art

Day 7: Letter to a friend
Some days stand out as highlights. Today was one such, thanks to a lovely dinner with M. Alain Le French Editor and his wife la belle dame Isabelle. Alain and Isabelle most graciously spoiled me with dinner at one of the famed Montparnasse eateries, with art on the walls (some of it rather nice), succulent lamb, and red wine full of sun. I would note that the baked chevre with tomate exceeded my expectations most delectably.

Even more delicious was the conversation. Cher M. Alain is a thoughtful, highly literate one, and his English is excellent. He had a lot of theories about the various social problems we chewed over, which included: the shifting generational financial profile; the next generation’s lack of understanding regarding sacrifice; racial and socioeconomic problems and the assimilation of immigrant cultures; the weight gain in the US and France (I blame high fructose corn syrup and the government spraying the civilian population with population control chemicals, he holds the disintegrating family unit responsible); and the waning of the American empire. There were, bien sûr, other topics as well.

Needless to say, it is a rich treat indeed to gorge on such intelligent discourse! And Alain and Isabelle shared some of their personal story, how they met and gently wound their way together. Of this, I shall only say: Alain is fortunate to have been given a second chance. But Isabelle didn’t fare too badly, either. Lovely men are special creatures, don’t you think? Wasn’t it you who said that men were a pitiful lot?

The rest of the day was quiet. A trip to the marché for cerise and apricots. Some reading, a load of laundry, yoga, note-taking. General holing-up and stewing-over-a-story stuff. I was not available for a trip to Notre Dame and decided to respect myself with greater truculence immediately–if not sooner. So I left a note outside on the floor, where anyone who wanted to slide paper into my apartment would have to look. The note inquired: “Why should I go to Notre Dame?”

While I was preparing a cheese plate for the arrival of my guests–Isabelle and Alain were coming by for an aperitif–Jean-Sven knocked on the front door. I kept silent. He would go away if he thought I wasn’t home.

“Traci, I know you’re in there,” Jean-Sven sang. “Traci, vite, maintenant!” He pounded.

I refused to answer.

“D’accord, be that way. But tomorrow is Angelique’s concert and we are all going, my friends and me. We will pick you up in the afternoon.”

I maintained radio silence.

“Why should you go to Notre Dame? Je pas, it’s a beautiful cathedral and that’s what all the tourists do!” he called. He waited. “You can’t hide forever. Tomorrow, then.”

I heard him tromp off, so I went to the door and peeked out the peephole. Mme Durand stood there, staring at my door as if mesmerized. Her door was open, her white hair fell out of its bun and draped down around her shoulders, and the beautiful Cezanne hung on the wall behind her, bathed in the aura of its beauty. I ran to get my cell phone to snap a pix but by the time I returned, her door was closed.

Perhaps you will see from today’s missive that your theories of thoughtful and considerate behavior apply not only to others, but to the self as well.

Day 6: Letter to a friend
Today was spent largely in the company of Janet Flanner—that is, perusing her book “Paris Was Yesterday, 1925-1939.” That period interests me greatly for a second—yes second—WW2 novel that I am working on, concurrently with the first WW2 novel and with the third and final book in the After Trilogy.

I wish there were more hours in the day to write! Especially here, where there are so many delicious streets to walk down and absorb into every angstrom of my being. It’s optimistic to think I can get a lot of pages pounded out when I am saturating myself with this city. It’s a process of enchantment and permeation, it demands its due.

Flanner’s observations over this period were originally sent to the New Yorker. They are useful as a resource for the texture of life during this era. What were people thinking about, what was daily life like, what were the concerns? Flanner has a gift for skewering the newsworthy figures of the day, and she has a lively, often elegant, way with the language. I read her and I meet a sharp mind at play. Orwell, “Politics and the English Language”—this woman could really think.

I’ve picked up “The Hollow Years” by Eugen Weber, but I doubt I will enjoy it so much. I spent some time contemplating Zola’s aggressive distaste for Carpeaux, especially his rant about “La Danse,” which Zola criticized as an offense to common decency. But the sculpture is gorgeously vital and masterfully realized. Zola should have pulled the stick out of his butt and enjoyed its energy.

It’s interesting how art has shifted; how it has strained beyond the bounds of energy into chaos. What is most distressing is how art has lost its grounding in mastery, and we are all poorer for it. Somehow the task is to bring mastery back—while retaining the richness and fullness.

You will find no salacious regrets in today’s missive. No matter what advice I may have been given about opening to eros by the Most Beautiful and Wayward Countess—who, by the way, much enjoyed meeting you, and has made several comments about you that would surely embarrass you. Were you open to hearing them from me, or I able to speak them gracefully to you. I’m afraid such matters mute me around you. Eros, indeed.

