One "art", please.

Part I: An Internal Monologue, set at the Finnish Museum of Contemporary Art, KIASMA.
Warning: I experience art much like a 7 year-old.

"Man, this is a particularly awesome modern art museum !

How great to be out of the hamster wheel of everyday life. It's like...sometimes in Paris, it's sort of like living in..a bubble....

....Hey, what's this next room? Ooh !

Shiny Round Things !

Step in ? Why, don't mind if I do...!

Wait, what's that written on top of the footprints ?!

WHAT THE.. ? Noooooo!

Is this exhibit called, "This is your life." ?! 

Dear FH, you will be trapped. In a bubble/ hamster wheel. Forever. 

Happy crushing self doubt!

Sincerely,

Art exhibit.

[Slumps against side of literal life bubble in defeat.]
You win this time, Art ! Curses !

(Side note: There is a word for this, no? - the literal interpretation of a figurative expression ?)


Part II: Here's a mini walk-through of this legitimately amazing exhibit : This is a Set Up. It's about blurring the lines between spontaneous and planned experiences of art....etc. etc. - there's a, uh, lovely description on the link.  Don't worry, I won't impose my completely pathetic amateur art critiques.

RIBBONS ! It is half a room full of long, heavy ribbons. That you can walk through !
This may be about reorienting your sense of space, or it could just be about how walking through lots of ribbons feels REALLY COOL.
In my future house : big heavy ribbon room. No, not a curtain. A room. It's actually very relaxing.

If you look carefully, that is a fallen tree, in a snowglobe, that crushed some guy.
Morbid, maybe. Personally, I found this (to quote any comedy movie review) Laugh Out Loud Hilarious !
See, look at me experiencing art.

Bad image quality, but this was an entire room, called "Story Café" where the artist interviewed people from around the UK, and you listened to their stories (about anything, really) in a comfy vintage chair and headphones.
This was about this woman's childhood growing up as the only black girl in an English town in the early 70's. It was captivating !
Experiencing : Interest, sympathy. Clever art!

Ugh, KIASMA, What did I say about not making this personal!
Experiencing : Stupid... invasive... art exhibit...grumble...

Russian nuclear fallout posters.
NB: I think this was not "art" but a matreshka museum of Fire Safety History (no, really) within KIASMA.
Experiencing : First thought : Ooh, this would make a great poster for my room. 
                        Second thought : Wait no, no it would not !

Ok, the 7th strong Finnish coffee is finally wearing off.
Time to go have nightmares about art.

#24: Division of Labor

A smattering of tiny plays about France : 
# 24 : Division of labor

Our main character, the American Girl parks her shamefully Bobo vintage Peugeot bicycle in front of a coffee shop. 
As it happens, the bike stand is a few inches from a homeless man, basking in the sun, surrounded by empty bottles of wine. 

AG: Er, Bonjour

HM: Grrruhhm

AG : [with awkwardness] Could you keep an eye on my bike for me? [offering a friendly smile, as if to show the good faith in this potential transaction]

HM : I have other things to do!  It's not my responsibility!

AG : [slightly shocked. Shrugs, walks away]

After three years in France, it occurs to AG that this is by no means abnormal. It is the reigning principle of public civil servants: "If it is not in my job description, I will not do it nor take any responsibility for telling you how it works". And, apparently, this trickles down to those without a permanent address. This is no means a negative reflection on this homeless gentleman - it just wasn't part of his (un)employment plan.


Fair enough, n'est-ce pas?  

The Only Living Boy in New Delhi

I was sent the following account of a drunken rickshaw drive in New Delhi, and its brilliance earned it a guest spot.  A big cheers to my dear buddy ILR, sorely missed in Paris :

The Only Living Boy in New Delhi:

 (ILR in red) 

 
"Aap ka naam kya hai?"

My name is Bobby Sir,.

Bobby? Is that your real name?

No Sir.My real name is Bhadrinwale.

Ah I thought so.

 My friends call me Bobby and you sir your face is very kind.

Well thank you Bobby, you seem very nice too.

You have big big eyes like my little boy, i am thinking you are lucky to have these eyes. You have kind eyes, you be Bobbys friend.

Well I hope so. (Why not? Let's be friends then Bobby)

With these eyes, With those biceps (He suddenly pivoted on his seat and grabbed hold of my arms, while the rickshaw drifted into another traffic lane) You have soooo many girlfriends, yes?

