Stealing Paris

Today I received a notice from a reader that someone was using a photo from my blog, which had been doctored and captioned,  for a hateful and racist post on a Facebook page.

Steam poured out my ears.  As if this week hasn't been awful enough for everyone who loves Paris and France.

It is bad enough when people use photos or other artistic creations without attribution or permission.

Alas, sadly we bloggers get accustomed to that sheer theft for our finer works of art or prose.  It shouldn't happen, but it does, and we try to remedy the situation as best we can. (I've been writing this blog for 8 years without remuneration, just for the love of sharing my bit of France.  I cringe to think of the number of people who have used images or text from this blog without asking.)

Just ask me, and usually -- USUALLY -- I will give permission.

Fortunately, Facebook was responsive to my report of copyright abuse today.  And for the pages which had shared it.

Here's what I wrote to my friends.  I rarely swear, so you have to understand my outrage:

There are lots of photos of Paris, I know. But dammit, *I* spent the money to be there for that moment, to take my kids to Paris for New Years, to rent the apartment on that street, to take the time and effort to get up early to take the photo, to post in on my blog. All for free, to share the love of Paris on my blog. And some idiot A-hole thinks he can just appropriate it to promote some anti-Islamic crap? That's the outrage.

Here is my original blog post, dated January 1, 2011.

The New Year's photo from that post.  I love Paris!  I love so many friends in Paris, of all different races and nationalities.

And  -- gahhhh --here is the doctored photo that some despicable thieves used to promote their own hateful agenda this week.

Whatever can be done to knock down these messages is not soon enough.  Not only did they steal a photo of beloved Paris, but they contorted it and turned it into a message of hatred.  Thankfully, Facebook has been prompt in stopping these pages.

Let's get rid of these thugs' photos!

A table!

I just uncovered this quick ball-point sketch of me when I was about 13 or 14. It brings back such wonderful memories. I can't even remember the artist's name, yet he signed the sketch "I love you, Polly." What more could a teenager want?

Here is the scenario. I was the youngest of five children, and by the time I was a young teen, all of my siblings were off the social radar screen: Saturday night rolled around and they were away at boarding school or college or hanging out with the high school In-crowd in Philadelphia. Which left Polly and the parents. Social beings that they were, dinner parties were a frequent function. When those gatherings were chez nous, I was expected to join the adults at the table and be conversant, polite, and charming. I don't know how I measured up, but I know that it helped me learn to love dinner conversation, candlelight and starched damask napkins. The clink of silverware against china. Engaging in dialogue with adults, and having an opinion about current events.

I remember well the evening. My dinner partner -- a man my parents' age -- treated me as if I were a fascinating adult. I shared my naive views on politics and culture, and he responded with aplomb and appreciation. I blossomed. I was treated as a grown-up! Right there at the table, he asked, "May I sketch you?" And so we giggled conspiratorially and temporarily ignored the other guests for a few minutes while I found a Bic and some paper and he whipped up this sketch at the corner of the dinner table. Suddenly I no longer felt like the baby brat of the family, but a privileged participant in a grown-up world, even though I was wearing a cotton A-line skirt and a striped Skyr turtle-neck. I've kept the portrait to this day: an important reminder. I wish I could remember his name to thank him for the transformational moment.

So, what does this have to do with my love of France? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. I know that when I first spent time in France a few years later, it felt so natural, so elemental, to be reveling in dinner conversation. It still does. I don't know to what extent my own children have learned this joy of inter-generational socializing. In France -- at least among my French friends -- this still is the norm. All ages gather at the table and get along (or not!) with verve.

A few years ago I was sitting with a friend in Paris who was feeding her toddler in his high chair. She said, lovingly, "Tiens-toi comme il faut," and made sure he sat up straight, before giving him the next spoonful. He giggled and clowned and wiggled, then sat up tall for his next bite. Then smiled and batted his eyes at us.

Early dinner party training?

Mutual Admiration Society Film Festival?

Let's face it, folks.  We really do love each other, the U.S. and France.  Or at least we are endlessly fascinated with each other.  And there's no sign of this mutual admiration's waning.  Au contraire.

Here's a bit of culture news that caught my eye.  Opening this week  in New York is American filmmaker Frederick Wiseman's documentary of the ballet at the Palais Garnier. La Danse: the Paris Opera Ballet promises to be a fascinating glimpse behind the scenes at that elegant institution.



