One cannot live in a household that is too well made). In any case, Fauvism is colorful, and reminds me of impressionism, especially of Van Gogh.
Another room not to miss, if you ask me, is the very first, which has a very interesting cubist painting by Picasso, "Atelier de la modeliste," 1926, and a cubist painting of a billiard table, "Le billard," by Georges Braque. Why do I mention these two in particular? Because they remind me of Prof. Schwarz's class, The Modern Tradition, which first introduced me to Picasso's "Demoiselles d'Avignon," the first cubist painting, and to Rodin's sculpture of Balzac, which I saw for myself several weeks ago. Modernism, whether speaking about the visual arts or about literature, is all about multiple points of view, and of subjective worldview replacing older, more rigid, objective views of the world. Cubism, for instance, distorts perspective by forcing the eye to see the same object from all angles; in poetry, poems like Wallace Stevens's "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" reveal that there are a multitude of ways of looking at and appreciating the same object; and in prose, throughout Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, Marlow slowly relinquishes his rigid scale of moral values, questioning if he ought not to condemn Jim so harshly, and wondering if others, too, might have shown themselves to be cowards, in a similar situation. Now you don't need to take the class, right?
As I went along, I found that there were some things I liked, and some things I didn't like. I recognized a couple of the Soviet artists, Malevitch and Kandinsky, as well as the Suprematist movement, thanks to Prof. Verhoeven's wonderful class (shameless plug). Matisse is a very famous name, but very little of what I saw by him did I find particularly interesting, and the same goes for Le Corbusier. I do not like Dada, nor biomorphism, nor early surrealism. I began to think about a line from Ray Bradbury's dystopian novel, Fahrenheit 451, in which Clarisse tells Montag, the main character, that she once heard that paintings used to depict real things. All I can say is that I continued to find interesting pieces, in all media, until the post-World War II period, after which I could walk briskly through rooms without stopping to look at anything, because nothing really caught my eye (this second half of the modern period lasted from 1945 until 1960). I've been thinking about it, and I've come to the conclusion that art afford to depict the ugly (I find "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon" fascinating) and the erotic (see my photo of "Alice" on FB), but it cannot afford to disgust or to bore.
The contemporary art wasn't as bad as some of the late modern pieces; artists became quite creative with subjects and with media. There was a very amusing sculpture of a giant mushroom, which made me smile for reasons I can't quite explain, as well as other colorful, three-dimensional works. All in all, though, nothing much to write home about.
I left in the middle of a heavy drizzle, and wandered around in circles for about an hour, trying to find the Picasso Museum (which was closed, when I found it). I was wet, miserable, and tired, and decided to take the Metro back to my dorm, rather than walk back, and stop by the student cafeteria on the way. Sometimes, being warm and dry is worth the Metro ticket.
~JD
"De plus, Versailles retrouve son eclat dans le deuxieme tiers du XVIIIe siecle et la vie de cour y connait une nouvelle 'epoque,' en particulier sous la houlette de la marquise de Pompadour" [What's more, Versailles regained its eclat in the second third of the 18th century, and the court experienced a renewal there, in particular under the leadership of the marquise de Pompadour] (Bernard Hours, Louis XV et sa Cour: Le roi, l'etiquette et le courtisan, p. 26).
It was another overcast morning; I got up late, and walked north, going by my usual route, following the North-South axis of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. While I was just about to cross over to the Ile de la Cite (the island on the Seine where Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle are located), one of the deaf-mute Romani girls with the charity petitions started heckling me, and chased me for some time. I dodged around groups of other pedestrians, and was wondering why she was so persistent in going after me in particular, when there were so many other victims around, when she sideswiped me on my right side, and I felt her going for my wallet, which was in my pocket. I instinctively clamped my hand down on it; but she continued to push into me; I'm not a violent enough person to push back, but, out of nowhere came a French man, who looked to be in his sixties, and bore a striking resemblance to Winston Churchill. With an outstretched finger, he stopped the girl cold, and said, in very clear French "Laissez les gens tranquilles" (leave the people alone); she scrammed, and I thanked the man, who smiled at me.
I continued on my way, and arrived at the industrially-inspired architecture of the Centre Pompidou. It is impossible to accurately describe this mass of pipes and colored tubes with words; search for a photo online, or check out my FB photo of the to-scale model. In any case, it was the first Sunday of the month, so admission was free -- to the permanent collections. My student ID, strangely, didn't get me into any of the expositions, but I decided that the permanent collections would be enough for me. While getting my ticket, I met an American senior from New York City, and we chatted a bit; she wished me good luck (which I need), and I headed off to explore.
The enormous escalator gives a fantastic view of Paris; as I was ascending to the upper floors which house the museum's main collections, I spotted the Pantheon, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre-Coeur, the Tour Montparnasse, and a slew of other Parisian landmarks.
I decided to look at the Modern Art, and to look at the earlier selections first, before browsing the later Modern, and the Contemporary exhibits. There was some OK Picasso, who's style is fairly recognizable, as well as some paintings by his friend Georges Braque, of whom I had never heard before. I particularly liked the room of Fauvist paintings, many of which were landscapes which made me think of upstate New York and of Maine. "Fauve," in French, literally means "tawny," and has similar bestial connotations to the English word; the phrase was first coined by the art critic Louis Vauxcelles, who, upon seeing a classical-style sculpture among all of the Fauvist paintings, remarked that the artist as "Donatello parmi les fauves" (Donatello among the tawny beasts). Matisse, writing about the inspiration of the movement, explained that "on ne peut pas vivre dans une menage trop bien fait" (One cannot live in a household that is too well made). In any case, Fauvism is colorful, and reminds me of impressionism, especially of Van Gogh.
Another room not to miss, if you ask me, is the very first, which has a very interesting cubist painting by Picasso, "Atelier de la modeliste," 1926, and a cubist painting of a billiard table, "Le billard," by Georges Braque. Why do I mention these two in particular? Because they remind me of Prof. Schwarz's class, The Modern Tradition, which first introduced me to Picasso's "Demoiselles d'Avignon," the first cubist painting, and to Rodin's sculpture of Balzac, which I saw for myself several weeks ago. Modernism, whether speaking about the visual arts or about literature, is all about multiple points of view, and of subjective worldview replacing older, more rigid, objective views of the world. Cubism, for instance, distorts perspective by forcing the eye to see the same object from all angles; in poetry, poems like Wallace Stevens's "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" reveal that there are a multitude of ways of looking at and appreciating the same object; and in prose, throughout Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, Marlow slowly relinquishes his rigid scale of moral values, questioning if he ought not to condemn Jim so harshly, and wondering if others, too, might have shown themselves to be cowards, in a similar situation. Now you don't need to take the class, right?
As I went along, I found that there were some things I liked, and some things I didn't like. I recognized a couple of the Soviet artists, Malevitch and Kandinsky, as well as the Suprematist movement, thanks to Prof. Verhoeven's wonderful class (shameless plug). Matisse is a very famous name, but very little of what I saw by him did I find particularly interesting, and the same goes for Le Corbusier. I do not like Dada, nor biomorphism, nor early surrealism. I began to think about a line from Ray Bradbury's dystopian novel, Fahrenheit 451, in which Clarisse tells Montag, the main character, that she once heard that paintings used to depict real things. All I can say is that I continued to find interesting pieces, in all media, until the post-World War II period, after which I could walk briskly through rooms without stopping to look at anything, because nothing really caught my eye (this second half of the modern period lasted from 1945 until 1960). I've been thinking about it, and I've come to the conclusion that art afford to depict the ugly (I find "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon" fascinating) and the erotic (see my photo of "Alice" on FB), but it cannot afford to disgust or to bore.
