When your reading list looks like this, there’s only one thing to do.
In the mid to late 1800s, Felix Nadar, a French photographer, experimented with and pioneered the use of artificial lighting in photography. Nadar was the pseudonym of Gaspard-Félix Tournachon, born in the 19th century and died in the early 20th century; both birth and death were witnessed by City of Lights where Nadar was also buried, in the Pére Lachaise Cemetery. Not quite as impressive as the recently deceased woman who “lived in three centuries,” but what he lacked in temporality he made up for in technical achievement and inspiration.
Below are a few of Nadar’s portraits that especially captivated me, in large part because in some instances I had concocted completely different images in my mind (eg., Manet) and in other instances, I realized that I had never bothered to imagine a visage for said person (e.g., Rodin). And the ones that render me speechless (e.g., Bernhardt). The portraits evoke in me a deep sense of gratitude for the basic notions of light and dark, and caught in the spaces in between is the very essence of the camera obscura out of which the camera as we know it now was first born; wherein:
“The dark, far from representing a total absence, remains in our photographs like information at rest.”—Cia de Foto (h/t @_firescript)
For a more complete look at Nadar’s photographic works around the world, goto Felix Nadar Online.
August 2nd, 2012 — Eighty-eight years from the day that James Baldwin was born, on a Saturday in 1924. For the man who turned an arbitrary day into a date to mark, a few of his words woven into scenes of the Paris streets he loved to walk.
“the intangible dreams of people have a tangible effect on the world.”
“Experience, which destroys innocence, also leads one back to it.”
“I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that. So are we all.”
… sometimes it pours and sometimes things look shiny and new. this week, in the city of light both were true and in the glimpses of sun and dryness amidst the mist, the landscape of sound came truly alive.
i spent this visit — and if you’re keeping track, that’s three times to paris, which sounds obnoxious only until you realize that it’s a mere 2.25 hour train ride from london and there are people who do this every weekend! and as some of you know, in my real life i’m used to a 2-hour journey to and from homes, so… — staying in the 13th arrondisement and while my walks took me to both familiar and foreign corners, i enjoyed getting to know this neighborly section of paris in a new way, learning its contours of art on walls and through window arrangements.
the 13th is a bit removed from the center of town, not that there is an exact center per se, so perhaps it is more apt to describe the region around maison blanche in the words of a colleague who has lived there for several years: an area alive with immigrant communities, particularly from east asian countries, where the thai, laotion, and japanese restaurants are owned and operated by people from those respective countries. hues of skin were darker here, with predictable tropes of valid citizenship and belonging thick in the air as strangers and emigrants seek to be recognized as citizens. to emphasize the varying forms of exoticizing and ostracizing behaviors he has witnessed, my colleague told me a story about a conversation with a teacher while picking up his children from school. he is american and in this first exchange with his eldest child’s new teacher he was praised for raising his children as bilinguals. he said he later laughed because many of the parents all around him were also raising their children as bilinguals, however their “other” language — the primary language being french, of course — was something other than english (or american, as the rest of the world refers to our ways of talking). as an american he is both fetishized and kept at a distance. whereas he is expat, his neighbors are immigrants. will either ever really belong in a land where its inhabitants, like in many other parts of the world, are caught up in ongoing battles over who has the real right to be and live and own pieces of the earth?
this conversation weighed on my mind as i mind as i wandered, first south and then into pockets of winding streets near the bastille and then the next day deeper into the 13th where at one point i found myself standing on the corner of hope and providence — that is, at the intersection of rue de l’esperance and rue de la providence.
and on these walks i encountered moments and signs that reaffirmed for me the familiar adage that our differences are what we have in common; they are what unite us.
as usual, i walked with no plan and found my way into the jardin du palais royal, listened to church bells ring the eglise saint-sulpice — and once lured in, i and many others who had taken refuge from the rain were treated to a magnificent organ concert. i think the organist was showing off, and rightfully so! — and stood with the audience that had spontaneously gathered around a man playing a piano in the middle of one of the bridges that connects ile de la cite with ile st louis.
i had not yet made it to shakespeare and company on this visit, so after the evening concert i wandered there on my last night in paris and listened as lydia davis read some of her very short stories for which she is apparently famous. i was not aware of this author before that evening, but apparently she lives in new york and is somehow affiliated with nyu — all this, according to the young woman who ardently and somewhat nervously read the introduction she had prepared in honor of the author.
listening and seeing and looking, i kept returning to the same thought over and over again. it was a riff on what has continued to intrigue me, and at times anger me, about the ways in which humans treat humans. each of us is bizarre in our own way; what makes one person’s strangeness any better or worse than another’s? someone tweeted a comment the other day about an average new yorker meeting as many people in one week as a medieval person would have met in a lifetime. i have no idea whether that is true or not, but i have to believe, even in the smallest town that time informs geography; that we must know that our occupation of a plot of land is temporary. there were others who came before and others who will be here after we’re no longer living in our house, this neighborhood, a particular state or country. could it be that time is just a maypole standing still and watching as we dance around until our ribbons come to an end?
during the rainy sunday, i sat for a while in cafe de flore, where baldwin is said to have written a draft of go tell it on the mountain. the symphony of voices faded into the background as i read studiously from my ipad and wondered how recently the red leather seats might have been reupholstered and whether this was the arrangement of tables, chairs, and waitstaff during the time of baldwin’s visits. i had left my copy of j.m. coetzee’s disgrace in the hotel room so i started reading pigeon english by stephen kelman, which i had learned of while sitting in the audience of someone’s conference presentation earlier this month. (i didn’t take a photo this time, so you’ll have to mash the next two together, and foreground the backgrounded cafe de flore, to imagine the rainy cafe scene i’m describing to you.)
i hope my ribbon has a lot of length left to it, if only to appreciate much more of the fantastic ways that others have decided to spend moments of their time — that is to say, by taking in and engaging with their words and music and other forms of art. and if by some chance i’m able to add some of my own to the mix, then how sweet that would be. maybe those hippie-dippy, flower children really had something…
And again I ask myself: what exactly is this life I’m living? If it’s a dream, don’t wake me please.
Scenes seen along and near the Seine last night:
(click on pics for larger, better view)
On the steel drums.
Underground in the metro.