So why did I laugh when I read the review?  It had nothing to do with Wiseman's film per se.  There was just a bit of ironic timing.  A cultural juxtaposition, the kind that always hits my funny bone.

This week at the Virginia Film Festival, French cineaste Claude Miller will be screening the American debut of Marching Band.

Both of these documentaries are appealing.  I can't wait to see them.  But it tickled me to realize that this week in film news, France sees American culture through the lens of two southern university marching bands, whereas America views French culture as quintessentially elegant ballet.

Anyway, I was thinking how fun it would be to screen those two movies together. Because, really, we do love each other, we French and Americans. Are we drawn to what we find most exotic in the other culture?

So my morning java-inspired idea began evolving.  There are already a host of excellent French Film festivals in the US each year.  And of course the Deauville American Film Festival in France.  But how about creating an annual French/American film festival, to be held on both sides of the Atlantic?  It would feature, side by side, French documentaries about the US and American documentaries about France.  In France the screenings would no doubt be accompanied by débats philosophiques sprinkled with the phrase regards croisés. Maybe a flute of champagne.  In America they would probably be accompanied by hot dogs and apple pie, plus brie and baguettes. Right?

Just an idea.

image from Virginia Film Festival

Blog Action Day 2009

Today is Global Blog Action Day.  When I was first asked to participate, I knew immediately what I wanted to write about.

If you have an hour and a half to spare for the planet, I highly recommend French photographer and environmentalist Yann Arthus-Bertrand's exquisite 90-minute documentary Home, produced by Luc Besson.  The photography is breathtaking and the message is compelling.  Earth is our fragile island home -- the only home we have.  Our challenges in taking care of our home today and in the future are complex.

Arthus-Bertrand, perhaps best known for his documentary and book Earth from Above (La Terre vue du ciel) has given up author's rights to Home so that all may see it on the web.  You'll be glad you did.

For more information check out his website GoodPlanet.

Vent or ventilate?

Very soon, at Charles de Gaulle Airport, indoor smokers’ cabins will be installed in each wing of the Galerie Parisienne, and also in the corridors between Terminals 2D, 2F, and 2E. Overlooking the runways, each transparent Plexiglas cabin will accommodate up to 15 smokers at a time. Orly, on the other hand, will still restrict smoking to designated outdoor areas.

I gleaned this intriguing tidbit of information from the Aeroports de Paris magazine.

Here are a few interesting comments I’ve translated from the website of ExpairSystem, the manufacturer of the Smokers’ Cabins. Interesting, because in my mind it illustrates a difference between French and American views of smokers. In America, I think we tend to say “Just say NO to smoking!” Read on.

"Why Install a Space for Smokers?

Smokers’ cabins benefit everyone, both smokers and non-smokers.

They take into consideration both the respect for all those around us and the laws protecting all from second-hand smoke.

They protect non-smokers from secondhand smoke but also respect smokers in light of their tobacco dependence.

According to statistics, smokers still comprise 30% of the French population. They have rights to equal treatment. For some, cigarettes are a drug.

Being prevented from smoking can cause, in some cases, behavior that is aggressive and sometimes uncontrollable and stupid.

Because for these people, it's not easy to find a substitute for a cigarette.

Because it's not always easy to manage stress. So, what is the least harmful solution for their health: light up a cigarette or be prescribed antidepressants?

Because the absence of special smoking places can produce impolite behavior or improper behavior, potential risks of accidents (smoking in bathrooms, smoking in dangerous but hidden locations, hiding butts in seat cushions etc., which cause fires). Installation of smokers' cabins assures a plan based on practical solutions of managing smoking risks.

Because it can help your business -- you will not lose clients just because they can no longer smoke inside your establishment. In addition, non-smokers can visit your premises in total peace and enjoyment."

I saw one of these cabins (website http://www.expairsystem.com/) in use in a private club in Paris on rue de Rivoli last winter. I have to say it was pretty cool. The smoker was on the inside, leaning on the mini-zinc having a glass of wine and a cigarette, and he could still see and converse with his non-smoking friends outside the Plexiglas, through the ventilation holes. Not a whiff of smoke outside the cabin. And not that horrible stale tobacco odor lingering on the clothing of the smoker who's just come in from the cold, because in the cabin the smoke gets pulled away immediately.

