Paris bulletin 4 2013

Put all the trees that line the streets and boulevards of Paris together in one space and they’d make a sizeable wood. This is what’s going through my mind as I walk down the avenue du Président Wilson, marvelling at the great chestnuts that line it. The blossoms, pink and white, are dropping gently onto the pavement all about me. The ancient copper beech outside the Palais de Chaillot is sitting in the midst of a carpet of thick grass and daisies. It’s a riot of untamed growth after the blown-and-mown uniformity of Californian gardens, and a wonderful antidote to the winter boots, the blacks and greys that Parisians have for the most part yet to shed.

After 5 weeks in the heat and bright colours of southern California what else strikes me on my walks through Paris? Besides the sheer numbers of people wherever you go - and the gabble of different languages - it’s the monumental buildings of course, so different from the low-slung, fragile houses of southern California where ‘remodelling’ means what it says: a whole-scale tearing down and rebuilding, unthinkable in the stone- and brick-built houses we are used to in Europe.

Paris is all tall windows, wrought-iron balconies and high portes cochères, the latter occasionally giving you a glimpse into a quiet inner courtyard. I’ve not heard anyone call these private multiple-occupancy buildings ‘gated communities’, but that’s what they are – sort of - mini gated communities. Most of them no longer have a concièrge in the ground floor loge but all of them have secure door codes, often on inner as well as outer doors. And they are socially-stratified too. Segregation by social standing and income is not perhaps so overt or so complete as in the US, but it goes on and not only on the avenues and boulevards where the haute bourgeoisie have their lairs.

I’ve come to Trocadéro to see if there remains any evidence of the clashes that pitted Paris St Germain football supporters, ‘les ultras’, against les forces de l’ordre last week. Nothing. No broken windows or burnt-out cars. It’s business as usual with hordes of tourists snapping at the Tour Eiffel and souvenir-sellers touting their postcards and scarves.

There’s a Keith Haring exhibition on at the musée d’Art Moderne de la ville de Paris but the museum is shut. No explanation, just a notice pinned to the vast iron door: “dimanche le 19 mai, le musée est fermé”. A statement of fact but hardly an explanation. Monday is a holiday, perhaps that’s why. Below the terrasse of the musée the ornamental pond is glowing a phosphorescent green under a leaden sky.

I wander on, along the Seine. More chestnut trees, more lush grass, lots of house-boats lining the right bank of the river, lots of activity round the bateaux mouches departure point. Not much going on around the Flame of Liberty. Where once you could find piles of bouquets and mementoes to Diana, now only a few photo-copied pictures and a bunch of dead roses.

After years of letting the car rule the banks of the Seine the Mairie de Paris is finally reclaiming the space for people. There are floating gardens on the left bank, due to be open before the summer’s end and lengthy new stretches on both sides where the car can no longer go, set aside for sport, walking and picnicking (see www.lesberges.paris.fr)

By the time I reach the Tuilleries the leaden sky is right overhead and the rain is beginning to fall. I stop for a moment to look at de Kooning’s marvellous bronze, the Standing Figure.

 

Standing Figure, with crows

 

I hear someone call it a ‘blob’ but that’s the last thing it is. A fabulously plastic, immensely strong work. Even if it was the only sculpture in the garden it would make it worth the visit. But of course it’s not. There are older gods and heroes all over the place, down the central avenue and in among the trees. I stop for a moment at one of my favourites, poor old Cain, the fratricide, up on his plinth, head buried in his hands forever.

 

Cain, with pigeon

 

 

Cain, without pigeon

Place du Palais Royal. A quick look round the Festival de la Diversité – smoked hams, saucisson and cognac alongside Indian shirts, African pottery... The rain is falling faster. I dive into the metro and make my wet way home.