Well not really, Bobby. please watch the road (A truck furiously honked, and a goat barely avoided a grisly death)

What you no married? You have girlfriend though? (He drew up close, his beard lit up by a manic grin. His whisky-laden breath hit me like a sledgehammer.)
You have how many girlfriends?One, Two, Three? You have sexy moments with them yes? Verrrryyy nice....

Well Bobby, I dont really have a girlfriend no. There is a girl I love and I think she loves me but its complicated.

Where she from sir? She nice indian girl from Kashmir?

No she's not a nice Indian girl from kashmir. She's a nice girl from Lebanon.

Loban? Is where sir? USA?

No Lebanon. Its a country, in the Middle East, or West Asia as you call it here in India.

Pfff. I never heard this place. Small country, na?

Yes, a small country, that's right.

She pretty?

I think so yes. I think she's very pretty.

She make good babies for you. Babies look nice and strong after?

Well its a bit too soon to think of babies, Bobby.What about you? Do you have any children?

Oh yes sir I have three. Two girls, one baby boy. (A telephone suddenly materialised from his pocket. The screen displayed a short video loop of a terribly cute toddler throwing a ball around in a little courtyard)

Oh Bobby, your son is very handsome. Those eyes are much bigger than mine. He's a beautiful little boy.

Thank you sir. I am very proud right now. ( Moved, he slid his phone into his pocket with trembling fingers.
Suddenly he pointed to an impressive-looking gurudwara).

You been in sikh temple sir?

Yes I have been many times to the Gurudwara Sis Ganj, in Old Delhi. Do you think I should visit that one over there one day?

Oh Yes sir. We go now, straight away. The rickshaw screeched into a U-turn and shot across the street.

No,no, Bobby not now, another time, I need to get back home and so do you, to your wife and beautiful children.

ahhh yes you is right sir...sorry..

No, it's ok, Bobby. Just get me back home.

It is just sometimes sir i see sikh gurudwara and my heart it jumps, I am so happy to be Sikh.

Yes i can understand, it is a fine belief. I have great respect for your religion, particularly the way Sikhs give out free food and water to people of any caste or religion.

Ah sir you are making me very happy right now by saying these things.What is your religion sir?

I am Christian but open minded and respect all beliefs.

I think at heart you are sikh sir. In another life you are sikh, i remember this, you forget I think.

Oh well..no i'm Christian but who knows yes maybe i was a sikh in another life.

No sir, you sikh.

OK, Bobby.

[A five minute interlude].

Hang on Bobby havent we been around this roundabout already about twenty minutes ago?

Oh yes sir you are right. I am sorry, signs are in hindi not punjabi is difficult for me.

Oh come on Bobby, focus! I want to get home.

Ok sir. Sorry sir.

[A slightly icy pause].

You still Bobby's friend?

Sigh. Yes, Bobby I am your friend.

Bobby smiled in relief. I could see his eyes staring at me through the grimy windmirror. After a few minutes I grew uncomfortable.

What, Bobby?

Your arms. You very strong.

[Embarrassed cough]. Er no not really.

I used to be strongest man in my village. Than I crash into tree with rickshaw and cut my arm. Look.

He extended his arm, it was crisscrossed by scar tissue.

Oh I'm sorry, Bobby.

I beat all other sikhs in arm wrestle. Even my cousin and he is soldier.

Wow.

 You arm wrestle me now sir?

Not now, you are driving.

Please.

No.

We arm wrestle when you arrive yes?

OK, then. Just get me there, for god's sake.

"For God's Sake"? I am thinking this is very christian. Maybe you not sikh.

Maybe not after all.

We finally arrived at the base. On seeing the Sikh sentry at the gate, Bobby let out a wild shriek of joy and sped towards him. I winced, closed my eyes, and silently hoped the sentries wouldn't open fire. I opened my eyes to see the soldier standing near me with a broad smile,

" this man, he comes from my village in Punjab! He say you wont arm wrestle with him. Why not?"

Errr no ok i'll arm wrestle. I won the first round. Bobby looked utterly downcast. I suggested another round, gave a cursory effort, and then collapsed in defeat, panting pathetically.

Ah sir! You see I still strong! I still so strong! Goodbye Sir!

And with a final spluttering of black smoke, his rickshaw careered off towards the darkening horizon.

Madness, self-reference, cupcakes.

1) Despite feeble efforts to keep this blog quiet, OLGIP was pulled up by some blog networking site as a "Top 35" blog under the category....madness.

Pardon? While I will probably never understand how this happened, I just wanted to say thank you to whomever categorized my blog as "Paris, Politics, Madness".  I mean, I would have preferred "angriness" but "madness" is a close second.  Shucks, guys! 

