Another weekend in Paris

My last couple days in Paris, last weekend that is, felt as close to bohemian as I ever may, for superficial reasons but perhaps understandable ones also. We lived out of a friend's friend's studio, with a curtain to separate the bathroom and making pasta every night (it's become a running joke), unintentionally talking into the sleeping hours rather than going out. The daytime, too, does not go as planned, so plans become pointless.

On one day we walk and walk and through Promenade Plantee and other gardens, and the cemetery where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and I'm sure some French people are buried. Wilde's grave was a flowing Egyptian-like sculpture (of a woman I think) on top of a block of stone "defaced" by proclamations of love to the playwright and hearts and kisses. But I really could not tell if it was defaced, or sanctioned by authorities, and in either case, if Wilde wanted this. I don't know how he could. We arrive some time later at Grand Palais hoping to see Dali and Arcimboldo in action. On the way my friend is sure we run into a bit of a celebrity, the ex-minister of culture, who holds open the exit at the subway for us, because he's a leftist and would do that kind of thing (take the metro, I mean). But it's a rainy day so many have the same idea as we do - i.e., the line at Grand Palais is not worth it so we settle for Petit Palais across the street, to see exhibitions on William Blake and the Byzantine Empire / Mount Athos.

On another day we take the rental bikes (a recent innovation in big French cities) to that bohemian stronghold, Montmartre, then walk past the sex shops and Moulin Rouge to the top of the hill, one of the best views to see all of Paris. In another way I've already seen all of Paris, thanks to the host of the other friend I met here. He gave me a quick driving tour of the city, hitting the Place de la Bastille, the Eiffel Tower ("See how the flowers bloom?" he said. "I arranged it just for you."), Arc de Triomphe (he says he's the only person in the city to drive around it twice at times like this), Les Invalides - basically the things I'd only want to see for a few seconds anyway.

That last day, we were lucky because the sun came out, so we could sit on the Seine waiting for our train. Surprisingly I couldn't tell which way the water flowed, but ducklings crept by periodically (five in all I think, or the same one five times), and sadly I think they had lost their mother.

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Reading: Camus, Exile and the Kingdom
Listening to: Janis Joplin

Art in Paris

As in Vienna, I felt rushed through the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay because there's so much to do that even with three weeks in France, time is limited. But also as with the Kunsthistorisches Museum, I found many pleasant surprises throughout the museums, such as the Louvre's Psyche revived by Cupid's kiss above (Antonio Canova), which may have just become one of my favorites, next to Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux's Ugolino and his sons in d'Orsay. I don't know too much of the story, even though Dante's Divine Comedy was assigned reading, except that he was punished for treason and his sons tried to sacrifice themselves for him. This sculpture is probably more fitting to the dark context, but I prefer the white marble version at the Met.

Why do I prefer it? Why do I like so much the paintings and sculptures that I do? I don't understand much of the art I see, and much of my limited knowledge is based an a required art class that I hated. In some cases I see and appreciate the composition (La belle jardinière, Raphael, Louvre) ...


... the lighting and control over the time of day (Sérénité, Henri Martin, d'Orsay) ...

the vanishing point (Rue Montorgueil in Paris. Celebration of June 30, 1878, Monet, d'Orsay) ...

... the movement (Chaumes de Cordeville à Auvers-sur-Oise, Van Gogh, d'Orsay).

But mostly the opinion comes from a basic but deep-seated emotional reaction. The art smiles, it calms, it inspires and stabs, it hurts, it depresses, it lifts. and I'm irritated that I can't explain it and amazed that static images can do so much.

It's a fantasy.

(Le chevalier aux fleurs, The knight of the flowers, Rochegrosse, d'Orsay).

Tavasz itt van!

Some kind of Croatian Easter display...

...with two faces...

...in front of St. Stephen's Basilica. Yes, spring is here!

Terror Haza

If the House of Terror did not enclose such a grim legacy - Hungary's more than four decades of terror under Nazi and then Soviet occupations - it would almost succumb to the absurdity in much of tourism. The museum alternates between the poignant (interviews with former prisoners, fascist and Communist propaganda, a preserved basement of torture and incarceration) and the cheesy (a video of actors changing clothes as they found new roles under changing regimes, a pig because collective welfare made it difficult to own your own). I don't know if cheesy is the right word, because I couldn't decide whether to admire the curators for mixing history with symbolism (as that would make them artistic) or dismiss them for trying too hard to please tourists (as that would make them cheesy, like the Buda labyrinth).

But if there's any place a tourist should see in Budapest, this is probably it. The Terror House grabs attention easily, for a few reasons: 1) its name, even if people first think it's a Halloween attraction; 2) its odd location on Andrassy Avenue, known for shopping and its UNESCO World Heritage recognition; and 3) its facade, an overhang with the word "TERROR" carved out like stencils so that the sun writes the letters on the sidewalk below.