The contemporary art wasn't as bad as some of the late modern pieces; artists became quite creative with subjects and with media. There was a very amusing sculpture of a giant mushroom, which made me smile for reasons I can't quite explain, as well as other colorful, three-dimensional works. All in all, though, nothing much to write home about.
I left in the middle of a heavy drizzle, and wandered around in circles for about an hour, trying to find the Picasso Museum (which was closed, when I found it). I was wet, miserable, and tired, and decided to take the Metro back to my dorm, rather than walk back, and stop by the student cafeteria on the way. Sometimes, being warm and dry is worth the Metro ticket.
~JD
"De plus, Versailles retrouve son eclat dans le deuxieme tiers du XVIIIe siecle et la vie de cour y connait une nouvelle 'epoque,' en particulier sous la houlette de la marquise de Pompadour" [What's more, Versailles regained its eclat in the second third of the 18th century, and the court experienced a renewal there, in particular under the leadership of the marquise de Pompadour] (Bernard Hours, Louis XV et sa Cour: Le roi, l'etiquette et le courtisan, p. 26).
Friday, December 2, 2011
The Opera House and the Madeleine
It was blindingly sunny today in Paris today, a welcome relief after the days of overcast skies that seem to be characteristic of this time of year. Just for fun, I wore shorts today, which, I confess, was probably a mistake, even though shorts and a short-sleeve running shirt were perfect for my lope around the park.
I had decided to visit the Palais Garnier, which is one of the two famous opera houses of Paris, as well as the Madeleine, which is a colossal church. It was a beautiful day, the distance was a good 90 minutes by foot, so I split the difference and took the RER to Chatelet/Les Halles, which brought me over to the right bank, and then walked west. On my way out, I hit one of the surprise Metro-ticket checkpoints; I showed my ticket to the guard, and moved along, but the girl behind me, who had just thanked me for letting her follow me through the barrier (which I hadn't done intentionally) got busted.
I made my way past the Louvre and the Tuileries, and then saw a rather large and old-fashioned-looking domed building in the distance, which I guessed was the Palace Garnier (it was). The dome is one of the most remarkable features of the opera house, wider than it is tall; constructed under Napoleon III, it was designed in order to resemble the Empress Eugenie's crown. I thought that the Palais was only a couple of blocks away, but as I approached, it turned out that I was wrong; I kept on approaching, and the building kept on growing and growing to fill my field of vision: the Palais Garnier is simply huge! It's a solid 69 meters high, making it the equal in stature of the towers of Notre-Dame de Paris, and truly dominates the whole neighborhood. The golden statues on the facade were blazing brilliantly in the sunlight, and I eventually fond my way indoors.
The Palais Garnier is ostentatiously decorated with lots of gold, and golden chandeliers, and well-furnished with marble busts of famous composers and singers. For all of the show, though, there is really very little information; the free pamphlet is one of the thinnest I've ever seen, and the guided tours are available only with reservation and (high) payment. I stopped to listen, for about ten minutes, to one of the guides, who was leading a tour of thirty or forty seniors. He was describing the history of the building of the opera house, and Degaz's (and playboys') visits to the ballerina's dressing rooms; when he stopped to move on, he noted that there was a young man who had begun to follow the group, reminding everyone that the group was already at its maximum size. I scrammed, and the tourguide lost one interested audience member.
In the Opera House, there is one absolutely overwhelming hallway; the grand foyer, which challenges even the Hall of Mirrors of Versailles in its opulence. I thought back to my time attending the ballet at Versailles, and about the reception hall full of suits and dresses: this is hallway, no doubt, where wealthy opera-goers have been promenading during intermissions, since 1875, in order to see and be seen. For all of the opulence of the wall paintings, the ceiling mosaics, and the chandeliers (the largest one of which weighs eight metric tons), the Opera Garnier succeeds at being flashy without being interesting.
I'd like to thank Nick for suggesting that I visit the Madeleine, a colossal church just a quick jaunt away from the Palais Garnier. Built in the likeness of a Roman temple, the Madeleine dominates the entire neighborhood, and, in addition to welcoming tourists, is also a functioning parish: I'd say that I was in the minority when I visited, most of the people there being engaged in prayer, etc (I was as respectful as possible). The construction of the church was rather haphazard, having been inaugurated by Louis XV, but suspended by the National Assembly in 1791. Napoleon wanted to turn it into a temple dedicated to the glory of his army (i.e. himself), and the architect he appointed demolished virtually everything, but saved the Corinthian columns. During the period of Restoration, Louis XVIII succeeded in turning the building back into a church, but the building in the decoration was only finished in 1842. Unfortunately, it seems as if even in the 21st century, the church is still under construction, and tourists were blocked from strolling around the periphery; moreover, there was a concert scheduled that night (Friday), and technicians had roped off half of the church, in order to set up the musicians' equipment. That being said, the domes and the fresco that adorned the apsidal dome was very well done (photos will soon be available on FB).
I strolled back, to my dorm, stopping at the library and at the student cafeteria, and after some readingm went to bed early that night.
~JD
"Il est indéniable que le XVIIIe siècle a vu, au point de vu réglementaire, une amélioration du sort des prisonniers… l’arrêt du 18 juin 1717 accorde aux prisonniers 1.5 livres de pain de bonne qualité par jour et ordonne qu’on leur fournit de la paille gratuitement" [It is undeniable that the 18th century saw, from the point of view of the law, an amelioration of the fate of prisoners, and the decree of June 18th, 1717, granted the prisoners 1.5 pounds of bread of good quality per day, and ordered that they be furnished with straw, at no cost] (Garnot, Benoit, Crime et Justice aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siecles, p. 192).
I had decided to visit the Palais Garnier, which is one of the two famous opera houses of Paris, as well as the Madeleine, which is a colossal church. It was a beautiful day, the distance was a good 90 minutes by foot, so I split the difference and took the RER to Chatelet/Les Halles, which brought me over to the right bank, and then walked west. On my way out, I hit one of the surprise Metro-ticket checkpoints; I showed my ticket to the guard, and moved along, but the girl behind me, who had just thanked me for letting her follow me through the barrier (which I hadn't done intentionally) got busted.
I made my way past the Louvre and the Tuileries, and then saw a rather large and old-fashioned-looking domed building in the distance, which I guessed was the Palace Garnier (it was). The dome is one of the most remarkable features of the opera house, wider than it is tall; constructed under Napoleon III, it was designed in order to resemble the Empress Eugenie's crown. I thought that the Palais was only a couple of blocks away, but as I approached, it turned out that I was wrong; I kept on approaching, and the building kept on growing and growing to fill my field of vision: the Palais Garnier is simply huge! It's a solid 69 meters high, making it the equal in stature of the towers of Notre-Dame de Paris, and truly dominates the whole neighborhood. The golden statues on the facade were blazing brilliantly in the sunlight, and I eventually fond my way indoors.
