Jean-Michel Basquiat

The latest controversy in Paris these days is the exhibition of artist Jean-Michel Basquiat currently showing at the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. Madame M had returned from her second home in the south of France, and being always in the know suggested we meet for an afternoon of cultural enlightenment. I must confess to having been the only person in Paris - perhaps even the world - unfamiliar with the fabulously famous Basquiat, so it was with an open mind and wide eyed anticipation that I entered the world of this short lived shooting star. Born to Haitian and Puerto Rican immigrants and raised in the mean streets of New York City, Basquiat (pronounced bass-key-a) was compelled to express himself and did so freely; in the street, on discarded pieces of wood, scraps of paper and cloth, an old refrigerator. "I start a picture and I finish it. I don't think about art while I work. I try to think about life". Hit by a car and seriously injured at a young age, his mother gave him a Gray's Anatomy book to help pass the long hours of his recuperation. This obviously accounts for the recurring theme of intestines, skeletons, and innards so prevelant in his body of work (no pun intended). His style was primitive; "It looks as if it was made by a five year old!" said Madame M, incredibly complex, "You need a long time to study each one to understand his intention" she announced, and controversial. In the beginning of his career, Basquiat worked by the tag SAMO, which stood for "Same old shit, SAMO as an end to mindwash religion, nowhere politics, and bogus philosophy". Lucky in his career, he made connections with important artists and patrons alike, showing at the prestigious Annina Nosei Gallery from 1981-83 and the Galerie Bischofberger in Zurich. Well known in Paris, Berlin, New York, and Los Angeles within a short period of time, he rolled with the likes of Warhol and Francesco Clemente, but he had a difficult personality and a habit of burning his bridges. "Since I was 17 I thought I might be a star" is a quote that personifies his character. Turning his back on his hero and mentor (Warhol) when the critics panned their collaboration, just as he had the gallery owners and patrons who launched his career (or grabbed onto the tail of the shooting star, depending upon how one looks at it) Basquiat suffered the paradox of narcissism and insecurity, in an era of excess, art babble, and self promotion. One either loves him or hates him, there is no in between. There were many negative comments heard by this blogger in the museum and on the street for two blocks around, and the exhibition was the main topic of lively dinner conversation two nights later. It was bonne chance that I had just been and was able to join in, as it is expected of one to have something intelligent to say on any subject broached at the french table! As for me, I give it a thumbs up. Unfortunately, photos were strictly forbidden (but I was able to bring you a small sample nonetheless). Basquiat died of a prescription drug overdose at the age of 28. To learn more about Jean-Michel Basquiat, just Google! To visit the exhibition in person, take metro ligne 9 to Alma-Marceau or ligne 6 to Trocadero to the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris in the Palais Tokyo, 11 avenue President Wilson. Open Tuesday-Sunday 10h-18h. Tariff 11 euro. Free entry to the museums permanent collection. Closed Mondays and holidays.

Your Friday French Fashion Report: YSL Spring/Summer 2011

Sensual, feminine, wearable, and collectable; the Yves Saint-Laurent ready-to-wear collection for Spring/Summer 2011 is all that and more! Designer Stefano Pilati pays homage to the master with a delicate touch, bringing a new twist to classics like the peasant skirt and creating jumpsuits one would actually want to wear. Shades of the 70's evoke fond memories of over-the- top diagonally ruffled skirts, which somehow seem to work under the watchful eye of Pilati. The fabrics are soft, and flow with the movement of a woman's body effortlessly. The silhouettes are timeless designs that one builds her wardrobe with, and can be counted on to make one feel chic at a moments notice! (My favorite piece is the pencil skirt with the thigh high slit, accented by a cockeyed pocket. Fabulous!) A picture being worth a thousand words, I offer without further ado; the Yves Saint-Laurent Spring/Summer Pret à Porter Collection for 2011:

YVES SAINT LAURENT PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Chanel Spring/Summer 2011