Beyond the initial impressions, the museum delivers. This is probably due to its small size, but I've never seen a museum presented as such a complete package that is simultaneously concise and dramatic. The first image that greets visitors is the wall of victims: thousands of low relief, black-and-white head shots, about a square foot each, depicting the deceased and inscribed along a central wall that spans all three floors and the elevator. In the basement is the smaller portion of the wall, that of the victimizers. Their faces are smaller, but they have names and dates, many showing the victimizers to be alive still - hence the debate over what should be done with them and whether they should be allowed into public office.

Like the wall (and like a good meal), the exhibition rooms also rely on the power of presentation for impact. I've realized most of them are works of art in themselves, often for their symbolic significance. One room made manifest the dualism of oppression under fascists and Communists by screening footage on either side of the same wall in the center of the room, Hitler on one side, Stalin on the other. Working with the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party, both at different times controlled Hungary, which seemed to trade one form of totalitarianism for another.

Another room shipped us off to Siberia, as the condemned Hungarians were once expelled. Horizontal wood paneling lined the walls, with windows simulated by TV screens showing the landscape roll by. A carpet map began in Hungary at the entrance and ended in the Soviet far east at the exit. Then there was (what I call) the Warhol room of '60s ads denoting the prosperity and consumption under socialism; the Catholic room, along the length of which ran a huge white cross "exposed" by floorboards pulled aside; and the black-and-white Gabor Peter room, white where the Communist police chief enjoyed a clean office, black where the Jewish Hungarian served a prison sentence under the system he once controlled.

All of this trimming disappears, however, once you walk through the rooms of the basement. For solitary confinement, you have the choice of a closet big enough to hold one person, a larger room just three feet high, or a wet cell. There's a Hungarian flag with the Soviet emblem cut out, a common image during the 1956 Revolution. A gallows is intact. Interviews run on a loop, men and women lamenting the senselessness of their subjugation. A young woman reads the names of the dead. And in the background plays a Hungarian version of Lili Marleen.

Art in Vienna

[Click on the headline for the Facebook album]

Three hours away by train, Vienna makes for a popular weekend trip, so I took one with my study abroad program. Going into these things, I'm never armed with enough background knowledge, but with a general understanding of the Habsburgs, the World Wars, and Kurt Waldheim, I could appreciate the time there - at least more so than the people who inspire the "There are no kangaroos in Austria" postcards. Seriously. I don't forgive the ignoramus I encountered at Columbia who believed Schwarzenegger is from Australia.

I will grant, though, that there is some benefit to not doing your homework, namely, the pleasant surprise in discovering just how much art the Habsburgs amassed. Bruegel! Rembrandt! Even Raphael! It almost made up for all the art I missed in Rome (I forgot most museums close Mondays). There is something magical about standing a foot away from Madonna of the Meadow or Napoleon of the Saint-Bernard Pass, remembering not just the hands that painted them, but the shared experience with admirers from a century ago or half a millenium ago as they interpreted the work in their respective contexts.

"I can't believe I'm looking at THE Napoleon," said at least one member of the study abroad group. But I find this initial awe meaningless if you don't get to stop and experience the process that the artist went through, imagine Jacques-Louis David (who also did my favorite, The Death of Socrates) moving from one color to the next, question why he placed the break in the clouds where he did, wonder whether it was he who created the change in texture from cloth to leather or us who imagined so. That's hard to do when a guide is rushing you from one room to another.

But even that is not enough. I sometimes like a painting or sculpture for its aesthetic appeal, but I can only look at so many Madonnas (there was just one in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but I mean in general) and have realized I favor paintings that depict the ancient or historical over the religious or vain (read: portraits). That may be my atheist bias, but also I'm not enough of a connoisseur to value a piece just for the style, form, and decisions of the creator. It's the same with literature, except that the latter doesn't have as much leeway to offer a legacy based chiefly on the author's technical abilities. We are more likely I think to venerate the books whose meanings transcend plot and prose; hence my preference for literature over art. So it is with ancient/historical paintings.

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Listening to: Feist, "My Moon, My Man"

Hungary - photo album

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Reading: The Budapest Sun
Watching: Simpsons, "Lisa the Drama Queen"
Listening to: Foo Fighters, "Best of You"

For the love of Buda

Two days passed before I realized how laughable my Friday afternoon was: I walked to Buda castle after exploring the gray and quiet streets of that western half of the city, and stopped at a ledge overlooking the Danube to read Kafka's The Castle. Granted, the book's castle is more metaphorical than physical, but it exists nevertheless. My intention was only to navigate through Buda because people (myself included) tend to spend more time on the Pest side of the river, but the day was such a welcome break from the rain and snow, I wanted to take a Czechoslovakian break.

