April 9 Paris

After several days of sun, the rain and the cold were back.  I decided to return to Rue Daguerre.

On my way, I stopped at the Cimetiere Montparnasse: at least, I could find Agnes’ husband Jacques Demy, the director of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.  He rests in a serene site in Division 9 protected by a small tree.

Once the rain started up again, I made my way to Rue Daguerre and found a cafe that offered sanctuary, a view of the street, and is, seemingly, a hang out for locals- a man seated at the bar was reading a newspaper.

I drank my coffee and watched the street, but reckoned my vigilance would not be rewarded. Why would a 90 year old women come out at noon to walk in the rain? Why had I?

Nevertheless, I persisted and walked up and down the street  but no discoveries. I did see two Vietnamese restaurants- a link to Marguerite Duras.  Making connections between disparate ideas, people, even places that have no relationship can be a symptom of pyschosis.  The troubled mind may be trying to make sense of a chaotic world, to find meaning as I am.

That evening at the Irish College, Declan Long presented his book, Ghost-Haunted Land which looks at the art of Northern Ireland since the troubles.  My neurons bounced against each other in a explosion of ideas and feelings.

The art opened up deep reservoirs of empathy for the suffering that took place. A photo of Bernadette Devlin haunts me.  During the discussion afterwards, despair  over our inhumanity surfaced. One artist who had gone to art school during the troubles spoke of a tutor questioning why people were wearing black arm bands.  Dismayed at his insularity, she explained that they honored the men who had died in the hunger strikes.

Still of Bernadette Devlin by Dublin Artist, Duncan Campbell

At first, I thought America should have such an art show, one that would help us embrace the other whether a Trump supporter, a person of color, a white person, an immigrant. But the country is so vast.  Who would be affected?  Anyone?  The discussion also touched on whether someone who isn’t from Northern Ireland can really produce art that authentically represents the situation.  It reminded of whites coopting Black art, their language, their music.

Two words bedevile me: authenticity and relevancy.  What the hell am I doing? And who cares? These questions circulate frequently. I try to remember this is an experiment, a possibility, an opening, a making, perhaps, as I follow these women, follow my younger self, live again in Paris.

 

April 5

The painter, the poet, and I went to the market behind Bastille. Bought olives and radishes so we could have a lovely breakfast tomorrow.  The poet found a cafe that had advertisements for photo show of the Rolling Stones in the Place des Vosges which is close to where my son and his wife are staying until Monday.  The poet asked if he could take a photo of me leaning against a poster showcasing Keith Richards. I wondered if he saw age as the tie.

Since the gallery was near by, we wandered over, but it was closed. Much time has passed since I had been to the Place des Vosges, more than seven years: I had forgotten how stunning it can be.

I spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to get French classes at the Catholic University, only to discover the short term classes are offered only in the summer. The conversation with the clerk was in French as her colleague who could speak English wasn’t available. As soon as I used the word “voudrais” or would like, using the conditional tense, she sighed with relief. “Vous pouvez parler le francais.” You can speak French she said, but I know, pas bien.  She gave me the name of a school which I will try tomorrow, my fifth attempt at locating a place to school me in French.

My son called for restaurant suggestions known for good steak au poivre. The only one that came to mind was Balzar’s:  the last time I was there didn’t impress. We ended up at Chez Paul by Bastille.  Company good, food not so good.

I covered 12 miles today but found none of the women I’m looking for, not even myself.

 

April Three and April Four

April 3 and 4

Confusing days for me. An Irish friend said there is an expression in Gaelic that means being between two sides: it resonates.

No running water in the entire building including toilets. Merde.

Went to the Marche D’Aligre near Place de la Bastille.  Intoxicating for the eyes, the ears, the nose.   Took home radishes, blood oranges, and raclette infused with wild garlic. My mother cooked well, but the Brenots taught me a reverence for food, for flavor: Mme. Brenot’s trips to the open air markets, her perfect vinagrette, M. Brenot’s unforgettable tarte d’apricot, pairing the right wine with each course.

A typical meal might begin with a thin slice of jambon (ham), followed by haricot vertes, then, a biftek or veal in wine sauce, salad, cheese, coffee.  In Normandy, at their summer house, we ate lapin hache, that is, rabbit minced with tomatoes, olive oil, and herbs, a crab bisque, tomato salad, with du pain (bread, a baguette) to get the last of it’s juices.  Knowing how to cook in the French way brought me a good many accolades and sustained a sense of myself.  This side may be subsiding.  To be replaced by what?  Does it need replacing?

That night at the Luxembourg Cinema, I saw an Irish film, The Maze, a fictionalized account of a break out by Irish Republicans from Her Majesty’s Prison, led by the last “blanket men.”  These were IRA members, ten of whom died through a hunger strike protesting their lack of political status.

Somehow, this film’s depiction of prison sunk deep within me, feeling viscerally what it means to be imprisoned, to spend years confined, without the sympathic touch of a loved one, excluded from nature, your thoughts your only company- the deprivation, the suffering.  How does one survive?

Still no water when I woke up. I didn’t go down to breakfast, feeling too grubby, washing with bottled water.  Finally got dressed and found a cafe where I had a cafe Americano. It’s 2 in the afternoon, no running water.

I’m trying to stay loose. It’s a beautiful day. I have real doubts about what I’m doing which is my usual reaction the first week of a long trip. This time, the feelings are exasperated as I try to explain my project to whoever inquires, given I have no idea where it will lead, if anywhere- some kind of weird examination of process, my process.  Sophie Calle followed other people.  I’m following myself.

I woke up in the middle of the night and tried to assauge feelings of doubt;

I wrote the following at three in the morning:

Explore the neighborhood, see what happens

Some possibilities: try on other’s writing style, Annie Ernaux, Sophie Calle