The office was still bustling while I started packing up. It was actually happening: in the middle of a huge competition I was going to be able to keep my long planned four day weekend to London to see the National and Jonsi. There had been nights of stress when I was sure my bosses would tell me it just wasn’t possible as there was too much work to do, but this once things were going to work out ok.
I logged onto gmail to send myself a few files just in case I had some time to work on them on the Eurostar and noticed an email in my inbox. I opened it and read it.
“Um.” I said to the two workmates at my table. “David Chipperfield’s office just asked if I was in London this weekend for an interview.”
“That’s great” Guillaume said, looking up from his work. “Isn’t it?”
“Um. Well. Yeah.” I had sent off the CV to David Chipperfield’s office three months earlier and it had somewhat been forgotten amongst the 80 or so CVs I had sent.
The irony was that I had been leaving work early to try and pass by my gym and sign up for a years subscription while the rates were still cheap. I was so close to accepting staying in Paris for at least another year.
So, I hesitated, and went to meet up with Nat next to the canal instead. The wine was excellent, and I was euphoric due to the prospect of seeing Jonsi and the National (and Nat’s fine company, obviously). Somehow the whole job interview business just seemed like a surreal addition. Nat and I finished off a bottle each, had a wonderful meal, and the next morning I hopped on the Eurostar.
Well, the weekend was wonderful; Jonsi was beautiful and the National made me feel warm and fuzzy for weeks after. And on that rainy Monday when London was having a transport strike I did two interviews and got the job. The starting date was going to be almost exactly one year after quitting my last long term job.
The next month passed by in a snowy gloom. Work got tough, the competition deadline approached. As usual though, friend’s and alcohol made things bearable. Now that I knew I was going to leave Paris my time left seemed too short. Everything was already seeping into nostalgia: will this be my final trip to the Buttes Chaumont? Will this be my final Shrek at the Kitsch? Soulwaxmas at La Villette, the insane end of year drinks with my work where I still don’t know how I got home (and I am sure I didn’t pay for any of my drinks, but the bar owner took the same metro home as me and he didn’t mention anything, so it’s all ok).
Paris also continued to show me its quirks:
While taking the metro home late one night a young man hopped on at the station after mine and started a familiar spiel: “hello, my name is Jean, I’m 25 and recently I lost my job and my house. If you have a ticket rest, or...”
Meanwhile, a muttering could be heard from the other end of the carriage: “I don’t have a house, I don’t have any money, if you could please...” A much older man, shabbily dressed, completely drunk, was giving the same speech.
The younger man stopped and shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Can’t you see I am talking?” He said to the older man. The older man seemed confused. “This is my carriage, go away, go home, everyone can see you are drunk”.
People were both laughing and a little uncomfortable that the younger man seemed to be so aggressive to the older. The young man apologised to everyone, and then pulled the older man off the train with him at the next station.
A few days later Ray and I would be walking around the gare St Lazarre, freezing to death, and wanting a tea. Ray stared at the prices in horror: 5 euros 20 for a tea? I tried to explain that it was normal for this area, but that didn’t seem to make things better for him. We found a place that sold a pot of tea bag tea for 4 euros 20, and a demi of beer for 4 euros; at least it would take us out of the cold.
I was in mid sip of my beer when I noticed a mouse running around the neighbouring table. I was somewhere between amused and a little worried. I called out to the “garcon” and he shrugged, said “so what”, and told me that the mouse was very well behaved.
When I came back from new years in Cologne I found myself with two days to get my stuff together for London, and everything started moving so quickly. I hopped on a train, and suddenly I now lived in London. Paris had slipped away without me really realising, and the whole move is still only slowly sinking in.
17h57 I am approaching the main stage of Rock en Seine, always with no news from Josh. I note a line of people slicing through the crowd and attach myself to the back of them, receiving a piggy back the front of the sound tent. There the line dissolves and I get stuck between a guy with a Franz Ferdinand t-shirt and his girlfriend, and a really short guy and his even shorter girlfriend.
18h07 Beirut starts. Mr Franz’s girlfriend asks “er, did you know that they were so.. well.. like this?” Mr Franz shakes his head. “Well, we will stay till the end, and then we should try to move forward for a good spot for the Ting Tings”.
I tense up. They are possible competition. Are they only here for the Ting Tings, meaning they will leave before Arcade Fire? Or is this an indication that everyone is going to wait around for the next four hours, like me?
18h15 Josh still hasn’t arrived, and this is the band he wanted to see. I’m trying to enjoy the ukulele playing. It is mighty fine ukulele playing.
18h20 A rather bouncy tall Frenchman jumps through the crowd. Mr Shorty and his girlfriend are dancing to Beirut and Mr Bouncy says “you are both sooooooooo cute!” They get embarrassed and stop, but he forces them to continue. He sees his friends just ahead and jumps over to them and hugs them.