The Palais Garnier is ostentatiously decorated with lots of gold, and golden chandeliers, and well-furnished with marble busts of famous composers and singers. For all of the show, though, there is really very little information; the free pamphlet is one of the thinnest I've ever seen, and the guided tours are available only with reservation and (high) payment. I stopped to listen, for about ten minutes, to one of the guides, who was leading a tour of thirty or forty seniors. He was describing the history of the building of the opera house, and Degaz's (and playboys') visits to the ballerina's dressing rooms; when he stopped to move on, he noted that there was a young man who had begun to follow the group, reminding everyone that the group was already at its maximum size. I scrammed, and the tourguide lost one interested audience member.
In the Opera House, there is one absolutely overwhelming hallway; the grand foyer, which challenges even the Hall of Mirrors of Versailles in its opulence. I thought back to my time attending the ballet at Versailles, and about the reception hall full of suits and dresses: this is hallway, no doubt, where wealthy opera-goers have been promenading during intermissions, since 1875, in order to see and be seen. For all of the opulence of the wall paintings, the ceiling mosaics, and the chandeliers (the largest one of which weighs eight metric tons), the Opera Garnier succeeds at being flashy without being interesting.
I'd like to thank Nick for suggesting that I visit the Madeleine, a colossal church just a quick jaunt away from the Palais Garnier. Built in the likeness of a Roman temple, the Madeleine dominates the entire neighborhood, and, in addition to welcoming tourists, is also a functioning parish: I'd say that I was in the minority when I visited, most of the people there being engaged in prayer, etc (I was as respectful as possible). The construction of the church was rather haphazard, having been inaugurated by Louis XV, but suspended by the National Assembly in 1791. Napoleon wanted to turn it into a temple dedicated to the glory of his army (i.e. himself), and the architect he appointed demolished virtually everything, but saved the Corinthian columns. During the period of Restoration, Louis XVIII succeeded in turning the building back into a church, but the building in the decoration was only finished in 1842. Unfortunately, it seems as if even in the 21st century, the church is still under construction, and tourists were blocked from strolling around the periphery; moreover, there was a concert scheduled that night (Friday), and technicians had roped off half of the church, in order to set up the musicians' equipment. That being said, the domes and the fresco that adorned the apsidal dome was very well done (photos will soon be available on FB).
I strolled back, to my dorm, stopping at the library and at the student cafeteria, and after some readingm went to bed early that night.
~JD
"Il est indéniable que le XVIIIe siècle a vu, au point de vu réglementaire, une amélioration du sort des prisonniers… l’arrêt du 18 juin 1717 accorde aux prisonniers 1.5 livres de pain de bonne qualité par jour et ordonne qu’on leur fournit de la paille gratuitement" [It is undeniable that the 18th century saw, from the point of view of the law, an amelioration of the fate of prisoners, and the decree of June 18th, 1717, granted the prisoners 1.5 pounds of bread of good quality per day, and ordered that they be furnished with straw, at no cost] (Garnot, Benoit, Crime et Justice aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siecles, p. 192).
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Moliere, the Conciergerie, and the Sainte-Chapelle
On Sunday, I hiked up to the Petit Palais, which is in the 1st arrondissement. The weather is gradually cooling (and growing wetter), and I have made the permanent switch to long pants, but the walk was still worth the fresh air. There have been posters up in Paris for some time, advertising a temporary exhibit of the Comedie-Francaise on exposition at the Petit Palais, and the depicting a painting of Moliere in the costume of Julius Caesar; this looked worth visiting.
It was. The Petit Palais has managed to put together a semi-chronological, semi-thematic exhibit in five "Acts," which tells the story of France's national theater company, which originated as the troupe of Moliere. In 1658, his troop "font irruption sur la scene parisien" [erupted onto the Parisian scene], as the exhibit put it, and people are still talking about it. I had no idea, before I arrived in Paris, just how much of a legend Moliere is here, rather comparable to Shakespeare back home. For instance, since I arrived in Paris, I have seen advertisements for seven different productions of his plays (even attending one), and 9 of the top 10 most-performed productions at the Comedie-Francaise are his works (with Corneille's El Cid as a distant #7). There is a great deal we don't know about his life, but what we do know marks him as exceptional: several of his plays (notably Tartuffe and l'Ecole des Femmes) were controversial and scandalous after their performance. Moliere was the absolute ruler of his troupe throughout his career, writing, directing, and starring in its productions, and his death threw its existence into serious jeopardy (for this reason, it fused with several other acting companies in Ile-de-France, until, in 1680, it became the Comedie-Francaise).
Moliere continued to create controversy after his death, because he was buried in hallowed ground, even though he had not renounced his acting profession (he actually died the night after playing the leading role in one of his plays, ironically, titled Le Malade Imaginaire, or The Hypochondriac). The Comedie-Francaise continued to use his armchair as a stage prop until the late 19th century, and his watch and (what might be his) cap are also on display at the Petit Palais. There are a great deal of portraits and other paintings of Moliere (most of them posthumous). My favorite was "Molière et les caractères de ses comédies," by Edmond Geffroy, a painting which included more than fifty of Moliere's characters, and the playwright thoughtfully looking on at their antics.
There is, of course, more to the exhibit than the life and legacy of Moliere. There are paintings and models of the the theater itself; a room full of busts of the great playwrights, several rooms of paintings of the troupe's greatest actors, in costume, and various stageprops, etc. There was even a full-size marble statue of one actor, Talma, commissioned after his death in 1826, because the company considered the loss such a blow from the whole company.
I had wanted to visit the Grand Palais after the Petit Palais, more because of convenience than out of any real desire to see anything particular on display there; however, there was a two-and-a-half hour line, and I decided that I had better things to do (like study for Monday's Contemporary Arab World test). On my walk back to the dorm, however, I happened to pass by the entrance to the Conciergerie, a monument hadn't yet visited. I decided that I had enough time, and that checking out this Conciergerie, whatever it was, was worth the effort.
As it turns out, it was worth the effort (and the free student-rate admission). The Conciergerie is a 700-year-old building constructed by Philippe le Bel to house the Parlement of Paris, although its site as the seat of power and authority is much older, dating back to Lutetia in the time of Julian the Apostate; in the first decade of the 6th century, Clovis began building his royal palace there, after he moved his capital to Paris (he died in 511, before he got very far). Since then, the building has been used as the king's lit de justice, where the king himself legislated, and his royal edicts were registered. Since then, it has been used as a barracks and, famously during the Revolution, a prison. There, you can visit the rooms where Maximilien Robespierre and Marie-Antoinette passed their last days, respectively, as well as learn about the conditions of 18th-century prison life. I arrived five minutes before the start of the 4:15 p.m. daily tour, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in visiting the Conciergerie. Our guide was Spanish, but spoke French flawlessly, and knew her history forwards and backwards, something I've come to expect from French tour guides.
The Gothic architecture of the older sections looked so ancient, an effect that was probably enhanced by the very low level of lighting. To me, this seems very ironic; as I continue to learn, Gothic architecture, when it was new, was truly the architecture of shining light and brilliant color; it is only with age, wear, and the elements that Gothic stones have darkened, and their once-beautiful stained-glass windows grown black with spoilage. The windows of Philippe le Bel's Conciergerie were quite large, and kept the interior very well-lighted; now, the windows have been blocked with stone. The building got it's name under Charles V (rival claimant of Edward III of England for the throne of France), who as Dauphin, saw his ministers murdered before his eyes by Etienne Marcel, leader of an armed protest against royal royal. Worried by the possibility of another urban uprising, Charles V kept his distance from Paris, and installed a Concierge, or caretaker, who was in charge of Paris. Hence the name Conciergerie, to describe the building occupied by the Concierge. Charles V went on to do a fairly decent job getting the English out of France, avoiding open battle and simply launching siege after siege on the fortresses they had seized, eventually leaving them with only a few cities along the northern coast (Calais, Cherbourg, and Brest), certain regions of Guyenne (which the Brits could claim partially thanks to Henry II's marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine two centuries before), as well as certain chateaux.
