portrait of eugene bock

Like many things in life, I fail at blogging regularly. I'm sorry! I am a bad child! I know! Anyway, I had to share what might be my new favorite painting that I saw in the Musee d'Orsay.

Ha, I had to write this for class, and its kind of corny... but here goes. I really love Van Gogh and this painting.

Portrait of Eugene Boch

Surrounded by so much ferocious beauty, it's nearly impossible to settle your eyes on one painting in the Van Gogh room. Colors melt and twist in storms of golden blue, the shapes of every day life whirl into the forms they've always been meant to take on, and reality starts to give way to transcendence. It's almost too much to bear.

However, with the possible exception of Van Gogh's fiery, electric-turquoise self-portrait, it is the portrait of Eugene Boch that finally takes you in. At first glance, it is the stark contrast in color sets him apart from the rest- blazing out from a dreary night sky, he radiates gold, lit by some divine inner light. It's as if one of Van Gogh's many sunflowers has come to life in a burst of yellow, explosive energy.

But contrasting with this light is an intense humanity. Look at his face, and see the saddened eyes; the cheeks which glow with gold are slightly emaciated, his nose is at wrong angles, gaunt and lean. This is the face of a saint who knows, who stares toward the painter, concerned and loving. While Boch's internal world is bright, he looks out with infinite sadness at those still wandering the dreary blue which lingers behind him.

blurbs

So, I haven't really posted anything of substance in a a few days. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! To make up for my laziness, here are some blurbs from my journal.

"Expectations"

I will confess: I've always been one of those Americans who romanticizes all things French. Take a look at the walls of my old dorm- my posters of "Funny Face" and "An American in Paris" vied for center position. We see a similar trend in my bedroom at home- while my French artifacts compete with my James Dean shrine and other relics from world travel, my Eiffel Tower poster holds the dominant position. I even took French from sixth to eighth grade, dreaming of one day studying abroad here in Paris in college. (No joke.) I guess you could say I've always seen France as a dark, sexy, and sophisticated dreamworld. That, and something like Ratatouille.

Staying here for the last two weeks, though, my expectations, while not disappointed, have definitely been revised. As much as France is about the Louvre and crepes ("They're like really thin pancakes!"), there's also a goofy, vulgar streak beneath the surface. I first noticed it in Blois, as I ate my croissant for breakfast in the "Buffalo Bill Grill." I'd noticed several of these on the highways, but I was unprepared for the sheer level of camp. Big, feathery Indian headdresses? Check. Cringe-worthy posters of gun-wielding cowboys? Oh, yes. While I hoped that this was a freak incident, I've noticed the theme while I've been here. Teenagers hang out at McDonald's eating terrible, overpriced fast food in an attempt to be vulgarly chic; at a very nice cafe, while my friends and I ordered the plat du jour, the French group at the table next to us all ordered not-so-great-looking, 12 euro bacon cheeseburgers. Here they are, in the culinary capital of the world, and its citizens forsake that heritage of subtle, delicate food in the name of the fatty burgers. Porquoi?

"Tourist trap or sacred space?"

My first trip to Notre Dame, on one of the first three days here, was a crushing disappointment. I can't describe it any other way- I wanted to cry, and not in the good way. The courtyard was packed, filled with loud tourists, gypsies selling trinkets, begging children; there was an international bread festival blaring bagpipes (don't ask), and a basketball game going on in the courtyard, with a loud announcer who kept breaking out into beat-boxing. The noise and crowd were so much that I decided to hold off going inside out of sheer disgust.

After the week in the Loire I came back, wary but determined. When I came there again, it was crowded and loud, but after a long wait in line I made it in. The organ blared, nearly shaking the building, and I cried. It was beautiful- after the din and confusion, the all-encompassing music and the delicate rose windows, the image of the twelve-starred virgin at the very top of the ceiling, made up for it all.


"Living History"

Shakespeare Books Co. was one of my favorite stops on the walk, because it gave a sense that the past isn't dead. Yes, I know that Notre Dame is still a functioning church; but look at the art and architecture- 500 years old= pretty new. But too see people living and working and actively continuing an art form- it was a relief to see active life.

to whom it may concern

(mom)

Just because I posted that poem does not mean I am getting drunk and flirting with boys. I've liked that poem for the past year, and Rimbaud's huge here because he's sort of like the ultimate young French poet.

Do not worry. I have been saintly.

how many stereotypes

So I bet you're wondering, "How many stereotypes of a young, wannabe bohemian American in Paris can Kelly possibly try to emulate?" Oh, reader. There are so many. This will be the first in a long series.

STEREOTYPE NO. 1: THE POET.

I caved in. After a long period of looking at this book back home, I finally purchased the Selected Poems and Letters of Arthur Rimbaud. It has both the original French and English translation, a moody yet sexy portrait of the poet on the cover, and gives me mad street cred on the Left Bank. The only issue is that it was kind of pricey for a paperback.



But the good news about price? I got it at Shakespeare and Company Books, the hangout of Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and Henry Miller, among others. And I got a stamp to prove it.


Euros well spent. Here's one of my favorites by Rimbaud...

I

When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...

II

- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...

June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...

III

Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,
- When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...

And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...

IV

You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear, you are not quite the thing.
- Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!

That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...
- You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...

chartres

Though I'm settled in Paris now, I'm going to do some backtrack blogging. Here is Chartres- only a few pictures, because blogger is slow and iphoto is not so nice.


The front of the cathedral- you really can't believe how tall and skinny it is until you stand in front of it.


The door! Pretty much everyone you could think of is represented here- angels, saints, Jesus, and there might even be an Elvis...


Chartres holds the largest collection of medieval stained glass in the world- unfortunately I was only able to get one clear picture of it. There was a "Jesse tree" depicting the lineage of Christ that I'd give a limb or two for a clear photo of. But, c'est la vie. The glass is beautiful- gemlike, really- and almost blinding in contrast to the darkness of the cathedral.

This is one of those random, tiny sections of the outside of the cathedral which lends itself to ten thousand different views. Three cheers for the Gothic- every angle presents something new and exciting.

saturday night

Walking back to the hotel from a cafe at midnight with my roomate, we were approached by two French hipsters, looking pale and pretentiously scuzzy in indie rock shirts which you know cost a minimum 30 euros. They came up and asked us for directions... IN FRENCH.

Seriously. I got asked for directions. In the Marais- this is like the Soho/Greenwich Village of Paris- by hipsters. As in, I looked like I was French, knew what I was doing, and knew my way around the Marais.

I CAN DIE HAPPY!

an american in paris

So, an American girl finds herself across the Atlantic, nestled in the heart of the Marais for a month. What is she to do? Well, other than taking pretentious, hipster-esque self portraits of herself on her macbook, she must blog. Thus, "miss kelly in paris" now launches itself onto the web. Because, while we'll always have Paris, there's something to be said for keeping those experiences alive in print.