[wipes away tears of joy]

2) So,  I came across the following article. Three things: 

• Either I can assume that the obsession with T Magazine blog is mutual. Hey, NY Times copy editor stealing my blog titles, give me a call, anytime. sexy wink ! ...

• ... Or, perhaps, I was right and  the "Ceci n'est pas" is the most overused cutesy French-cum-English phrase in the entire world. I hate you, Magritte. I hate you and your stupid little pipe.

• CUPCAKES. I know they're overpriced and trendy, and urban twenty-something girls are almost comically obsessed with them. But, but, but... Oh my god, cupcaaaakes.

Read on :

Paris Sweets | Ceci N’est Pas un Macaron

|By ALEXANDRA MARSHALL April 20, 2010, 

As macarons make their way across the pond from France to New York, there has been a twee treats exchange: in various branché districts of Paris, le cupcake est arrivé. It’s not unlike New York City’s cakelet rush of the early aughts, though here, “Sex and the City” is only partly to blame. (Since the show came to French TV in 1999 and has run almost ever since, les filles have loved their Carrie, but many of the new bakers have come through the United Kingdom.) Last year, Synie’s Cupcakes opened in tony Saint-Germain, and in Abbesses, the Paris neighborhood that most resembles Magnolia Bakery’s West Village, there are not one but two new spots peddling the goods: Miss Cupcake, run by the 30-something ex-London-dweller Laurence Kreitmann, situated in the crook of the tiny rue Vieuville; and on the rue Lepic, the second outpost of Berko, a bakery destined to miff any New Yorker for its epitaph (“Original Cupcake”) and its prices — two euros for a cake about one-fourth the size of your average Buttercup Bakery wares.

Miss Cupcake’s Kreitmann returned to Paris after doing TV public relations in London. Struck by the frowny-face tenor of her hometown, she “wanted to bring [Parisians] some joy.” Though baking and peddling seven days a week is not necessarily a recipe for a sugary demeanor, Kreitmann, clad in a floppy lavender toque, takes pride in flavors both traditional (chocolate and vanilla) and Frenchified (orange-flower water and pistachio). The cakes’ texture is light and crumbly, the flavors mild, and the buttercream frosting sweet and fluffy enough to resemble what’s on offer at Carrie’s favorite spot. On a menu that also includes fruit tartelettes and American-style cheesecake, Berko has many more tastes at hand, with over 30 flavor combinations, from red velvet to green tea to apple tatin and nougat. Sadly, the cakes lack the moisture or strong flavor to stand up to the best.

 

Then there are the private bakers, such as Little Miss Cupcake and Sweet Pea Baking, both helmed by Americans. Already in demand as a caterer, Sweet Pea’s Alisa Morov has just published “Cupcakes” for Hachette’s food imprint, Marabout, adapting traditional recipes for French ingredients, like fattier butter and flour with higher gluten levels. She warns that some of the bigger providers (cupcakes are also available at Le Bon Marché’s Grand Epicerie and Monoprix) are simply taking a traditional French quatre-quarts cake (like an American pound cake) and slapping frosting on top.

To school the newbies, Molov has begun to offer private classes (for more information, go to sweetpeaparis.com). Last Friday, so did another pastry entrepeneur, Chloé Saada, who offered a baking and decorating course at Colette’s monthly Cooklette party downstairs at the store’s Water Bar. With savory, sweet and gluten-free recipes, Chloé S., as she is more often known, has already started selling at the Hotel Amour and Costes restaurants. Next week, she’s due to open a shop on the rue Pigalle. A former graphic designer who is attracted to the form for its decorative potential, Saada makes wonderfully moist, olive-oil-based cakes topped with stacks of speculoos cookies, sprinkles and even plastic flowers. The look is excessive, even for a country known for elaborate desserts. But then tearing oneself out of a sweet-treat straitjacket is bound to inspire some overreaction. And for once, the Parisians are not complaining.

Berko, 31 rue Lepic, 75018 Paris; 011-33-1-42-629-412
Hotel Amour, 8 Rue de Navarin, 75009 Paris; 011-33-1-48-783-180
Miss Cupcake, 22 rue la Vieuville, 75018 Paris
Synie’s Cupcakes, 23 rue de l’Abbé Grégoire, 75006 Paris; (+33 1) 45 44 54 23.

#367: Mac-DOH !

A smattering of tiny plays about France:
#367: Mac-DOH ! or, The Precautionary Principle, illustrated

An American girl homes her way to a McDonald's after a long night, seeking only the rarest of boissons in France - a watery fountain soda with many, many icecubes.