On Monday, I took a test in my Contemporary Arab World TD, and on Tuesday, I took a test in my Medieval History TD, then delivered an expose on feudalism to the professor of the CM. I really felt like visiting a museum on Tuesday afternoon, and the Louvre was closed, so I took a short walk over to the Sainte-Chapelle, which is, in fact, right next to the Conciergerie, as well as to the Paris courthouse (Palais de Justice, literally, Palace of Justice). The Sainte-Chapelle was constructed by Saint-Louis in the early 13th century, in order to house his relics, most notably (what was purportedly) the Crown of Thorns. After passing the heavy security check, and getting my (free!) ticket, I entered the Lower Chapel, in the midst of restored, and was quite impressed by the restored colors. I noticed that there was a staircase, and I investigated.
The staircase led to the Upper Chapel, which, when I entered, literally made my breath catch in my throat. I have never seen as beautiful stained-glass windows as those of the Sainte-Chapelle, which are absolutely bursting with color, thanks to the restorers' hard work. Each one of the main 14 windows depicts one or two books of the Bible, with the rose on the facade depicting the Apocalypse, and the window on the far end of the nave depicting the Passion. I peered at dozens upon dozens of panes, and had a great deal of difficulty making out what was what. People were seated in folding chairs along the walls; the room is chilly, but if one is dressed warmly enough (as I was), spending a half-hour or an hour just sitting with a friend or family member and looking at the stained glass together would be time well spent.
Before I sign off, I'll take a moment to mention my visit to the Lutetia Arenas, one of the relatively few remnants of Paris's Roman heritage (the Cluny Museum's frigidarium is another). We visited them two weeks ago; they aren't the Roman Colosseum, but they're legit, dating from the 1st century C.E. It's now a public park, more or less, and the clearing in the center is large enough for people to play pétanque, a French version of lawn-bowling, but too small for even little-league baseball. There are concerts held there occasionally, and you can still see the enclosures where animals (lions?) were kept. Nick and I had a debate over whether it would have been possible to escape; the walls are too high to leap up upon from the base of the arena, but it looks to me, anyway, to have scrabbled up the sides, if you were athletic (and desperate) enough. I'm not certain, though. In any case, the arenas are now being put to the good use of giving Parisian children a place to play.
~JD
"Les parlementaires sont donc plus indulgents que les juges de premiere instance. Mais leur attitude ne se modifie pas au cours du siecle: ils ne deviennent pas plus indulgents, a la difference de leurs collegues des juridictions sublaternes" [The members of the court of appeals were thus more indulgent then the trial judges. But their attitudes did not change in the course of the 18th century: they did not become more lenient, unlike their colleagues of subaltern jurisdictions] (Benoit Garnot, Crime et Justice aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siecles, p. 16).
It was. The Petit Palais has managed to put together a semi-chronological, semi-thematic exhibit in five "Acts," which tells the story of France's national theater company, which originated as the troupe of Moliere. In 1658, his troop "font irruption sur la scene parisien" [erupted onto the Parisian scene], as the exhibit put it, and people are still talking about it. I had no idea, before I arrived in Paris, just how much of a legend Moliere is here, rather comparable to Shakespeare back home. For instance, since I arrived in Paris, I have seen advertisements for seven different productions of his plays (even attending one), and 9 of the top 10 most-performed productions at the Comedie-Francaise are his works (with Corneille's El Cid as a distant #7). There is a great deal we don't know about his life, but what we do know marks him as exceptional: several of his plays (notably Tartuffe and l'Ecole des Femmes) were controversial and scandalous after their performance. Moliere was the absolute ruler of his troupe throughout his career, writing, directing, and starring in its productions, and his death threw its existence into serious jeopardy (for this reason, it fused with several other acting companies in Ile-de-France, until, in 1680, it became the Comedie-Francaise).
Moliere continued to create controversy after his death, because he was buried in hallowed ground, even though he had not renounced his acting profession (he actually died the night after playing the leading role in one of his plays, ironically, titled Le Malade Imaginaire, or The Hypochondriac). The Comedie-Francaise continued to use his armchair as a stage prop until the late 19th century, and his watch and (what might be his) cap are also on display at the Petit Palais. There are a great deal of portraits and other paintings of Moliere (most of them posthumous). My favorite was "Molière et les caractères de ses comédies," by Edmond Geffroy, a painting which included more than fifty of Moliere's characters, and the playwright thoughtfully looking on at their antics.
There is, of course, more to the exhibit than the life and legacy of Moliere. There are paintings and models of the the theater itself; a room full of busts of the great playwrights, several rooms of paintings of the troupe's greatest actors, in costume, and various stageprops, etc. There was even a full-size marble statue of one actor, Talma, commissioned after his death in 1826, because the company considered the loss such a blow from the whole company.
I had wanted to visit the Grand Palais after the Petit Palais, more because of convenience than out of any real desire to see anything particular on display there; however, there was a two-and-a-half hour line, and I decided that I had better things to do (like study for Monday's Contemporary Arab World test). On my walk back to the dorm, however, I happened to pass by the entrance to the Conciergerie, a monument hadn't yet visited. I decided that I had enough time, and that checking out this Conciergerie, whatever it was, was worth the effort.
As it turns out, it was worth the effort (and the free student-rate admission). The Conciergerie is a 700-year-old building constructed by Philippe le Bel to house the Parlement of Paris, although its site as the seat of power and authority is much older, dating back to Lutetia in the time of Julian the Apostate; in the first decade of the 6th century, Clovis began building his royal palace there, after he moved his capital to Paris (he died in 511, before he got very far). Since then, the building has been used as the king's lit de justice, where the king himself legislated, and his royal edicts were registered. Since then, it has been used as a barracks and, famously during the Revolution, a prison. There, you can visit the rooms where Maximilien Robespierre and Marie-Antoinette passed their last days, respectively, as well as learn about the conditions of 18th-century prison life. I arrived five minutes before the start of the 4:15 p.m. daily tour, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in visiting the Conciergerie. Our guide was Spanish, but spoke French flawlessly, and knew her history forwards and backwards, something I've come to expect from French tour guides.
The Gothic architecture of the older sections looked so ancient, an effect that was probably enhanced by the very low level of lighting. To me, this seems very ironic; as I continue to learn, Gothic architecture, when it was new, was truly the architecture of shining light and brilliant color; it is only with age, wear, and the elements that Gothic stones have darkened, and their once-beautiful stained-glass windows grown black with spoilage. The windows of Philippe le Bel's Conciergerie were quite large, and kept the interior very well-lighted; now, the windows have been blocked with stone. The building got it's name under Charles V (rival claimant of Edward III of England for the throne of France), who as Dauphin, saw his ministers murdered before his eyes by Etienne Marcel, leader of an armed protest against royal royal. Worried by the possibility of another urban uprising, Charles V kept his distance from Paris, and installed a Concierge, or caretaker, who was in charge of Paris. Hence the name Conciergerie, to describe the building occupied by the Concierge. Charles V went on to do a fairly decent job getting the English out of France, avoiding open battle and simply launching siege after siege on the fortresses they had seized, eventually leaving them with only a few cities along the northern coast (Calais, Cherbourg, and Brest), certain regions of Guyenne (which the Brits could claim partially thanks to Henry II's marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine two centuries before), as well as certain chateaux.