18h22 Mr Bouncy is now standing directly in front of Mr Shorty and his even shorter girlfriend. He notices this, and turns around, saying “to the right, or to the left?” Mr Shorty is confused.
“Well, should I stay to the left,” Bouncy continues, “and u can look past me to the right, or vice versa?”
“Left.” Shorty replies. Bouncy goes to the left, and is still blocking them.
“Er, not right.” Bouncy goes to the right, allowing Shorty to see but blocking Shortys girlfriend’s view. Meanwhile, Bouncy has pulled out a wine bladder from his bag and is offering wine to Shorty, then to his girlfriend. He is complaining about how horrible the wine is, and that he had bought the exact same wine yesterday and it was good. But hell, it’s cheap, so he doesn’t care too much.
Josh still hasn’t arrived.
18h28 Josh calls. “Can you wave, so I can see where you are?” He asks.
I wave.
“I can’t see you…” he says.
Why are festivals just a constant reminder of how short I am? I jump up and down waving and eventually he can see me.
18h34 Josh arrives, just as Mr Bouncy has continued offering wine to everyone, then forced Shorty’s girlfriend to stand in front of him. At around this time, a bunch of what looks like 14 years olds hop by in a line, forcing their way through the crowd quite violently, obviously utterly drunk.
“Fuck, they are kids” I say. Josh tries to hear. “Did you say they were dicks?” he asks.
18h50 Beirut ends. CHAOS IS EVERYWHERE. We drive forward, along with Mr Frandz and his girlfriend, while others are racing away from the stage to god knows what. We managed to get to the metal central part (for those of you who have been to Rock en Seine, well, you know what I mean.) We realise we are roughly at the fourth row or so, and we manage to get enough room to sit. The waiting begins.
19h10 I decide to head off to get us food, water, alcohol and do a toilet break. Sadly it seems everyone else has decided to do exact the same thing. I stare at the hour long queues with fear.
19h25 Josh calls, saying he won’t be able to keep my spot for very much longer.. the crowd is very pushy! I have to return, with only water. We will have to manage for the rest of the night foodless and without alcohol.
19h35 wait, wait, wait.
19h40 people start standing up on the edges, and we, of the comfortably seated on the metal part, refuse. A wide, jovial Frenchman announces to everyone in a booming voice “People! You need not stand! Do not feel obliged to conform to the tyranny of the standing! For seated, we have the power…” he continues like this for about a minute, and ends to a round of applause. A young guy comes over and says “what is your name, I want to congratulate you on your speech.” The jovial guy stands up to shake the young man’s hand, and the whole crowd boos, calling him a hypocrite. He is so drunk he can’t understand why everyone is booing.
19h50 The Ting Tings start just as the Dicks, I mean Kids, come slicing through the crowd, up to the front next to us.
19h55 The tallest Dick is putting out his cigarette in the hair of the shortest Dick. Mr Jovial tries to stop them, saying short Dick has such wonderful, wonderful hair and that it was a tragedy to burn it.
20h00 Tall Dick picks up short Dick and puts him on his shoulders. The remaining group of Dicks start undressing short Dick, who is so out of it, he barely notices.
20h10 Everywhere around us is chaos. We seem to be in a calm group of about 10 people surrounded by a raging, soaring mosh pit. People keep on crowd surfing over us – one hits josh in the head when he isn’t looking – but, for now, we are safe. We seem to have found ourselves in the “jump up and down” crowd, rather than the “run at the person next to you” crowd. As it turns out, all of the people in the calm group would turn out to be Arcade Fire fans…
20h25 The Ting Tings are really warming up, and though I try to keep the calm people surrounding me (they must have thought I was very kind, often allowing people in front of me, but really, I was maintaining a buffer of people I had singled out as being less violent), a French couple come barging through and it’s all over: “Hey, if we can’t go mad for the Ting Tings, then we can never go mad”, they tell me. The calm collapses.. everything moves in every direction and it is a joyful madness, with lots of elbows hitting heads and feet kicking shins.
20h40 A particularly mad Frenchman appears next to me and I say a bit too loudly “oh oh”. He hears me and says “Hey, all this mad bouncing about is the best way to get to the front!” When he realizes he can’t actually get any further, he pulls himself up and crowd surfs to the very front.
20h50 The Ting Tings end. No one is leaving from around where we are. Josh leaves for a toilet break and everyone tries to sit, but there isn’t enough room. We end up sitting on each other.
21h05 The two girls next to me are trying to sing Arcade Fire songs, but can’t remember parts. I stop myself from helping, and continue reading American Psycho.