For reasons of my own I took a bus all the way out to Neuilly, enjoying the splendid weather currently gracing the City of Lights. I did not go to Place des Vosges to meet Francois.

And, as of this moment, if I go to Notre Dame tomorrow, it will NOT be because of the note slid under my door after a dinner of poulet roti and salade tomates: “URGENT, Notre Dame, tomorrow at 2:00 pm. Francois.”

Til tomorrow, and as always, with my warmest thoughts.

Day 5: Letter to a friend

So, friend, how are you doing? Do you even note my absence from our mutual city? I’m not sure you ever noticed my presence in it, so how could there be a void when I am away?

This morning I did a solid hour of yoga to make up for my excesses last night. Food, drink, and… Jean-Sven. He behaved himself at the restaurant, a Michelin-starred food utopia of hitherto undreamt of delights. You know the expression, “melts in your mouth”? Now I understand it. Only manna from God and the fare of this heavenly eatery merit the phrase!

This afternoon, after yoga and a nap, I went to the Musee D’Orsay. In addition to nurturing my soul with great art, I got to think about the social context of art. You know, the legacy publishers have become a kind of “Jury of the Academy,” rejecting anything outside their narrow definition of salable. I ought to rename Parvati Press “Press of the Rejects” after the salon the Impressionists established when they struck out on their own.

When I returned, I sat at my desk and looked at the 20 emails that had accumulated in my inbox. I heard the snick of paper sliding under my door. A folded note had been slipped through. I raced to get it. “Tomorrow, noon, Place des Vosges, Francois.” I threw open my front door but no one was anywhere! I knocked on Mme Durand’s door to ask her, but no one answered. Even when I pressed my ear to her door, the apartment was still, as if only yellow sunlight and swirling dust moved through it.

Oh, yes, last night, and penance. Jean-Sven listened to my lecture on my marital state and the requirements thereof with an implacable and beatific Scandinavian smile. I was relieved. We seemed to be on the same page. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, and with at least half my blood exchanged for alcohol of various sorts, we returned to our building.

Jean-Sven stepped back in gentlemanly fashion to let me unlock my door. I felt relieved. I turned to say good-bye and thank you for the extraordinary treat—and he stood, warm and large and solid, just a few centimeters from me.

I stopped breathing.

Jean-Sven didn’t say anything. His pupils were huge and black. He put his fingers delicately on the thin strap of my dress, the one running over my left shoulder. His large hand was warm and trembling. Then, ever so slowly, he pushed the strap down, onto my arm.

I could have, should have, stopped him.

He lowered his mouth to my shoulder and pressed his mouth into my flesh.

I still wasn’t breathing.

Jean-Sven ran his mouth up and over to the hollow of my neck.

At that point, I bolted inside.

Now one wonders how much one must confess to one’s spouse? Nothing happened, really. Nothing. And I’ve spend the day repenting for the nothing that happened.

In fact, I’ve been so sternly abstemious that I am having a pastry and wine for dinner. Would you approve? Doubtful, since you already disapproved of me quite thoroughly before I left.

I hope you are receiving these notes, and that they provoke a smile. Lord knows you seemed dour enough in our last few conversations–a smile would do you good.

This morning I was just heading out to the Musee de l’armee when a brisk knock sounded.

“I am Madame Durand, you will join me for tea,” said the neighbor, in that tone with which no one argues.

Tea consisted of a cup of overly sugared Earl Grey and questions. That is, she questioned me. I barely managed to answer one before she fired off the next. At a certain point Mme Durand seemed satisfied. She pointed at her door. “You will let yourself out, I am very old and my hip hurts,” she announced. Again, on the way out, I scrutinized the still life. I swear it is a genuine Cezanne! I will try to sneak a pix of it.

None the worse for the interrogation, I hiked to the museum to study WW1 & WW2–did you realize that De Gaulle recruited from the French African colonies for the Free French forces? Begins to make sense of the importance of the African theater, beyond natural resources, of course.

Back to writing until seven, and I was going to take myself to a brasserie around the corner for soup and people-watching when Jean-Sven knocked on the door. With him was a petite, exquisitely beautiful Asian woman, one of those flawless women you can’t believe exist outside of the nebulous world of film: all almond eyes and tiny carved features and silky skin. Her name is Veronique and she’s his girlfriend. They had wine with them and Jean-Sven claimed it was even better than the bottle from last night. He does have good taste and I figured they were people for watching, and anyway Jean-Sven was helping himself to the bottle opener and glasses before I could protest.