On Monday, I took a test in my Contemporary Arab World TD, and on Tuesday, I took a test in my Medieval History TD, then delivered an expose on feudalism to the professor of the CM. I really felt like visiting a museum on Tuesday afternoon, and the Louvre was closed, so I took a short walk over to the Sainte-Chapelle, which is, in fact, right next to the Conciergerie, as well as to the Paris courthouse (Palais de Justice, literally, Palace of Justice). The Sainte-Chapelle was constructed by Saint-Louis in the early 13th century, in order to house his relics, most notably (what was purportedly) the Crown of Thorns. After passing the heavy security check, and getting my (free!) ticket, I entered the Lower Chapel, in the midst of restored, and was quite impressed by the restored colors. I noticed that there was a staircase, and I investigated.
The staircase led to the Upper Chapel, which, when I entered, literally made my breath catch in my throat. I have never seen as beautiful stained-glass windows as those of the Sainte-Chapelle, which are absolutely bursting with color, thanks to the restorers' hard work. Each one of the main 14 windows depicts one or two books of the Bible, with the rose on the facade depicting the Apocalypse, and the window on the far end of the nave depicting the Passion. I peered at dozens upon dozens of panes, and had a great deal of difficulty making out what was what. People were seated in folding chairs along the walls; the room is chilly, but if one is dressed warmly enough (as I was), spending a half-hour or an hour just sitting with a friend or family member and looking at the stained glass together would be time well spent.
Before I sign off, I'll take a moment to mention my visit to the Lutetia Arenas, one of the relatively few remnants of Paris's Roman heritage (the Cluny Museum's frigidarium is another). We visited them two weeks ago; they aren't the Roman Colosseum, but they're legit, dating from the 1st century C.E. It's now a public park, more or less, and the clearing in the center is large enough for people to play pétanque, a French version of lawn-bowling, but too small for even little-league baseball. There are concerts held there occasionally, and you can still see the enclosures where animals (lions?) were kept. Nick and I had a debate over whether it would have been possible to escape; the walls are too high to leap up upon from the base of the arena, but it looks to me, anyway, to have scrabbled up the sides, if you were athletic (and desperate) enough. I'm not certain, though. In any case, the arenas are now being put to the good use of giving Parisian children a place to play.
~JD
"Les parlementaires sont donc plus indulgents que les juges de premiere instance. Mais leur attitude ne se modifie pas au cours du siecle: ils ne deviennent pas plus indulgents, a la difference de leurs collegues des juridictions sublaternes" [The members of the court of appeals were thus more indulgent then the trial judges. But their attitudes did not change in the course of the 18th century: they did not become more lenient, unlike their colleagues of subaltern jurisdictions] (Benoit Garnot, Crime et Justice aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siecles, p. 16).
Sunday, November 27, 2011
L'Apprenti Parfumeur
Thanks to the workshops organized by EDUCO, I've been able to cook French food, taste French wine and cheese, bake French pastries, and, last Friday, mix French perfume. The apartment was way, way over in the middle of the 16th arrondissement (on the left bank, but still a distance away), and I had to ride the Metro in order to arrive on time. There were about eight of us students, total.
The parfumeuse first explained to us some of the different "families" of perfumes, each of which is composed of different "notes" (individual scents, like "lily" or "oak moss") just like a musical composition. Some of these families had clear names ("floral" and "fruity"), whereas other names seemed entirely arbitrary ("cypress" and "oriental"). The parfumeuse passed around examples of various recipes for us to smell, in order to get an idea of ; for example, the "Floral Oriental" was 1/3 passion flower, 1/3 vanilla flower, and 1/3 vetiver (most were more complex). The "Eau Fraiche" made my eyes water, and reminded me of cheap perfume; "Fruited Cyprus" was milder and pleasanter, and "Oriental" smelled strongly of vanilla. "Woody" notes were relatively mild, but apparently take longer to dissipate; by contrast, "Fern" notes are quite strong.
Each pair of us (I was sitting next to Brook) had 40-50 small flask in front of us, each one of which was only about an inch high, and contained one olfactory "note." We also had three empty flasks, in which to practice mixing, and thereby arrive at a desirably formula. I had somebody in mind who deserves a special gift from France (actually, that probably describes every woman who reads this blog), and had already decided, for quite some time, that I was going to mix her some unique perfume.
I knew that I needed to stay away from "Eau Fraiche," which was too strong, and also to steer clear from anything overly sweet. I also wanted to avoid simply choosing a list of the scents of my favorite fruits, seeing as I assume that most people don't want to smell like a mixture of figs and pears. I took task this quite seriously, and Mr. David Friedman took an excellent photo of me staring very intently at a tiny bottle of scent, which you can view on Facebook.
My first flask was a mix of roses, jasmine, carnations, exotic fruits, peaches, passion flowers, ginger, and vanilla flowers (I had decided against oak moss, no matter how good it smelled to me). This first experiment smelled overwhelmingly sweet, and exactly the opposite of what I had been trying for. Meanwhile, Brook was having success making scents that reminded me strongly of my Mother's flower garden (was it the lavender? I don't know). I was also impressed with Madeline's and Sharon's concoctions (meanwhile, David, who was just trying to mix something for his mother, was going overboard with the mandarin orange scent). So I cut down seriously on the exotic fruits and the jasmine, which were overwhelming the other scents, added a bit of ginger in order to temper the sweetness. The result was fresh and floral, without being too sweet. I made two more different attempts, in which I tried adding coconut and suppressing certain scents, but I ended up using the second recipe in the end, making only the slight modification of replacing jasmine with coconut. In the end, however, my nose felt so over-stimulated that I had difficulty differentiating between the different fragrances: too much of a good thing! In case anyone's interested, here is the final recipe:
Rose: 10%
Carnation: 15%
Exotic Fruit: 15%
Peach: 10%
Passion Flower: 10%
Ginger: 10%
Vanilla Flower: 25%
Coconut: 5%
The girls, to whom I had explained the gifts recipient, all thought that the scent would go over well as a gift, and that she would enjoy and appreciate it. Well, I hope that she will.
Oh, and today is a rainy, disgusting Monday, in which I'm not taking a run, even though I just took my Contemporary Arab World exam (2 hours). Next up will be this weekend's visit to the Petit Palais and the Conciergerie.
~JD
"A landmark in the progress towards the general heritability of fiefs, at least in Italy in Germany, was the ordinance issued by the German emperor Conrad II in 1037 which granted security of tenure, protected by the judgment of their peers, to those who held benefices on royal or church land, together with the right to pass on their land to their sons and certain other male relatives" (Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reinterpreted, p. 49).