21h15 There is a great vibe in the crowd. The girl next to me starts chatting to me, saying how she can’t understand how I can read in all of the madness. When Josh returns the crowd helps him step over them, making small foot holes so he can reach me.
21h40 There is less and less space. The tension is rising. It is now dark, and we watch as props appear on stage: floodlights, a billboard, a painted screen depicting a highway. People start cheering for every technician who walks on, and starts singing in semi unison “wake up”. The guy next to me REALLY can’t sing.
22h00 The stage goes dark, the opening to “the suburbs” begins, and then, as the seven appear on stage, unexpectedly turns into “Ready to start”. I almost die of excitement and yell at Josh “It’s the one I really like!” He nods. All around me people are singing along. Arcade Fire achieves again what I witnessed in 2007: the biggest Karaoke I have ever seen.
The concert continues with beautiful numbers from all three albums. The crowd favourite “No cars go” gets everyone singing and jumping, while “Ocean of Noise” is spectacular, borrowing two trumpet players from Beirut.
The great thing is: everyone seems to be short. I can actually see! My joy is slightly spoilt by a rather grumpy old man to my left who is standing with his elbows jutting out defensively, sticking into the soft of my back. It gets so annoying that I ask him to move them, but he replies that it is my fault for moving about to the music. His glare shows that he has judged me as being a… *gasp* hooligan.
22h55 The concert is spectacular. I don’t know if it is because I know The Suburbs better than any other album, or if it’s the fact that they are doing weird and wonderful things to the old songs they are playing, but it feels better than last time. I am trying to work out whether I could call it “my best concert ever”, kicking Sigur Ros and Radiohead off their thrones, when it starts to sprinkle. Then to rain. Then to pour.
Arcade fire play for one song under the torrential rains and, due to the direction of the wind, end up being utterly soaked. The technicians come out at the end of the song and say they have to get off stage. Tarpaulins come out while the audience puts on raincoats and jumpers. The old man, now a little behind me, drops a packet of chewing gum as he is putting on his raincoat. I bend down and pick it up and give it to him. His eyes go wide. I think this might be the equivalent of that moment where Jean Valjean turns Javerts moral order on its head. Or maybe not. Either way, the old guy then acts really nice to both Josh and I.
23h05 The rain continues.
23h10 Arcade fire comes running out and with a minimal amount of instruments and faltering props and video projects, play Wake up, to which we all, of course, sing and rejoice. The spotlights illuminate the rain as it falls, and it is an utterly breathtaking experience.
23h15 Arcade Fire bows to the cheering crowd before throwing their drum sticks. The lead singer comes running up to directly in front of where I am. I try to reach out and touch him but he is just a bit too far. Almost, amost…
23h17 The rain stops. About 5 minutes too late.
23h20 It becomes somewhat clear that it is over, but even when technicians make official announcements telling everyone to go home, many remain. People are divided between cheering, slightly angry demands for more, and conversations on the lines of “well, what we did see was amazing”. Josh and I leave and make our way to the metro utterly drenched.
Rock en Seine ends for 2010.
[side note, this still holds very true: http://www.questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=16 ]
When my friend Steve introduced the concept of the Gay Games to me I think I laughed hard and for quite a while. Was it Gay only? Did they test you on arrival with a "gay test", just to make sure you weren't cheating? If you win, can you then say you are the fastest... gay male runner in the world? Are the Olympics heterosexual only?
Well, it was a good excuse to get to meet Steve and to see Cologne (and Zumthor's St Kolumba museum). So I said: what the hell, I'm going.
The one long, intense day of competition that I had the opportunity to witness managed to quieten me a little. I had never seen a rock climbing competition and for someone who suffers from vertigo, I think I had to steady myself a little on arrival when I saw just how tall the walls were.
The intense concentration, the physical strength and dexterity needed... I was just a little in awe. This was not some pansy's competition.
The tone for the competition managed to be both serious - the courses were damn hard - and light-hearted. Everyone chatted between events, there were loud rounds of applause between competitors and a general sense of comradeship.
So, I was convinced. The Gay games were not just there for a laugh, for a the circuit parties, a big fuck fest as you may. It was about serious sportsmanship and solidarity between homosexuals and friends/supporters of homosexuals.
Then the rock climbing event ended.
And we went to see the ballroom dancing and were horrified and amused by the costumes. The Chess and Bridge competitions were also in full swing as well. Oh, and then the circuit parties began. And then the fu... anyways.
The vibe in Cologne was spectacular. Temporary stages had been set up everywhere with DJs and concerts, and beer was pouring continuously. It felt like someone's huge house party, and I was happy to have been invited. I had not yet seen a German city in summer and it was a pleasant change to the grey, rainy memories of my visits in October and January to Berlin and Munich.
