[Continued from previous issues]
ON THE CHARM OF THE FRENCH FEMMES AND VERSAILLES FOUNTAINS
Suppose we digress a bit from the tourist account. The male (and partially female) part of my Kyiv audiences keep pestering me with questions about the charms of French women. I will try to answer them briefly.
In the first place, there are not many pretty faces in Paris. In fact, the city looks more attractive than its female residents, except the cute mulatto babes. By mulatto I actually mean half Arab and European. They are practically white, but with telltale Near Eastern features.
But let us return to charm. If you set yourself the task of spotting a charming woman, you might well do so, but it will take quite some time. My roommate Mykhailo set himself the task. I agreed. We positioned ourselves at a cafe a short walk from the Galerie de Lafayette, one of the most expensive Parisian shopping centers. We sat and waited for ten minutes for a charming lady to appear.
Our soft vinous chairs were a foot from the traffic area, so that every passerby seemed about to step aside and sit on our chairs with us. We spent the time scanning the range, pretending to busy ourselves sipping coffee from our tiny cups. Not a single charming one in sight. Back in Kyiv we would have surely spotted a couple within the same time frame. It was the same for women’s clothes. The capital of haute couture does not show it on its streets. Again, the reverse is true in Kyiv where you often meet tastefully dressed citizens of both sexes (with the fair sex prevailing, of course).
We did not give up and stepped inside the Galerie Lafayette, and there we did spot one by a counter heaped with some expensive bric-a- brac.
She was certainly charming, albeit middle-aged. I would later discover that true charm was peculiar to precisely that age group in France. You could only marvel the way they tried on hats, walking around with their billowing small scarves. Unlike our ladies, they took their time and would never pounce on something they spotted and liked particularly; they would never run around, puffing, looking for something they needed immediately. They moved with a serene confidence, like coral fish in their native bay. So what made them truly charming was perhaps that general relaxed atmosphere complimented by innate elegance. Theirs was femininity never burdened by manual labor or untoward stress.
This harmony of middle age was something the girls lacked. At least we failed to see any to prove us wrong. This is perhaps one of the consequences of feminism. Everything was unisex, trying to show they were no worse than men. In that sense they were not. Here I mean not worse than men but that previously they had always tried to look better .
LOUIS XIV AND MODERN NEWSPAPERS
The next morning our Neoplan bus drove off, headed for Versailles. We had been told that the earlier we started off the better, because it would be jammed with tourists by noon, all determined to get inside the palace, the royal palace of Louis XIV.
The edifice was a grand U- shaped structure located on a broad paved square kept in the Louvre style, with three floors and rows of arch windows. We besieged the left wing.
We stood in line behind a disciplined group of Japanese tourists. Twenty minutes later it transpired that they were not buying tickets but just standing around. We had been drawn to them by an old tourist instinct: Japanese standing meant that tickets were being sold somewhere nearby. As it was, the Japanese tourists were standing on the porch, probably waiting for someone, but not us, of course. They must have been surprised to watch Europeans walk over and form a line behind them, but they showed no sign of it. Samurai are imperturbability incarnate.
We learned that tickets were being sold in another wing of the palace and when we got there we found a large crowd of eager customers.
We paid fifteen euros for the so- called museum card portraying Mona Lisa’s nose and eyes. After writing in your name and date you could visit any of twenty Parisian museums listed there during the day, without standing in line (the entrance fee averaging seven euros). Exploring twenty art galleries would be physically impossible, but between two and four was quite realistic. In a word, is was an economical arrangement.
We entered the Versailles Palace. I had read that Louis XIV had used the currently fashionable principle of transparency in its architecture, so that you could see the palace from end to end. The large premises offered an unimpeded view of the interior. The king wanted to have a great many guests on each occasion, so he could see everybody. When asked to do something for a courtier that had long been absent, the sun king would pretend not to remember his name. This is how the monarch nipped every conspiracy in the bud, proving that the greatest fortress is weaker than a transparent structure. In his case it was a better reflection of psychology, demonstrating that the greatest threat is the absence of information. That is why we media people play such an important role.
