Paris is wonderful at many things and one is being attractive to artists and art. As a consequence of said attractiveness (which believe me is magnetic) Paris is absolutely brimming with art, it's everywhere. It's in the parks, on the metros, on buildings, shop windows, even the Parisians walk and act and dress like their lives and they themselves are works of art. But the art can also be found in museums. J'adore museums. I can't help it. When other people around me say they'll pull their hairs out one hair at a time if they have to go to another one, I'm ready to go hole up in some gallery or exhibit somewhere and just get lost. So let me just introduce you to one of my favorite museums. Can you guess (look at the picture)



You guessed right. The Rodin Museum (near Invalides and Napoleon's tomb, it's easiest to get there on line 1, just get off at Invalides). It is one of the most perfect museums: it's intimate and gives you a wonderful feeling of the artist (mostly because it's in this fabulous Rococo house that Rodin lived/worked in for a while) and the works are displayed in a wonderfully studio-esque sort of way. Besides, it has a beautiful garden, where some of his bronzes are displayed, or rather placed in a way that you feel like you've come upon a revelation as you walk down a path and look behind a tree.
Isn't the way the green light shines on this magical? And Rodin, dear man whom I love. The guy knew how to sculpt such raw and real emotion. And I became a believer from seeing these works face to face that Rodin could put all that emotion and story into his sculptures' hands. I became darn near obsessed. Sculpture might very well be one of the most engaging and mystical of the visual art forms for me. Isn't it lovely how the manmade bronze juxtaposes yet works in a strange but pleasing harmony with the organic leaves of the trees? Let me tell you that as I walked in this particular grove of trees studded with sculpture, I felt like I was in the best of enchanted forests, where I uncovered long forgotten and beautiful secrets.

Heaven help me, the hands oh the hands. Rodin. Bless. Just go ans see for yourself whether or not I exaggerate. I think you'll find I'm a reliable source (oh and after you've gone there, hop over to see how pretentious Napoleon is and then walk towards Ecole Militaire, grab some Amorino near Tribeca Italian and Cafe Marche and walk over to see the sun set behind the Tour Eiffel, you won't regret it).

One day, we climbed on to a bus. 2 letters, 1 prince cookie (these brilliant sandwhich cookies that come in a tube) and 45 minutes later we were there. The clouds parted and the sun shown on the grand horseshoe staircase and it was . . . .
Fontainebleau yall!
Fontainebleau is a chateau not far from Paris that was mainly used as a hunting lodge for kings all the way starting from Francois 1e (he's the one that brought Davinci to France from Italy) all the way to the time Napoleon kept the pope prisoner here for not signing some document or other the diminutive despot wanted him to sign.

(ps. I have no idea why the text is deciding to do this weirdy underline thing) The best part was the mini lake with its faux ruin in the back of the chateau. You could rent little rowboats, called funyaks (I kid you not) A life of leisure, darling, is what I lead. Can't you tell? Daydreaming of grandness is not difficult on the back of a rowboat. So picturesque . . .even though the boat reminded me of playskool sandboxes. (ok this text thing is too weird, now it's decided to be normal). Isn't it an impressive yet somehow still charming as well as an oh so pleasing prospect? I almost like the back better than the front, perhaps it was because I saw the back from the perspective of a rowboat.

More people who don't know I'm photographing them. A fun fact about Fontainebleau is that people in the surrounding city like to have wedding photos taken there. Here's one such couple in the Jardin de Diane. Ah to be in love in the garden of the goddess of the hunt.

I know it's been a while but that's what happens when you're in fabulous Paris and in the quirky 1920s artist town of Le Vesinet where the mistress of the house doesn't like the idea of "waves" in her house (I don't have internet where I live . . .or rather lived because tonight I'm at the most luxurious Etap Hotel in a small town near Omaha Beach. We've started our week tour of the western countryside of France and next week is Nice. Yes, my birthday will be in Nice. Chew on that for a second. I myself am still trying to digest it). Anyway, I won't talk about Normandie (no, that's not a typo . . .that's how the French spell it) just yet. But I will give you a few pictures highlighting my more recent Paris adventures (sniff . . .au revoir ma belle ville pour maintinent). I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!