I wonder. Only 20% or so of Americans smoke cigarettes, last I heard. Would we be this pragmatic? Should we vent about smokers or ventilate them?

Palling Around with Tourists

What's all this fuss I've been hearing about that nice man, Barack Obama, "palling around with tourists"?

Someone seems to think that there's a problem or some danger with that. What's-her-name. Tina Frey? Tina Fay. Tammy Faye? Whomever. Whoever that silly lady is with the poofy hair and mascara who talks a lot and doesn't really say much. I think this is a shameful and slanted statement for her and her partner to make.

Tourists are lovely people. Why, I often have houseguests here in Paris; and when they are visiting me, well, gosh darn, they are tourists in Paris. And I pal around with them a lot. I may not be running for president of these United States, but I don't see anything wrong with befriending the tourist.

My friends are tourists. Tourists are my friends. And tourists are an important part of the global economy, which needs all the help it can these days. With my pals, we go to all the tourist places, and we buy snow-globes of the Eiffel Tower. And key chains! We provide jobs to those trinket-sellers. We ride the double-decker buses. And certainly, I admit it's a bit embarrassing to be seen with them in their windbreakers and white sneakers and Cubs baseball caps, or -- even worse -- when they wear berets to try to look like rakish Frenchmen. But heavens, it's not sinful, and certainly not worth whatshername telephoning all my friends about with automatic robo-phone calls.

I think we should make up hundreds or thousands of tee-shirts that say "I've been palling around with tourists." And be proud of our friends, The Tourists.

Oh -- what's that you say?

Oh.

Never mind.

We Are Animals in Blue Jeans

The latest Wrangler's television commercial has been gaining a bit of attention in the US, from what I've heard. The voice-over is distinctly French, and the philosophy is 100% existential.

Reaction has been mixed, I gather; but I liked its intelligent approach. Le mythe de Sisyphe and all that.

There was only one cultural speed-bump for me, when I thought the French voice was asking, "Why do we spit up?" (Yeah, I used to have little babies. We had terry shoulder towels for that. Never enough time to ask "why?")

Gawker, on the other hand, though the ad was fit for the poubelle, not for American consumption.

What do you think? Is it a pretentious French approach or a thoughtful, daring attempt at making American consumers (dare I say) think?

French admen Fred & Farid -- no strangers to brazen ad campaigns, like their Orangina "Naturellement Pulpeuse" series -- are avant-garde enough to break into the American market with a notably philosophical ad.

China's Eiffel Tower, Part 2

Random thought for the day...

With the current political tensions between France and China, I wonder what's happening with that new Eiffel Tower in Hangzhou. The luxurious Champs Elysées real estate, the French vineyards. View more pictures of it here.

Photo by damnfunnypictures.com

Prenez Soin de Vous/Take Care of Yourself

Yesterday I -- okay, the proper verbs are failing me -- what did I do? I visited, experienced, participated in, reveled in, absorbed, saw, adored... Aw, heck: I went to the Sophie Calle exhibit "Prenez Soin de Vous" at the Bibliotheque nationale on rue de Richelieu.

It was brilliant. I had grave reservations about it as we entered the doors of the magnificent, elegant reading room and I heard the cacophony in the normally hushed vaulted space. This is an art exhibit? I was wondering. (I'm no art critic, as you may have guessed. I simply record my reactions, talk about what resonates.)

I knew that the premise of the exhibit was that an artist, Sophie Calle, has received a siyonara letter from her hitherto loving sweetheart, which was filled with lame excuses and a final phrase, "Prenez soin de vous:" Take Care of Yourself. I knew that Calle had then taken that letter to 107 women (no idea how that number was chosen) and had them interpret, dissect, enact, react to the letter. The exhibit was a smash hit at the Venice Biennale des Arts last fall.

So I decided to be more avant-garde and hip than my usual mundane self, and check out the exhibit, mostly because I love the Bibilotheque Richelieu, and also because I see so much "old art" in Paris, I decided it was time for me to get more contemporary.

It was brilliant. Did I say that already? It was brilliant, not only as a work of conceptual art, but as a social force. The reactions of 107 females, aged 9 to 90, (that's my guess) slashing their way through this letter. Deconstructing it. Whether it's a work of fiction or reality doesn't even matter.