The Versailles architecture also reflects the French national trait, a desire to live in luxury, albeit within reasonable limits. All of the halls (also serving as connecting corridors) are not large in section, but long like intestines. In fact, the Versailles, like the Louvre, is a huge tunnel equally divided into compartments. The royal bedroom is as wide as the Hall of Mirrors: OK for the bedroom but a bit cramped for banquets. You want to have a real ball, to make the world gasp with envy, on the one hand, but have to be on the economy side, on the other.
By the portrait of the sun king, the guide told us that he was not exactly handsome but had all the women he wanted. We were shown the hall with the portraits of his paramours in gilded frames. There was no telling their vitals because of all those clothes, and moreover, the king must have passed his judgment, for in such matters one has to rely on one’s own criteria, even when holding the highest of posts.
And then I came across an object befitting that extraordinary man, his fireplace with a whole log inside, so you can judge its size.
R&R THE ROYAL WAY
After racing through the lavishly furnished halls, we rushed into the famous park of Versailles.
Before us lay a vast verdant area with fountains, statues, paths, and trees trimmed in a cubical fashion. The French gardeners excelled in their craft, coifing small firs like poodles. After the finishing touches the compositions were tree trunks surrounded by several green balls.
I heard angry voices. It was our young married couple. The pretty plump young woman was reading monotonously from the brochure she had just bought, “The Treaty of Versailles was signed in Versailles in 1918.” To which her bespectacled big-eared but generally handsome spouse protested in a baritone, “Honey, suppose you skip the details.”
“Don’t honey me,” she retorted, her rich bosom swaying indignantly. “I’m not inventing things, it’s written right here.” Then adding, as a purely female indisputable argument, “I don’t tell tales.”
I applauded.
We went down the stairs to the whimsical pattern of yellow footpaths. Of course, there was no sign of asphalt (of which there is plenty back home) and the same is true of all French parks. So after a rain the paths looked like construction sites, lined by footprints of pilgrims on their way to some temple of beauty. Otherwise everything was kept immaculate. It was even just a bit frightening. Everything, from landscape to songbirds, seemed adjusted to geometrical proportions. Add ladies wearing wide-brimmed hats and grotesquely laced parasols and the picture becomes complete. The romantic atmosphere suffered somewhat from the presence of exercisers and modern cars, scarce as they were. Otherwise you would feel as though taken back centuries.
We were lucky. They would turn on the fountains at half past eleven (they did every Sunday). Actually, they were quite a sight even when not working, with mythical figures, men- toads, and nymphs reflected in their water as though they were small ponds.
And then the jets shot up like stalagmites come alive, adding wild dynamism to the handmade harmony. The water show carousel started turning.
I was especially impressed by the bronze horses about to jump out of the blue white froth. Looking at them, I remembered Vysotsky and his ballad about squeamish horses.
The sun finally had mercy on the Ukrainian pilgrims, casting down a few beams. Then we herd Mozart coming out of hidden loudspeakers. The music directed our thoughts in a pious vein, and the tourists ceased to be as jerky as minions. It was as though the music and the fountains had started on our command and each momentarily felt like Louis XIV. I even wanted to point grandly at the surroundings and ask, “Well, gentlemen, how do you like my little abode? Not bad, is it?”
And then I heard a reply. We were leaving through the gate as one of the tourists said breathlessly, “Oh, my! A place like this to rest in, it’s out of this world!”
After visiting the park of Versailles, our tourist bus saw a rift in the group. We held a vote and the turnout showed that a part of us was eager to see the Louvre and the other part craved the Musee d’Orsay. I was among the latter. Our heated discussion ended after we learned that both places were separated by a small bridge across the Seine.
The Musee d’Orsay was but a railroad station converted in a museum. Its scope was hard to digest at once. A grand structure looking like a spaceship hangar with a couple of giant clocks was in front. And a unique atmosphere lurked inside. I was accustomed to the idea of a museum as a boring necessity rather than an enjoyable experience, so I could tell my gaping friends later yes, I’ve been there, I’ve seen it, and even touched it.