I love Chanel and always will. Under the watchful eye of Karl Lagerfeld, the legacy of Coco is respected; her signature pieces a tradition in every collection. The classic knit suit is afforded an update in the pret à porter Spring/Summer 2011 collection with the tiniest of bloomers replacing the pencil skirt, and we see the quintessential Madame Chanel flowing silhouette in soft blouses and dresses. Those garments inspired by the great Chanel are my favorites of this season's offerings, however those obviously inspired by the recent reality show "Sister Wives" should have been left on the cutting room floor. Especially but not exclusively the Peter Pan collar, which should never be worn by any female over the age of 6. (I had envy to reach through the screen and rip it off a bitch!) I am ambivilent as well about the return of the clunky shoe, which should be used in moderation, and I am way over the open-toed-cut-out-ankle bootie which is merely a shoe with an identity crisis. But there are some stunning pieces that would add glamour and chic to any woman's closet, and the show is beautifully staged with a delightful suprise; a cameo appearance by the iconic Ines de le Fressange, who arm in arm with Monsieur Lagerfeld leads the finale followed by his army of well dressed starving zombies. So, without further ado, I offer you the Ready to Wear Chanel Spring/Summer Collection 2011:

CHANEL PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS Part 1

CHANEL PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS Part 2

"Dem Bones...."

"Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones..." This was the theme of the day, and the song playing in my mind repeatedly as I discovered the Musée de Histoire Naturelle (Galeries Paléontology et Anatomy) this afternoon. Accompanied by my darling Madame V, and taking full advantage of the few hours of sunshine afforded us by Mother Nature (it has been raining constantly for a week), we entered the beautiful Jardin des Plantes and drank in the fresh air as we tromped through the mud toward the museum. Along the way 200 year old trees graced the path, some boasting the brilliant colors of autumn. Children were burning off excess energy, as was a jogger, and an elderly woman walked her dog. Suddenly, we found ourselves face to face with the Gatekeeper of the museum, a formidable prehistoric beast! We carefully made our way past him and into another world; the history of planet Earth. I have never seen so many skeletons assembled in one location in my life, the entire first floor was crowded with the frame of every beast imaginable, large and small. There were bison and zebras and apes and wooly mammoths and rhinocerous and whales and crocodiles and flamingos. The walls were lined with glass cases that protected more gruesome collections; the spinal cords of who-knows-what preserved in formaldehyde, a human fetus, a little cat. I quickly turned away and concentrated on the mind blowing size of a North Sea whale, the skeleton of it's fins a giant fingered hand. Upstairs, dinosaurs reigned supreme, and on the top floor; fossils. We shared a laugh as I related to Madame V the story of a candidate for Senate in the United States, who wondered aloud why, if evolution was a fact, "we don't see monkeys turning into humans?" (Fortunately, she was not elected). Visit the Galeries de Paléontology et Anatomy every Tuesday through Sunday from 10h-17h. Closed Mondays and the 1st of May. Open all other holidays. Tariff 7 euro. Free the 1st Sunday of the month!