Imagine printing up a copy of a hi-oh-and-by-the-way-I'm-dumping-you-goodbye letter from your beloved, and having it read and interpreted by, among others, a lawyer, a clown, a young teen, a police commissioner, a singer, an actress, a cartoonist, a comedian (with inflatable dolls and other paraphernalia), a professor, a dancer, a proofreader... well, it goes on. All recorded on video, audio, origami, opera, ink, whatever medium. Not only is it wonderful performance and visual art, it is the best possible sweet revenge imaginable. You know what I mean.

In any case, if you are in Paris, and you have the chance to visit this exhibit, GO. And it's not just because it's an exhibit that you can look at blessedly sitting down occasionally (watching the videos on the reading desks). It's also for the experience of the other people around you. Some people laughed teary-eyed at parts I thought were bland. Other parts I hooted at hysterically, which other people had moved on from, unmoved. Much is in French, but after viewing a few of the English-language versions, you'll understand the whole work of art more fully.

I am not an art critic , because I find the ineffable just that -- ineffable. In terms of recommendations, I usually simply want to slap someone hastily across the cheek and say, "Don't ask; I can't tell you why you should go, just GO!" Not very delicate or ladylike or descriptive of me. And I've never slapped anyone in my life, so please do me a favor, and just GO! Go see this exhibit. If you don't like it, I don't want to hear about it.

A book version exists of "Prenez Soin de Vous" as well. But the only medium I haven't seen used to interpret The Letter is the internet.

So, maybe ... should this exhibit get launched on a virtual extension not yet undertaken by Sophie Calle? As I wandered through, awestruck, I thought -- what if I took a picture of me reading The Letter in front of a performer reading the letter, and posted it on my blog? A mise en abyme of the event itself. Or -- what if the internet took on this art and turned it into another art? Turned the letter into a sort of tag or meme and thousands of internauts re-interpreted the letter too? Ah, I can dream.

If Sophie Calle had asked me to do an artistique interpretation of such a letter (and I won't take it personally that she didn't, for now), I would have re-intrpreted it as a disposable toilet-seat cover, or a new designer Band-Aid strip -- or a barf-bag on a very, very turbulent flight. So what if I'm an artistic simpleton? It was that brilliant, that inspiring.

How would you artistically interpret such a letter? Here it is, in English.

Pass it on.

Mania

Remember watching on black-and white TV the crowds of screaming girls, bouncing in their seat, tears streaming down their cheeks, during the Beatles' concert on the Ed Sullivan show in 1964, or Shea Stadium in 1965? (Or at least have you seen video clips of it on You Tube?) Those girls were shrieking so loud you could see their tonsils. That wasn't just show, it was sheer idolatry, whipped up to a frothy frenzy.

Remember the throngs of fans, the police barricades keeping the crowds from crushing their heroes? How the Fab Four greeted their well-wishers, signed autographs. Sometimes a too-ardent fan might try to snip a lock of hair, or would give anything to have a piece of their idol's personal property? If an admirer was close enough to touch a sleeve or, the ultimate -- shake a hand -- they sighed in sweet agony, "I'll never wash that hand again."

Remember how Beatles souvenirs were everywhere? If you had even a tattered ticket stub to a concert, that was gold. Failing that, younger members of the groupie generation got Beatles lunchboxes or other widely available memorabilia.

Many got Beatles haircuts. The Beatles were simply all the rage. There was nothing they could do, nowhere they could go, that wasn't of highest interest and utmost fancy and fantasy. We were a nation on the verge of a new order, and the Beatles, the heroes from the other side of the pond, symbolized everything in that new way of thinking of ourselves as a nation.

Well, in 1824-1825, the Marquis de Lafayette, the last living general of the Revolutionary War, toured the young United States and created that socio-cultural phenomenon. Perhaps he was the first "American Idol" on a road tour.

Adopt-a-Tomb

It may come as no surprise that I am sometimes taken by flights of fancy. Noble, idealistic causes, to be sure. I'll get a sudden brainstorm, a passion for a plan that Ought to Be, and I simply can't let go of it at least until I've made an effort. Just call me Donna Quixote. Madame Quichotte en français. It's bigger than I am, this tilting at windmills. I specialize in dreaming the improbable dream.

One year ago today I proposed my wild idea of a human chain spelling "Merci, Art!" as a tribute to Art Buchwald at Thanksgiving. Sadly, time ran out before it could get organized. Of course, if we tried again this year, Art could look down from his big writing desk in the sky and chuckle.