The Musee d’Orsay is known for its Impressionist collection (founded at the turn of the twentieth century), the statue of Rodin, avant- garde furniture, death masks, and more.
Both parts of the Ukrainian pilgrim group parted company at the museum, lest they be in each other’s way, and agreed to meet at a certain time. I went up the stairs to the third floor to visit the Impressionists.
All I knew about the trend was that they caught the first impression and that they were out of focus, so one had to examine their works at a distance to grasp the idea.
But later, wandering through the plush and deliciously cool halls, looking closely at their pictures, I thought I could perceive the character, taste, and even hobbies of each author. The technique was not the point, only one of the particulars.
If you want to sense a great master’s soul, you must take your time. Racing past pictures is a big mistake. An artist spends several times conveying even his first impression to the canvas, and he can spend months. What I mean is that the canvas is really a coded message containing several layers of the artist’s emotions. Meaning that to perceive all this, you must spend some time exploring the picture. It’s best to do so reclining in a wicker armchair (such armchairs are in many halls of the Musee d’Orsay).
The first to arrest my attention was Claude Manet, the founder of Impressionism. His Le Dejeuner sur l’herbe , Luncheon on the Grass, was magnificent! A every entertaining picnic scene.
Two neatly dressed gentlemen sit on the grass in an opening somewhere in the woods, their jackets buttoned up and they engrossed in a lively discussion. Meanwhile, the two ladies enjoy themselves, one sitting by the gentlemen in the nude, and the other with something remotely like a transparent slip on, is picking mushrooms nearby. It makes a funny contrast, and I could only think that it had been a long time since I had partaken of such a meal.
As for the food on the grass, I could espy croissants, cherries, apricots, and so on, but no bottles! With all due respect, the master had obviously erred. Yet the overall atmosphere was invitingly intimate. I definitely enjoyed the picnickers’ company and could almost hear the rustling leaves and birds singing, but then a couple of Americans ambled over, blocking the view from where I sat in my chair.
I spent some time watching visitors respond to the picnic striptease. Most would start giggling lasciviously, as though they were peeping at women in a bathhouse. Some would examine the picture with an ironic attentiveness (I must belong with that category). But there were also those taking the whole thing very seriously. I suspect they were art critics. Rather than marvel at the situation and the environment, they seemed to be scrutinizing every brushstroke, displaying a professionally perverted attitude. On the other hand, how could you expect them to come to the museum for simple edification.
Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered between my armchair and the picture. Now the clearing in the grove looked overpopulated, so I rose and went away. One thing was certain: Claude Manet understood the charm of cuisine.
In fact, he knew more than that. His themes were quite diverse. He was also content with a small menu as with his miniature still life with the befitting title, Lemon and Herring , but again no bottles! Drinking was obviously not among the celebrated artist’s strong points.
And then I stopped in front of his famous water lilies. I had seen them only once, on a china teapot. I had always thought that it was a small picture, but it turned out to be huge, some five square meters of swamp alone. But then I spotted an even bigger one by Cuno Amiet. A white canvas covered the whole wall. Mystified, I walked up and could see a miniature skier in the center. It was time I picked up the brush, I told myself. Daub a dozen square feet with green and place a tiny cyclist in the middle, and the caption should be brief and to the point, something like Meadow Passage . Then you might have a chance of seeing it at a prominent museum.
My ambitious thoughts were interrupted by Edgar Degas. This man must have been a textbook voyeur. Ballerinas were his specialty: now they were changing, then putting on toe-dancing shoes. And the angle is as though the artist were peeping through a keyhole. Quite voyeuristic, I would say. Degas enjoyed spotting women busy doing something, like stretching in bed, sewing on a button, and he painted them, making everything look so sensual. It was as though someone would pounce on her just as she was sewing on that button. And the master was careful to portray the most intimate details. A refined lady picking with her finger between her toes (beg the ladies’ pardon) or a thin girl getting out of the bathtub. It must have been hard for him to keep himself in check, and the feeling is in every picture.
