Then last Wednesday I mooched round the exhibition on 'Crime et Châtiment' at the Musée D'Orsay, after hearing a segment on France Inter, the French old people radio I listen to, broadcast live from its opening. We began at the beginning, with Paradise Lost and the slaying of Abel by his brother Cain, and continued via various mugshots of moustachioed criminals. The line between art and historical documentation was satisfyingly vague, with newspaper accounts of gruesome fin-de-siècle murders shoulder-to-shoulder with Goya and Magritte depicting crime, transgression and bloodshed in their own fantastical ways.
The French Revolution subject of the 1793 murder of Jean-Paul Marat by Charlotte Corday was, er, done to death, both immediately afterwards and posthumously, around the sort of time the Pre-Raphaelites were doing their Ophelias and such. Great lesson in 'who's the good guy' and how it changes over time. Needless to say, my favourite part was the AMAZING gooey blueberry muffin in the café, though I did have some reservations about my plastic cup of tepid water which I received after ordering tea:
Me: 'Excuse-moi m'sieur, mais c'est quoi ça, s'il vous plaît?
Waiter: 'Ah! Désolé, j'ai oublié le thé.'
Hands me a Lipton's teabag. (Obligatory 'I hate this country' moment.)
Here's a fantastic little video (courtesy of le Figaro, in French) which takes you round some of the ace paintings.
Ok, and then today, a surprise Venetian Carnival on the banks of the canal at Bastille, where head-to-toe Dukes and Duchesses behind creepy fixed masks were wandering around mingling with the commoners. They disguised (badly) the bridge as, like, Venetian, and stalked gracefully across it fanning themselves and inclining their heads to the crowd. We think they're the French aristocracy who have to pretend they like living in a republic the rest of the time. It's probably the one day of the year they get to come out and be cheered and receive the adoration they feel is their due. I did feel a bit like a mob, but no irrational desire to guillotine, luckily, though there is one in the Musée D'Orsay until the 27th of June...
Reading List
Man in the Dark, by Paul Auster
I think I chose this book because of the Chatroulette Piano Guy and his 'Man in the Dark' improv section. (Tell me you've seen it. No? Really? Sigh.) Merton, the Piano Guy, is better. This is yet another book in which the perfect couple are happily married for many years, until he makes the dire mistake of leaving her for a sexy younger woman, the wife is devastated but recovers, and he regrets his error for the rest of his life. Like 'Everyman,' like Lonoff in 'The Human Stain,' like, well, nearly every one of these recent American novels of mine has an incidence of infidelity. I think it's the mark of the noughties, the presence of this problem that, while men and women hold an increasingly equal footing (financial, emotional, professional) in their relationships with one another – or maybe because of that fact – it's still gut-wrenchingly shocking when you find out he's got a floozy. And I don't know what it is with Paul Auster, he's good, but he makes me feel bad. (Lit Crit at its finest, wouldn't you say?)
I haven't really digested this book yet so I can't give stars.
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