My latest crazy notion has to do with cemeteries. Parisian cemeteries. The idea first began to germinate 18 months ago when visiting Père Lachaise with my son. Of course we made the requisite trip to pay homage to Jim Morrison's tomb. Much to my surprise, and to my son's dismay, there were two guards keeping eager tourists away from the grave. I wondered if there were, therefore, a full-time salary or two that comes out of the City of Paris coffers just to keep American fans from stealing more chunks of the stone. That didn't seem right.

Then, looking around, I began to think: what if there were a "Friends of Père Lachaise" organization that had an adopt-a-tomb program? Individuals from all over the world could make donations to a specific tomb in order to support its maintenance. Some of the tombs are looking a little shabby, and many have no one to care for them any more and have an uncertain fate.

Okay, she's certifiable, you're thinking. Get the white-coat guys, pronto.

But really, I'm not. It's a wee bit pie-in-the-sky, I admit, but not totally harebrained.

You see, my professional background -- in addition to improbable dreams and witty, entertaining writing -- is actually in fund-raising, especially for American organizations relating to France. You have to have a lot imagination and lot of faith that dreams can be realized if you want to raise money from donors. Somehow I can often sniff out opportunities for the Next Cool Thing that can be done. It's just an intuitive thing. But first you have to galvanize support. Lots of it.

But usually this happens: I'll wax rhapsodic about my lofty scheme. Listeners nod encouragingly, show enthusiasm; then when they think it will have to involve their effort, they begin to glance at their shoes, they start shuffling their papers, and then say "Um... I think I have to get back to my cubicle."

Invariably, three years later, one of them comes up with a brilliant idea at a staff or committee meeting -- MY idea! -- and gets fame and glory and a year-end bonus for being so clever. This is my fate in life.

This time I'm at least publishing my idea first.

Granted, there are a few pesky little speed-bumps to smooth out in the Adopt-a-Tomb program. First, would the City of Paris even want the rest of the world to adopt these tombs financially? I'll have to ask. But imagine the thrill of being able to be part of a team that pays for the maintenance of Sartre's or Piaf's tomb, for example, or any of the many notables buried in Paris cemeteries. (Or if you are Mr. & Mrs. Gottrocks Gigabucks Jr., you could underwrite a whole tomb with a grant from your family foundation. Whee!) You could come to visit "your" tomb when you're in Paris.

There are other political and practical considerations to address, but none are insurmountable. There are other important French cultural institutions that are supported in part by "American Friends of" groups. Why not cemeteries?

So there it is. If I have to get back to my cubicle and can't take on this Paris windmill, I hope that some other Don Quixote will.

Let's (All) Go to the Movies

Fellow Parisian blogger Tacoma Girl has a great post on going to the movies in Paris.

I love all aspects of cinema here, too. Except for one. I wish at least one movie house would offer French movies with English subtitles. So many of my anglophone expat friends, even those whose French is pretty strong, just skip French movies because it's too much of a strain to follow the French dialogue, and pay 9 euros to suffer. Thus thousands of Americans, English, Canadians, etc., who have chosen to live in Paris in part because of the wonderful culture, are shut out from one of the country's greatest art forms.

Here's the typical scenario: four friends get together for a movie and dinner. One of them is not so keen on a French movie because of the language barrier, so all four (even if two are French) will go to an American movie instead. This happens over and over.

And how about tourists? Millions of visitors from all nations who come to Paris have English as a first or second language. If one big cinema house -- oh, perhaps on the Champs Elysees -- showed French movies with English subtitles, everyone could then experience newly released French films as part of their cultural visit, instead of waiting to see them months later at home, if ever. Instead, they watch v.o. American movies in Paris. Or none at all. A sad state of affairs.

So if France wants to really promote its culture, why not make films accessible for all (or at least many many more)? Many museums now have signage in three languages. Most French movies are already produced with English subtitles -- but for international export only. They just aren't shown here.

My point is: what is more representative of French culture: American movies with French subtitles or French movies with English subtitles? The verdict is a no-brainer to me.

How about it, moviemakers? UGC? Gaumont? Why not give it a try?

Just think: you could do it for the sake of art, for pride in a great national culture. Or you could do it for the sake of increased sales.