The parfumeuse first explained to us some of the different "families" of perfumes, each of which is composed of different "notes" (individual scents, like "lily" or "oak moss") just like a musical composition. Some of these families had clear names ("floral" and "fruity"), whereas other names seemed entirely arbitrary ("cypress" and "oriental"). The parfumeuse passed around examples of various recipes for us to smell, in order to get an idea of ; for example, the "Floral Oriental" was 1/3 passion flower, 1/3 vanilla flower, and 1/3 vetiver (most were more complex). The "Eau Fraiche" made my eyes water, and reminded me of cheap perfume; "Fruited Cyprus" was milder and pleasanter, and "Oriental" smelled strongly of vanilla. "Woody" notes were relatively mild, but apparently take longer to dissipate; by contrast, "Fern" notes are quite strong.
Each pair of us (I was sitting next to Brook) had 40-50 small flask in front of us, each one of which was only about an inch high, and contained one olfactory "note." We also had three empty flasks, in which to practice mixing, and thereby arrive at a desirably formula. I had somebody in mind who deserves a special gift from France (actually, that probably describes every woman who reads this blog), and had already decided, for quite some time, that I was going to mix her some unique perfume.
I knew that I needed to stay away from "Eau Fraiche," which was too strong, and also to steer clear from anything overly sweet. I also wanted to avoid simply choosing a list of the scents of my favorite fruits, seeing as I assume that most people don't want to smell like a mixture of figs and pears. I took task this quite seriously, and Mr. David Friedman took an excellent photo of me staring very intently at a tiny bottle of scent, which you can view on Facebook.
My first flask was a mix of roses, jasmine, carnations, exotic fruits, peaches, passion flowers, ginger, and vanilla flowers (I had decided against oak moss, no matter how good it smelled to me). This first experiment smelled overwhelmingly sweet, and exactly the opposite of what I had been trying for. Meanwhile, Brook was having success making scents that reminded me strongly of my Mother's flower garden (was it the lavender? I don't know). I was also impressed with Madeline's and Sharon's concoctions (meanwhile, David, who was just trying to mix something for his mother, was going overboard with the mandarin orange scent). So I cut down seriously on the exotic fruits and the jasmine, which were overwhelming the other scents, added a bit of ginger in order to temper the sweetness. The result was fresh and floral, without being too sweet. I made two more different attempts, in which I tried adding coconut and suppressing certain scents, but I ended up using the second recipe in the end, making only the slight modification of replacing jasmine with coconut. In the end, however, my nose felt so over-stimulated that I had difficulty differentiating between the different fragrances: too much of a good thing! In case anyone's interested, here is the final recipe:
Rose: 10%
Carnation: 15%
Exotic Fruit: 15%
Peach: 10%
Passion Flower: 10%
Ginger: 10%
Vanilla Flower: 25%
Coconut: 5%
The girls, to whom I had explained the gifts recipient, all thought that the scent would go over well as a gift, and that she would enjoy and appreciate it. Well, I hope that she will.
Oh, and today is a rainy, disgusting Monday, in which I'm not taking a run, even though I just took my Contemporary Arab World exam (2 hours). Next up will be this weekend's visit to the Petit Palais and the Conciergerie.
~JD
"A landmark in the progress towards the general heritability of fiefs, at least in Italy in Germany, was the ordinance issued by the German emperor Conrad II in 1037 which granted security of tenure, protected by the judgment of their peers, to those who held benefices on royal or church land, together with the right to pass on their land to their sons and certain other male relatives" (Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reinterpreted, p. 49).
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sociologue Amateur
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! On this national holiday, I thought it would be fitting to write (or at least begin to write) a post on national identity.
Seventy years ago, in his essay on English patriotism, George Orwell, wrote that "national characteristics are not easy to pin down, and when pinned down they often turn out to be trivialities or seem to have no connexion with one another." This is a simple fact that all who try either make any but the most superficial observations, or to draw any but the most trite inferences, on sociology and anthropology, should acknowledge, be they tourists or academics. I offer it as a disclaimer as well as a general precaution to the following comments. I will recount a few anecdotes and impressions, and try to make some sense out of them.
On Monday, I had the misfortune to trip when taking my run through the quad of the Cité Universitaire; I tumbled and fell on my right side, grazing my right shoulder, my right elbow, my right knee, and both hands. I fell only about 20-30 meters away from a group of three people walking their dogs. I stood up, brushed myself off, and continued on my run, but, perhaps significantly, perhaps not, not one of them had stopped in order to ask me if I had hurt myself. This struck me as unusual; in Ithaca, when I take a tumble, those nearby who witness my fall usually express concern, by asking me if I am OK, etc. This applies even to drivers; once, a driver who saw me in his rear-view mirror even backed up to ask me if I was alright. I am not certain that the three dog-walkers saw me; but I am also not certain that they did not.
The dynamics in the park may not differ, in some respects, from those in the classroom. I gave exposé #3 on Medieval Travel; the same day, as I mentioned in my post about that exposé, that one of my classmates, Roman, had the same subject, and that after the Cours Magistral that day, I told him that I had been impressed with his presentation. I began speaking with him and with two of his friends, and after several minutes, I introduced myself, feeling that it was an opportune moment. None of them offered their names in return; I had to ask them: it wasn't exactly pulling teeth, but most of the time, when I give my name, I receive my interlocutors' in return. Likewise, trading cell phone numbers is very common back in the U.S., even among ephemeral acquaintances (how many numbers do I have of people I met a few times freshman year, and have rarely, or never, seen again?) -- not so, here.
This brings me to one of the most important aspects of life here: the near-impossibility of making French friends. I say "near" because I, and several others, have each managed to meet 1-5 French students with whom we have achieved at least some rapport. I would like to add here that I am very grateful to all of my French friends who have been kind and considerate enough to offer me their friendship. That being said, I estimate that maybe half of the other EDUCO students to whom I have spoken simply have no French friends. Zero. This is, naturally, partially due to the language barrier, and also due to the fact that the French students in our classes are well into their University careers, and thus already have constructed a nucleus of friends (my classes are all categorized as "License-3," meaning that students are in their third years, unless they are MASTER students). But where this ties together with the incident in the park, is in the social distance at which strangers are held. I am fully confident that, if I had called for help, the three people out walking their dogs would have stopped to help me without hesitation. However, I did not call for help; and they therefore had no reason to divert any attention toward me. I attribute this to a heightened sense of professionalism; that is, a greater distance between public life and private life. Both the park and the classroom are "public" spaces, where interactions involve a certain level of formality.
Formality is understandable in a park, almost the epitome of a "public" space, but in the U.S., classrooms are absolutely private nexuses. Think about the last time you were in class: unless you're my Dad, who actually is a professor, you're referred to consistently by your first name, and likewise address the other students and the TA by each one's first name (Prof. Pucci's class is kind of an exception to this, but his class is extraordinary, in more ways than one, but, Matt, I have always referred to you by your first name): only the Professor is referred to by his or her last name. In France, by contrast, the instructors all call me Monsieur Davis (pronounced day-VEES), and address me as vous, which makes me feel just a little bit stranger than if they referred to me as the less formal tu. The other students use tu, outside of class; I would mention their in-class interactions, but there are almost none to speak of: I don't think I've ever spoken to any of my peers while class is in session, except in a whisper, to ask them what was just said, etc. (I really miss discussion sections, in case it isn't evident.) This brings me to a curious observation Guillaume has made: American students (and JD in particular) will raise their hands to answer questions, even if they are only 40-50% certain that the know the answer; French students, even abroad at international schools, will not answer questions.