The next day I returned with friends to meander through the castle's underground labyrinth, which is not as cool as it sounds, my friends decided. And they were just obtuse, I decided. It was, after all, a simple chain of subterranean, naturally sculpted tunnels, which can make for an excursion with the right expectations. I read the description at the entrance, so I was excited by the prehistoric age of the labyrinth and its history of sheltering the war-trodden. It also prepared me for the "cave drawings" and stone carvings that were not prehistoric so much as entertainment. Probably my dismay over the manufactured attractions in Rome also softened the blow, so the "artifacts" were not as odious as the clammy musk of the low-hanging passageways.

But what I couldn't have expected amid the dripping ceilings and ominous music was the exhibit of the "Other World." First we came upon a cordoned fossil of a footprint, and I waited as my friend read the description. "They're just laughing at us," he concluded, walking away in disgust. The footprint turned out to be a shoeprint from the specimen "homo consumerus," and other relics followed, stone impressions of a laptop, cell phone, and Coke bottle (see photo), among others. I found it hilarious that those who ran the labyrinth would ever have thought to produce something like that. At the same time, as with the music, the drawings, and the dining area, the "remnants" really said something about the desperation to please tourists and the dearth of better alternatives.

But as I said, I enjoyed my first maze, as you can find enjoyment in nearly anything, and after crossing out my friend's overblown sarcasm, I wrote something to that effect in the guestbook: "Thank you for the labyrinth. I appreciated it for its history. People who come here expecting fireworks and can-can dancers prove the joke of homo consumerus."

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Listening to: Janet Jackson, "Together Again"

Metro genius

In addition to the colorful interpretation of Raphael above, what I loved about the metro in Rome was the music. Not that I really dug the bad '80s tunes, but that was the first subway I'd taken where music was actually played. In Budapest, the yellow line (there are two others, red and blue) hits two melodic, xylophone-like notes when the doors open, but that doesn't count. The Roman subway also provides TV screens while you wait.

I hear the best metros are in Japan, but Budapest and Rome both have at least one bragging right over New York, and that is the clock at each station announcing ETA, except that it's not estimated, it's quite precise. I've always wanted that, the only downside being that there's no room for hope. In Manhattan, the train could come at any second, whereas here, if the clock says you must wait four minutes, then you must wait four minutes.

Strangely, the red line in Rome has no doors in between the cars. It was actually kind of cool to get on the train and look up and down other cars as they snaked through the tunnels. There's just one other line (blue), which makes the metro system very simple, as it is in Budapest. Except of course that limits the routes and forces you to learn the slightly more complicated bus and tram system, not that I really learned much from sitting alone on a bus for an hour as it passed the same piazzas and rested at a dark and deserted station before reaching something I recognized.

At least, for the most part, the MTA doesn't sleep, unlike Rome and Budapest, so for that you can't beat Manhattan.

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Watching: Black Hawk Down (assessment: disappointing)

Roma - photo album

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Losing my religion (if I had it to lose)

And on the second day, we paid a visit to the house of god. There were several in Rome, of course, more than I could bear, but you don't question the Vatican. And anyway, I was there for the art and architecture. At the risk of offending (well, more than a risk), I have to say it's a shame that so much beauty is produced in the name of religion, as if we could find nothing better to which to devote it. Nevertheless, beautiful it was. To get to the Sistine Chapel, we walked through hall after seemingly endless hall, which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the gleaming statues and columns, and scenic ceilings that stretched to the heavens. But we didn't want to miss Raphael and Michelangelo before closing (which had happened to a friend we met there), and the authorities really make you work to reach the grand finale.

Anticlimactic does not quite describe Michelangelo's ceiling, as it in no way fell short of majestic. I appreciated, too, that the guards incessantly shushed the crowd and ordered us not to photograph or record (not that that stopped many). It might have been that the "Creation of Adam" section equaled the size of every other section of the ceiling, and seeing the image blown up so often before now dwarfed the real thing. Or perhaps it was that we had just witnessed up close the grandeur of Raphael's frescoes that mutated my expectations.

I'm still humbled that the masterpieces were within my fingertips, but I wonder about the cycle that begets masterpieces. There is no question about the skill behind the ceiling and the School of Athens and the Disputa, but what sets them above other works by Michelangelo and Raphael? The inner cynic argues that we extol the paintings in part because they've been extolled. By the same token, we visit famous sites because they're famous, because recognition adds excitement to the experience. If I were a better traveler (and I've learned this for future ventures) I'd have done more homework, better valued what I saw, and valued it for better reason.

In that case I might have been able to stand more cathedrals, but it was enough in all of St. Peter's Basilica to run into the surprise of Michelangelo's Pieta and similarly to find homages to Galileo in the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels near Piazza della Repubblica (all of which I highly recommend).

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Listening to: Goo Goo Dolls
Watching: Slumdog Millionaire
Reading: Sandor Balogh and Sandor Jakab, History of Hungary