Pierre Renoir’s women are all well fed. You are tempted to give each a kiss, especially in his Study in Torso: Effect of the Sun of a voluptuous young woman amid flowers. I really do not know about the sun, but the greatest effect was certainly produced by her rich bosom. Paraphrasing a pop song, I’d rather title it Bust No. 5 Effect .
Renoir’s eyesight must have began to falter with age. In a picture dating from 1881 I could not make out details of the landscape and wished I had been around to supply him with a pair of prescription glasses. That was probably why the women in his pictures gained in size and weight as the years passed. It is hard not to notice them, especially in his Bathers with dozens of rolls of fat on two massive bodies. Both would be very good in an cellulitis commercial. To me they also looked like a duet of female sumo wrestlers. Yet both were portrayed with loving care. Renoir, like Rubens, did not mind a bit of flesh.
With one-eared absinthe-drinking Vincent van Gogh everything is saturated with color, the way your television screen will look if you keep pressing the brightness button. There is a definite touch of alcoholic gloom to this brightness. He added a dark contour to every character, the way animated cartoonists would do decades later. Was it because his hands shook and he wanted to make the boundaries clearer? And then it would be considered his original style. His children show sinister grins like dwarves. His Dr. Gachet is glaringly alcoholic, and the image turned out sadly true to life. His colors are depressively excited. I found out later that the poor genius had mental problems. Still, no one could match his portrayal of a table at a cafe where friends would gather in a minute and have fun with a table laid, food and drink ready, the crystal sparkling. With the years you come to appreciate such neatly and festively laid tables, still intact. Van Gogh made his table laid in a street look so real my mouth went dry. The peak of anticipation!
Paul Cezanne championed the healthy countryside lifestyle. The food in his pictures consists of milk, eggs, onions, and apples. Simple, good, and ecologically safe. Also, flowers, pastoral landscapes. And a fragrant, crystal-clear, salutary countryside atmosphere... His women are fleshy the rustic way, bathing in the river and laughing.
Toulouse-Lautrec proved a wanton son of the cityscape. There were blank spots in both his canvases and his soul. Many of his characters were lecherous, all winking at you, craving adventure. Flabby old men put the moves on young voluptuous cocottes. Debauchery! Sweat and powder, but with a generous portion of irony making up for all vice.
He was cunning, portraying women only in erotic and vulgar postures, mostly aging prostitutes, yet all weirdly exciting. They are pungent like Camembert cheese, with a distinct odor – a very French attitude to vice, akin to the naturalistic school.
Men in his series of portraits are wearily strict, in contrast with the women’s debauchery. They seem to say that yes, we participate in orgies, but we do so reluctantly, that it is part of human nature, and we cannot help it. In a word, Toulouse-Lautrec is a men’s advocate.
Renoir is lechery mounted in a virtuous setting, with Toulouse- Lautrec bringing up the rear.
The primitivistic Henri Rousseau showed a childish perception of the world with his illusory exotic forests and jungle. He would have made a good daycare center and resort interior designer.
Paul Gauguin was also exotic. His imperssionist friends had already painted everything there was to paint in Paris and suburbs, so he journeyed to Tahiti to paint from nature: thick- heeled girls against the colorful verdant background. His canvases shone with the sun, warming the Parisians’ hearts tortured by gray days and dark cold nights (a Parisian woman told us that drizzling and dirty clouds was the typical weather, and her words were borne out by canvases).
After wandering through the impressionist halls I felt as though I had penetrated French life at the turn of the century, visiting beaches, cafes, theaters, taverns, and villages. That was probably the greatest advantage of the impressionists; they caught and immortalized fleeting moments of real life and real people. And, of course, every artist added something of his own character.
In a word, after exploring that museum, I made many friends who were quite sincere telling about themselves and their environment. Musee d’Orsay, a railroad station with passengers from different epochs milling about its platforms, waiting for attentive listeners, or, rather, viewers.