In an unusual, opposite reversal (which just goes to show that all binary us-and-them conceptual bifurcations are artificial), in the U.S., one's grades and evaluations are strictly between the individual student and the instructor. Although I had been told, before I left, that French professors have no qualms about telling students, to their faces and in front of the class, that their work is not good, it still surprised me the first time I witnessed it (and it still does). Everyone is criticized for some aspect of his or her presentation, even if the instructor praises the piece as a whole; and this is as true for exposés as it is for papers.
There is more professionalism in the classroom, and I think it is explained by a fundamentally different approach to university-level academics. In the U.S., being a student is one's life; here, it is more like one's job. At home, one never stops being a student, and one's entire schedule of classes, studying, sports, clubs, and even part-time jobs, is wholly within the framework of student life. When and where one studies is one's business: some people do it in the morning, some in the evening, some at the library, some at home. Here, studying is done at the library, during regular work hours (the Bibliotheque de la Sorbonne is open from 10:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m.). Uris Library is open 24 hours, and some students bring blankets and pillows. Studying never stops, and all-nighters are known among even the most responsible. In France, nuits blanches (literally "white nights," the term used for all-nighters) are generally just not done. There is a time to study, and a time not to study; the decision is less nice back home. I may be overgeneralizing by taking Ivy-League standards as the norm, but La Sorbonne is a very prestigious school here, and has, from what I can tell, relatively high academic standards.
One more note on academic standards, before I move on. In the U.S., educators, from high school teachers to college professors, consistently repeat, almost tautologically, that they don't care what students argue, as long as they support their arguments. Here, the refrain is on the structure and methodology: as long as all seven components of an introduction are in place, that introduction is of passing quality, even if the quality of the writing and the level of research are shoddy (not to say, these aspects are unimportant; I have seen a professor call out a student for treating a masculine noun as feminine in his in-class essay).
Academic standards are not the only standards encountered in student life. Veronique, one of the members of the (awesome) EDUCO team, has berated me before about the lack of attention I pay to my body, because I consistently sleep under eight hours a night (completely true) and don't consume a balanced diet (debatable). As she puts it, "les etudiants francais respectent leurs corps" [French students respect their bodies]. From what I have gathered from conversations with my other French friends, French students do tend to sleep more than their American counterparts, who, let's face it, barely sleep, ever. However, as far as I can tell, American students (or, at least, Cornell students), 1) Smoke less, and 2) Exercise more. By my standards, smoking and a lack of exercise are both key characteristics of an unhealthy lifestyle, in a way that sleep deprivation and poor diet are not. I wonder what doctors think of the matter...
There are a few other cultural observations, related, somewhat indirectly, to what I have been saying.
Drinking coffee (or eating croissants) while walking seems to be less common, as is speaking on the cellphone while walking. If you want to drink coffee, you sit down in a cafe to do it; when you eat lunch, you sit down on a park bench to do it.
In France, it's impolite to post others' photographs on Facebook.
The French have achieved a level of secularism in society that they have a word for it, laïcité, which they readily admit cannot be easily translated into other languages. For instance, in my Contemporary Arab World class, the professor, describing the politico-religious climate of the late Ottoman Empire, said it was "seculier, mais pas laïc" [secular, but not laïc]. If your 16th (and early 17th) century were mostly filled with gruesome religious wars and massacres, you, too, would want to prevent people from making public display of their religion (note: the ban on religious paraphernalia, better known in the U.S. as the ban on headscarves, is unenforced). However, I don't know if Ithaca is just already such a secular place, or whether the rising French xenophobia against North Africans and Romany, but there do seem to be some open displays of religion.
To name just one example, I was once handed a pamphlet containing 2 books from the New Testament, the Gospel of John and Paul's Letter to the Romans. It is on the desk in front of me now; it is conspicuously covered, on the cover, with French patriotic symbols: the blue, white, and red; the familiar hexagonal shape of France (plus Corsica) which we all know from the Mercator projection; a Parisian skyline; the Eiffel Tower; on the cover, the title alone is the only indication that this is a religious text. By contrast, there is nothing particularly "French" about the contents of the book (which could just as easily have been printed in any other Francophone country). My analysis? Just as in the U.S., with the influx of non-Christian immigrants (or, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, non-Protestant immigrants), somebody has made a connection between Christianity and patriotism: both represent traditional values placed in jeopardy by the newcomers. I have spoken with Bruno about the immigration issue, and he thinks that there is a strong parallel between North Africans in France and Latin Americans in the United States, with the very, very important exception that Latin Americans are typically Christian, whereas North Africans are not typically Catholic.
One last comment, just to remind you to keep a measure of Orwellian skepticism about trying to discover national "essences": public urination is rather common, and people do not consistently clean up after their dogs. The Mayor's Office has even posted sign up around Paris, alerting polluters, and those who urinate in particular, that they will be fined!
I would like to thank Valérie, Guillaume, Bruno, Joe, Sharon, David, Nick, Madeline, Jamie, Aday, Sarah, and everyone else with whom I have discussed Franco-American cultural differences: you all had a hand in this post also: mad props to Madeline for cutting my hair, and for Jamie for lending us her bathroom to do it!
~JD
"In 1475, Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy, gave the herald who had just defied him in the name of Duke Rene of Lorraine a cup of gild silver filled with 500 pieces of gold and the robe of gold cloth which he, Charles, had worn at the ceremony of defiance" (Pierre Chaplais, English Diplomatic Practice in the Middle Ages, p. 243-244).
Seventy years ago, in his essay on English patriotism, George Orwell, wrote that "national characteristics are not easy to pin down, and when pinned down they often turn out to be trivialities or seem to have no connexion with one another." This is a simple fact that all who try either make any but the most superficial observations, or to draw any but the most trite inferences, on sociology and anthropology, should acknowledge, be they tourists or academics. I offer it as a disclaimer as well as a general precaution to the following comments. I will recount a few anecdotes and impressions, and try to make some sense out of them.
On Monday, I had the misfortune to trip when taking my run through the quad of the Cité Universitaire; I tumbled and fell on my right side, grazing my right shoulder, my right elbow, my right knee, and both hands. I fell only about 20-30 meters away from a group of three people walking their dogs. I stood up, brushed myself off, and continued on my run, but, perhaps significantly, perhaps not, not one of them had stopped in order to ask me if I had hurt myself. This struck me as unusual; in Ithaca, when I take a tumble, those nearby who witness my fall usually express concern, by asking me if I am OK, etc. This applies even to drivers; once, a driver who saw me in his rear-view mirror even backed up to ask me if I was alright. I am not certain that the three dog-walkers saw me; but I am also not certain that they did not.
The dynamics in the park may not differ, in some respects, from those in the classroom. I gave exposé #3 on Medieval Travel; the same day, as I mentioned in my post about that exposé, that one of my classmates, Roman, had the same subject, and that after the Cours Magistral that day, I told him that I had been impressed with his presentation. I began speaking with him and with two of his friends, and after several minutes, I introduced myself, feeling that it was an opportune moment. None of them offered their names in return; I had to ask them: it wasn't exactly pulling teeth, but most of the time, when I give my name, I receive my interlocutors' in return. Likewise, trading cell phone numbers is very common back in the U.S., even among ephemeral acquaintances (how many numbers do I have of people I met a few times freshman year, and have rarely, or never, seen again?) -- not so, here.