Herman Singing Dry Bones

Cribs Part One: A Room with a View

A friend of mine is in the market to buy a home in Paris, and has been recently engaged in the daunting task of apartment hunting. She asked me to accompany her one afternoon, and we set out to find the perfect place. First stop; Les Halles. A lively and bohemian neighborhood, it boasts a history as old as France; Les Halles, or The Halls have been the center of commerce since the 12th century. Bateaux filled with wheat, grain, fish, and beef delivered their wares via the Seine to giant underground storage facilities to be sold by merchants in their stalls above ground. It was the first shopping mall in Paris! Today a modern shopping center takes it's place in history with chain stores offering shoes, cellphones, and skinny jeans. The streets are lined with Lebanese fast food shops offering Gyros and frites, poster stores for decorating on a dime, and Asian discount shoe shops (the place to go for a cheap pair of converse style tennies). We entered the Place des Innocents, a plaza skirted by cafe's and softened by a beautiful fountain in the center. The entrance into the building was smack dab in the middle of two of these cafés, and as we wove our way through the diners and entered the digicode I observed the easy access to room service! Four very long flights up (this was a very old building with no ascenseur) we were greeted by a very dignified agent with a back as straight as a ramrod and an air of royalty who would open the door to the most dreary apartment imaginable. Entering through a space of approximately 3x5 ft., this was the kitchen. A full length curtain was drawn to reveal a tiny camper style sink and drainboard, the latter being home to a microwave. A stacking wire rack occupied the remaining space alongside the sink, this was the available storage. A door to the right opened into the w.c., with just enough space for a toilet, but not really any space for a person. The salon was a dark, gloomy 8x8 nightmare in parisian beige - France's national color. I looked at Anne as if to say, "Let's run as fast as we can!" while the agent stood haughtily in the corner. He could care less if we liked it or not, in this market it would be snapped up within the week. At a mere 280,000 euro. Our next stop was near Gare de l'Est in on a quiet street that had good access to shops and restaurants. Liveable, with a nice kitchen with plenty of prep space and a seperate bedroom, it was definately a step in the right direction. There were other prospective buyers waiting their turn outside to have a look, and I am sure it was sold before the end of the next business day. Anne wasn't feeling it, and we moved on to apartment number three. Listed at 240,000 euro, it was in the heart of Montmarte; a busy ethnic neighborhood crowded with tiny shops full of exotic food and spices, traditional dress, and cheap housewares. We entered a small courtyard where a Haman offered saunas and showers to the public. To the left was the porte leading to the foyer. A salutation was scrawled on the wall as we entered; "Fils de Pute Dehors" (Son of a Whore Get out!) Not a good sign. Funky food smells and screaming kids provided the ambience as we climbed the stairs - again no elevator. I could see the handwriting on the wall (no pun intended)! After a trip down a long, dark hallway we met the current owner who was busy trying to clean the place up. And what a lovely place it was! Tile floors, a spacious eat in kitchen, a private bath (other apartments on that floor shared a toilet at the end of the hall), and a magnificent view from the windows in the salon. A picture being worth a thousand words, I have added a slideshow for your benefit (below). Ah Paris, the City of Lights, the most romantic city in the world!

Day of the Dead

Halloween in France isn't anything like it is in America; no overpriced bags of candy crowding supermarket shelves for a month, no superstores packed with cheesy costumes and frightening orange and black home decor, no cd's of continuous screaming and maniacal laughter. Aside from the few ex-pat Halloween parties (costumes encouraged but rare), and a smattering of french teens who find it amusing to dress as a sexy witch (females), or in drag (the boys), it just doesn't exist here. What does exist is Le Fete de le Mort, or Day of the Dead. The tradition began in 998 by St. Odilo of the Abbey of Cluny. The Clunaic Order was the largest network of monasteries in Europe, and soon the tradition of praying for the souls in Purgatory on the 2nd of November spread throughout the world. Buddists celebrate a "Ghost Festival", the Chinese set aside the day to honour their elders at the "Qingming Festival", and the people of Tirol leave cakes out for the dead, keeping the room warm and cozy for their midnight visit. In Bolivia and Brittany, food is also offered to those on the other side of the veil, rather like we leave cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve! In modern France, the official Fete de le Mort is now observed on November 1st with a national holiday (a paid day off for many), a reason to close every shop in town, and a trek to the cimetiére bearing pots of colourful flowers to brighten up the gravesite of le famille. I rather look forward to the last week in October, when the local fleurists are flooded with large pots of crysanthemum in the colours of fall; bright yellow, burgundy, and purple. At 2 for 9 euro it is the deal of the season, the only time of year it is to be found, and I love to load my chariot full of flowers and enjoy the cheerful ambience they bring to the garden on a rainy autumn day! It seems like such a civilized way to honour the dead; chrysanthemums rather than fake spiderwebs, a paid day off rather than donning an Elvira costume as you check people out at the supermarket. I must admit however, I really do miss a good T.P.ing!