Living in Paris, the art capital of the world (sorry New York), I find that I don't go to many art openings, or rather vernissages, at least not as much as I did when I was living in the unassuming LA, where the art scene is exploding. Wanting to get in touch with my inner art-house chick, I jumped at the invitation from my old friend Christophe to check out a show in my hood, the Marais.
Christophe was my first friend in Paris whom I haven't seen since he moved down to Nice with his girlfriend last summer. The last time I saw him was on Lundi de Pâques, the day off after Easter and I was in terrible shape. The night before, I had let MF come over and break up with me...again. He did that quite a lot. He'd insist that he wanted to see me, I would tell him that I would prefer to be alone, he would start crying which would give me a beacon of hope that we would work it out, allow him to come over where he would tell me that it is best for us to be apart and in essence, break up with me all over again! It was infuriating. He would leave, and all the work that I had spent building myself up and trying to move on would be demolished in under an hour.
Poor Christophe called me that Monday morning not expecting me to be so drained and sad from another sleepless night spent staring at my low ceilings. In an effort to cheer me up, Christophe proposed an afternoon Velib ride through Paris in the spring. This didn't cheer me up - at all. One, because I find riding a bike in Paris terrifying and two, I couldn't keep my balance because the dress that I wore was too long, and was getting tangled up in my legs as well as in the spokes and chain with each pedal. It wasn't relaxing, and I ended up just walking the damn bike. That was my last Velib ride.
Fast forward a year later from Velib and heartbreak hell, Christophe sent me a message yesterday afternoon saying that he was in Paris for work and was wondering if I wanted to check out an exhibit of French artist Rero at the Back Slash Gallery that he had to write a review about. He also wanted to know if I had cheered up a bit since we last saw each other. I think I can say with pride that I've cheered up since then. If not, good grief, we'd be in trouble here.
Walking up Rue Notre Dame de Nazareth, with the honey gold glow of the sunset reflecting off the pavement of this uphill street, I saw the silhouette of Christophe waiting outside for me, standing among other art gallery goers taking a smoke break. Art shows make me nervous because I always manage to stand out. I'm too bubbly, loud, and the mounds of Italian girl hair is never chic and sleek in an art setting, only if it's done to be ironic, but there's nothing ironic about my rat's nest. My hot pink dress in a sea of black didn't help me blend in either.
After our bisous and my American style bear hug attack, Christophe told me that he had taken a peek at the exhibit and was pleased that he was going to write a complimentary article, explaing that there's nothing worse than writing a bad review for an artist who had clearly spent time with an exhibition. I can only imagine. I would be a terrible critic, I think everyone should get a gold star for effort, right?
"At first, I wasn't sure about the exhibit because it has the ambiance of my bathroom" he said, looking at me through his thick black glasses where you can see through the other side that he would be completely blind without them, "But once I saw the show in its entirety, I understood what the artist is trying to convey," Back up, the ambiance of his bathroom? I didn't understand what that meant. Maybe this was "art talk" or a French expression that I wasn't familiar with, so like I always do when I don't understand something in French, I smile, nod and make a confirming sound effect like an "ah", "ah, ouais" or if I'm feeling adventurous, I'll throw an "ah, bon?" out there. I think I did a combo of them all.
It wasn't artsy fartsy talk or an ancient French expression that wasn't taught at Alliance Française, it was literal, Christophe is having work done in his bathroom and there's debris everywhere. This is the entrance into the show, stepping over chunks of smashed ceramic. Good thing I wore flats.
We walked through the show and Christophe made his little art critic notes which had us standing at each piece for about ten to twenty minutes as he analyzed the work, jotting down words like rendering, focal point, negative space, and juxtaposition. It reminded me of my 9th grade field trip to the Guggenheim, where our art teacher Miss Dundlin was in her element, and wore her most eccentric outfit, jeweled cat-eye glasses that day, and kept telling us in an annoying whisper to please "filter in", which just meant come in closer to the painting. I think it was Michelle, our grade's Daria clone who called her out on it and asked, "Why are you trying to sound all artsy?". All in all, it was a great night catching up with an old friend, letting him see that I haven't dropped dead over a bad break-up, seeing some art, even if I didn't understand every piece...or any of them, sipping on Bionade plant flavored soda, and poking fun at myself as yet another bull in a china shop story of my life in Paris unfolds.
Sea of Black.
Back/Slash Gallery Eidolon de Rero 29, rue Notre Dame de Nazareth 75003 Paris