This brings me to one of the most important aspects of life here: the near-impossibility of making French friends. I say "near" because I, and several others, have each managed to meet 1-5 French students with whom we have achieved at least some rapport. I would like to add here that I am very grateful to all of my French friends who have been kind and considerate enough to offer me their friendship. That being said, I estimate that maybe half of the other EDUCO students to whom I have spoken simply have no French friends. Zero. This is, naturally, partially due to the language barrier, and also due to the fact that the French students in our classes are well into their University careers, and thus already have constructed a nucleus of friends (my classes are all categorized as "License-3," meaning that students are in their third years, unless they are MASTER students). But where this ties together with the incident in the park, is in the social distance at which strangers are held. I am fully confident that, if I had called for help, the three people out walking their dogs would have stopped to help me without hesitation. However, I did not call for help; and they therefore had no reason to divert any attention toward me. I attribute this to a heightened sense of professionalism; that is, a greater distance between public life and private life. Both the park and the classroom are "public" spaces, where interactions involve a certain level of formality.
Formality is understandable in a park, almost the epitome of a "public" space, but in the U.S., classrooms are absolutely private nexuses. Think about the last time you were in class: unless you're my Dad, who actually is a professor, you're referred to consistently by your first name, and likewise address the other students and the TA by each one's first name (Prof. Pucci's class is kind of an exception to this, but his class is extraordinary, in more ways than one, but, Matt, I have always referred to you by your first name): only the Professor is referred to by his or her last name. In France, by contrast, the instructors all call me Monsieur Davis (pronounced day-VEES), and address me as vous, which makes me feel just a little bit stranger than if they referred to me as the less formal tu. The other students use tu, outside of class; I would mention their in-class interactions, but there are almost none to speak of: I don't think I've ever spoken to any of my peers while class is in session, except in a whisper, to ask them what was just said, etc. (I really miss discussion sections, in case it isn't evident.) This brings me to a curious observation Guillaume has made: American students (and JD in particular) will raise their hands to answer questions, even if they are only 40-50% certain that the know the answer; French students, even abroad at international schools, will not answer questions.
In an unusual, opposite reversal (which just goes to show that all binary us-and-them conceptual bifurcations are artificial), in the U.S., one's grades and evaluations are strictly between the individual student and the instructor. Although I had been told, before I left, that French professors have no qualms about telling students, to their faces and in front of the class, that their work is not good, it still surprised me the first time I witnessed it (and it still does). Everyone is criticized for some aspect of his or her presentation, even if the instructor praises the piece as a whole; and this is as true for exposés as it is for papers.
There is more professionalism in the classroom, and I think it is explained by a fundamentally different approach to university-level academics. In the U.S., being a student is one's life; here, it is more like one's job. At home, one never stops being a student, and one's entire schedule of classes, studying, sports, clubs, and even part-time jobs, is wholly within the framework of student life. When and where one studies is one's business: some people do it in the morning, some in the evening, some at the library, some at home. Here, studying is done at the library, during regular work hours (the Bibliotheque de la Sorbonne is open from 10:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m.). Uris Library is open 24 hours, and some students bring blankets and pillows. Studying never stops, and all-nighters are known among even the most responsible. In France, nuits blanches (literally "white nights," the term used for all-nighters) are generally just not done. There is a time to study, and a time not to study; the decision is less nice back home. I may be overgeneralizing by taking Ivy-League standards as the norm, but La Sorbonne is a very prestigious school here, and has, from what I can tell, relatively high academic standards.
One more note on academic standards, before I move on. In the U.S., educators, from high school teachers to college professors, consistently repeat, almost tautologically, that they don't care what students argue, as long as they support their arguments. Here, the refrain is on the structure and methodology: as long as all seven components of an introduction are in place, that introduction is of passing quality, even if the quality of the writing and the level of research are shoddy (not to say, these aspects are unimportant; I have seen a professor call out a student for treating a masculine noun as feminine in his in-class essay).
Academic standards are not the only standards encountered in student life. Veronique, one of the members of the (awesome) EDUCO team, has berated me before about the lack of attention I pay to my body, because I consistently sleep under eight hours a night (completely true) and don't consume a balanced diet (debatable). As she puts it, "les etudiants francais respectent leurs corps" [French students respect their bodies]. From what I have gathered from conversations with my other French friends, French students do tend to sleep more than their American counterparts, who, let's face it, barely sleep, ever. However, as far as I can tell, American students (or, at least, Cornell students), 1) Smoke less, and 2) Exercise more. By my standards, smoking and a lack of exercise are both key characteristics of an unhealthy lifestyle, in a way that sleep deprivation and poor diet are not. I wonder what doctors think of the matter...
There are a few other cultural observations, related, somewhat indirectly, to what I have been saying.
Drinking coffee (or eating croissants) while walking seems to be less common, as is speaking on the cellphone while walking. If you want to drink coffee, you sit down in a cafe to do it; when you eat lunch, you sit down on a park bench to do it.
In France, it's impolite to post others' photographs on Facebook.
The French have achieved a level of secularism in society that they have a word for it, laïcité, which they readily admit cannot be easily translated into other languages. For instance, in my Contemporary Arab World class, the professor, describing the politico-religious climate of the late Ottoman Empire, said it was "seculier, mais pas laïc" [secular, but not laïc]. If your 16th (and early 17th) century were mostly filled with gruesome religious wars and massacres, you, too, would want to prevent people from making public display of their religion (note: the ban on religious paraphernalia, better known in the U.S. as the ban on headscarves, is unenforced). However, I don't know if Ithaca is just already such a secular place, or whether the rising French xenophobia against North Africans and Romany, but there do seem to be some open displays of religion.
To name just one example, I was once handed a pamphlet containing 2 books from the New Testament, the Gospel of John and Paul's Letter to the Romans. It is on the desk in front of me now; it is conspicuously covered, on the cover, with French patriotic symbols: the blue, white, and red; the familiar hexagonal shape of France (plus Corsica) which we all know from the Mercator projection; a Parisian skyline; the Eiffel Tower; on the cover, the title alone is the only indication that this is a religious text. By contrast, there is nothing particularly "French" about the contents of the book (which could just as easily have been printed in any other Francophone country). My analysis? Just as in the U.S., with the influx of non-Christian immigrants (or, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, non-Protestant immigrants), somebody has made a connection between Christianity and patriotism: both represent traditional values placed in jeopardy by the newcomers. I have spoken with Bruno about the immigration issue, and he thinks that there is a strong parallel between North Africans in France and Latin Americans in the United States, with the very, very important exception that Latin Americans are typically Christian, whereas North Africans are not typically Catholic.
One last comment, just to remind you to keep a measure of Orwellian skepticism about trying to discover national "essences": public urination is rather common, and people do not consistently clean up after their dogs. The Mayor's Office has even posted sign up around Paris, alerting polluters, and those who urinate in particular, that they will be fined!
I would like to thank Valérie, Guillaume, Bruno, Joe, Sharon, David, Nick, Madeline, Jamie, Aday, Sarah, and everyone else with whom I have discussed Franco-American cultural differences: you all had a hand in this post also: mad props to Madeline for cutting my hair, and for Jamie for lending us her bathroom to do it!
~JD
"In 1475, Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy, gave the herald who had just defied him in the name of Duke Rene of Lorraine a cup of gild silver filled with 500 pieces of gold and the robe of gold cloth which he, Charles, had worn at the ceremony of defiance" (Pierre Chaplais, English Diplomatic Practice in the Middle Ages, p. 243-244).
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