"One...large...very large drink, please," she says, clutching the counter like a (drunk) newborn child to its mother's breast.

...oh and could it actually be half Sprite, half Fanta?"

Caissière: [blank stare]

One is never too tipsy for an American can-do attitude.
"So essentially, it would be one large drink, containing half one soda, and half of the other."

The caissière pulls aside her manager. They consult in a scrum by the McFlurry machine.

The blonde looks on, wafting confusion and vodka.
The manager approaches, giving her a grim look.

"I'm sorry, we can't do that."

Pardon?

"You see if something were to happen to you...we would be responsible"

Just to clarify, "Something might happen to me... if you mixed two very similar sodas?"

"I'm sorry mademoiselle, we can't be held responsible."

Mais, bien sûr. Fountain soda machines are the new meth labs. To think that they put these public health menaces in the hands of the public in America.

Thank you France, for keeping us safe.

Mawwage.

The linguistic difference in Paris is both a pro and a con.
The "con" part is obvious. Even 3 years later, getting a verb tense wrong can make you feel like...
un con.

But, on the other hand, being an anglophone here is simply glorious.
English is the worst kept secret in Paris. But you're still in an exclusive club. Every time you pick up a menu, you can proofread the spelling mistakes. You can humble the cockiest banker by pronouncing the "H" in "'edge Fund."

And, there's a whole repertoire of French terms derived from English words, that are endlessly amusing.

For example, the classes at my gym :

"Body Combat"
Is actually : Cardioboxing class
Sounds like : A therapy group for self-harmers

"Body Pump"
Is actually : Weight and aerobics training
Sounds like : A colostomy bag.


There was a particularly awesome moment the other day.

At a recent conference in the presence of multiple American ambassadors, I sat behind two Secret Service agents, and listened to a vice president from a major French energy company give a speech in English on "Green Growss". Not just any English, but an accent that flew past 'th's, ignored every 'h' like a friend from an unpleasant past, and tacked on this weird intonation like Charlie Brown's teacher.  (wah woh wonn wohh...)

Actually, imagine the accent from the priest in the Princess Bride, combined with French, and in the body of a petite 35 year old woman.



It was just so extraordinary in its badness. Where could she have concocted such a weird accent ? Was she perhaps part Portuguese, part Lao, part French ?

As I was contemplating this, trying to disguise my laughter with coughs, I looked at the 250 lb, 6'4" security detail in front of me.  The two of them were caught in such a vicious giggle loop they were actually turning red.
These men, paid by the American government to be calm and look for security threats, were repressed-giggling like 12 year-old girls.
That, my dear highly-overpaid important French executive, is when you know you just have to give it up.

You'll never be in the club.

Ceci n'est pas du "pop"

Foreword: OLGIP isn't going devolve into a music blog. I'm pretentious, often about music, but I know my limits.

My music taste varies.
From painfully embarrassing screechy Euro technopop (I cannot believe I'm admitting this on my increasingly public blog) :



..to respectable, awesome, Baltimore-based Future Islands, described on their website as "Electro synthpop"



The common tie is "pop". Why does everyone needlessly apply that word to music that I like. Is it just to shame me? I think music journalists just enjoy tacking on as many adjectives as possible before "pop" because it provides a little zazz at the end.
"When I hear your voice I think : 'Nails-on-a-chalkboard-pop"

Even the sonority of the word is annoying. It reminds me of that stupid College game: "What region are you from - what do you call carbonated drinks?" devised to taunt the dweeby kid from the Midwest who inevitably chimes in  - "It's POP, man! Pahhhhhp!"
You know what? It's a stupid name for soda, and it's a stupid name to call every artist or song that I like. (This is not my fault, this is a fundamental problem with the music industry)

Still, I think I should try and wean myself off of all of this so-called "pop" music. Here are a few songs that I love that I have discovered or re-discovered  in the past 6 months that are NOT pop. But I can't be completely objective here.

Let's play a game, children : Pop or not Pop?

Minimalish beachside pop?
or Not Pop?:



Sobbing over your ex's Facebook page-pop?
or
Not Pop? 


EELS - That Look You Give That Guy - from HOMBRE LOBO from EELS on Vimeo.


Tattooed whiny French girl folkpop?
or
Not Pop?


Coeur de Pirate || Comme des enfants from Dare To Care Records on Vimeo.

Ten-to-Fifteen, don't do drugs, kids- pop?
or Not Pop?



Fine, this post had nothing to do with France other than the fact that France has egged on my pop habit. But the title is an over-used Magritte meme in France. That should count for something.

Anyways, help me with my pop habit, please.