I can only share a bit, because I'm pretty sure I've already worn out my internet welcome at my director's apartment. I just had to share a bit of what I lalove about my most beloved ville (but there's more . . .I could go on for days about couples and art and the metro and food ah beautiful and glorious)This is in the Quartier Juif (Jewish neighborhood) he was calling down in Yiddish to a Jewish bakery kiddy corner to his apartment. I hope they were talking about Shabbas bread.
It's an ostrich (Je pense). . . with pearls on its legs (Je sais). I mean come on! How fantastic is that?
Coolest bookstore near Sainte Sulpice. Good book people inhabit this place, each speaking at least 2.5 languages.
Magnificent boulangerie, creates baguettes in the historical fashion. Sans yeast but avec stone ground flour.
Another thing I love in Paris are the windows. I'm endlessly fascinated by every kind of window. Stained glass, shuttered, broken, residential, palatial, storefront (I'm shameless, and I take pictures of window displays. Isn't that such a faux pas? I don't even care. Ok I do a bit, enough to try and be a bit discrete, but what can you do? I can't help myself).

I especially am in love with daddies and their babies. Look at this precious interaction between papa et enfant, just got to the boulang?
French babies can even make Hellion Pigeons seem almost charming (which is saying something, because pigeons are Satan's birds that's why they try and annoy and gross you out right before you go into churches, they're trying to keep you away)
Just imagine this little girl humming a little nonsense song as she skipped down the street with her glace.
Beautiful people live in Paris . I don't know if you know that, but c'est vrai. And no people are more beautiful or engaging than French babies. I've started taking pictures of the gen I can't get enough of when I'm out and about the ville during the day. Mostly they're from the back, but I take what I can get. I just want to capture and keep the essence of chaque personne. The way they dress and walk and how intriguing they are and the fact that French was their first language. Everytime I hear a baby voice in French I think, geez this kid speaks better French than I do and that's his language. It's the same when I talk to the cat our host family is watching, he only knows French people-making-fools-of-themselves-for-animals speak. So I try to follow suite.

I had a Maria moment when I walked into this grand ball room of the Opera Garnier (the opera house of the Acadamie Musique that inspired the Phantom of the Opera) and I had the urge to waltz about but I was also afraid Captain Vontrappe might come and scold me for going where I'm not supposed to be.


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The overture before the overture. Even if it doesn't float your boat architecturally you'll be in awe. I was giddy just walking in, the anticipation and theatrical mood set by the building before you even enter the theatre proper. And the ballet we saw was tres magnifique. Everyone in Paris is beautiful and I'll be darned if the ballerines were not even more so. And for 10 euro I could lean over the side balcony and feel all 19th century starving student in love with art and Paris and fashion but in an intellectual way. Right? Classy but suffering for art? But kinda wishing that you were part of the rich but resenting them. I feel like that's a proper 19th century feeling.

Art is everywhere and the Quartier Latin is no exception, this is just a cafe front on a tiny street. Makes me want to mange there! The Quartier Latin is the section where all the college kids used to argue with each other in Latin during the Moyen Age. Now it's artsy and bookish and absolutely perfect. At the end of my jour in teh Quartier Latin I wrote profound thoughts in my leather bound and ate quiche lorraine and chocolate cake from heaven by the Seine. A true intelectuelle, n'est pas?

Einstein and Louie in the Quatier Latin, it's obviously where all the cool kids hang out. I hung out there and thought all sorts of Latin-ish, philosophical and scholarly there. Mostly I just went into the petit galleries and dreamt of the day I could work in one while wearing my plaid glasses. I could live in a flat near the Quartier and then spend my days supporting local artists. Doesn't that sound divin? And it would be a baby version of my dream of being a curator and it'd be better because it's edgier (even though I'm far from edgy) and more intimate (which I dig)
It's the sign of the oldest cafe in Paris. Racine wrote and argued intellectually there over tea . . .actually probably wine and cheap beer.
It's the most darling sign, let's just be honest. A hot air balloon? Probably circa 1800 something or other. I couldn't resist it. Reason 556 to love Paris: fabulous signs (signs are art too)