So, awesome week, and congrats to Steve, Nick and Robert for their truck loads of medals.
bronze and.. bronze.. and silver!, originally uploaded by julienpaul.
PS more photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkcorners/sets/72157624717450128/
(be warned, spoilers regarding Twilight and Ni d’adam, ni d’Eve.)
My recent reading schedule has been a bit eccentric, perhaps even bi-polar; I persisted through the Twilight series to see what it’s all about, while alternating with “L’Etranger”, by Camus, “Ni d’Adam, ni d’eve” by Nothomb, and now onto “Coming up for air” by Orwell.
Obviously, in comparison, Myier’s writing style seemed even more simplistic and poor, but the greatest contrast existed between Myier’s and Nothomb’s depictions of that word, “love”.
So, maybe Twilight is essentially written for teenagers and can be seen as a bit of a fairytale filtered through the eyes of Dawson’s Creek. Perhaps I shouldn’t try to read too deeply into it. Even so, I cannot escape the fact that the two main characters, Bella and Edward, don’t have a single thing in common and don’t connect on any level other than sexually.
Rather quickly, they start throwing the word “love” around and it becomes an unquestionable justification for their relationship, rather than love being the RESULT of their relationship. All of their doubts about each other are linked to looks and Love, with the two being inseperable.
Nothomb, however, has a slightly less fairytale approach. Her autobiographic novel depicts her relationship with a Japanese man, Rinri, while she lived in Tokyo for two years. Rinri is sweet like no man she has ever met, adores her in a tender and rather innocent manner and makes her content, but as she puts it: when he isn’t there, she doesn’t think about him.
She has to tackle the fact that she is unsure of her feelings, that perhaps she loves him, but that love isn’t enough. When he proposes to her, she tries to put it off for a few years, too afraid to hurt him, and not wanting to lose what happiness he gives her. However, she quickly realizes she will never marry him; he is simply too nice. She needs a certain amount of “vinegar” in her relationships for them to work. She abandons him without a word of explanation.
Obviously the two books are written for different markets, but after reading Nothomb’s book, “Love” as an unquestionable justification for a relationship seems pretty flimsy. Perhaps the superficial nature of Edward and Bella’s relationship is inevitable when you look at the characters: Edward is perfect and hence boring, Bella is nothing but an annoying bundle of nerves. Still, all I could think about when Edward and Bella discussed spending eternity together was that when the lust runs out, fuck they’re going to be in hell.
We knew that our stay at the hotel LC was going to be a special one. Already, leading up to Sabine’s 30th birthday party, all of our reservations had been mixed up in every way possible and an earlier conversation with Mr LC had gone a bit like this:
“Oh, Mr Gouiric. Yes, yes. I have given you a wonderful room. Not my best, that one is next to the road, but still excellent. Oh, did I receive you cheque? Yes, I did. I can’t find it anymore, but that’s no worry. I am pretty sure I haven’t cashed it. It’s here somewhere. But you understand why I need it? People say they will come, but then they don’t. They’re horrible, people like that. How am I meant to make things work with people like that? You’re not like that at all. You sent me a cheque. So, I will see you on the 29th. Oh, the 23rd? No, that’s what I meant. I am pretty sure that’s what I have written too. I will see you on the 23rd. I’m certain.”
We arrive at his “hotel”, effectively an elaborate bed and breakfast without the breakfast. A door opens in a tall stone wall and we walk into the garden. It is like walking into wonderland; Mr LC has created a maze using hedges over two metres high, faintly written signs tacked onto the hedges indicating which path to take towards the “reception”. We finally arrive at a gate where another sign suggests that we ring the bell.
We ring it. We wait. We hear coughing and grumbling.
Mr LC, a rather overweight, short man, who has difficulty walking, arrives and stares at us suspiciously. We introduce ourselves and he seems confused at all the names. Only mine makes any sense to him.
“Ah, Mr Gouiric, with the cheque.”
He takes us on the grand tour.
“Here is the pool. It is very warm and right now (7pm) is the best moment to go swimming. After 4pm it is reserved for “naturalists” (nudists). Right now really is the best time for you to all swim. I will keep it open just a bit later, if you want. We get so few young people here.”
He shows us the pool, which is completely protected except on one side, where it opens in full view of his dining room.
Next, are the rooms. What was once a simple, rectangular building has had extensions tacked on in every direction, mostly out of rickety polycarbonate, making wonderful greenhouses within. The thermometer on the wall of my dining area reads 36 degrees.
Each room had a small outdoor eating space completely surrounded by hedges, a narrow piece of sky visible above. Later, when we would be having breakfast in the days to come, it was like some kind of 19th century game. While at our tables, we could hear people in every direction by couldn’t work out where they were exactly. If you just stayed silent, no one knew you were there, listening....
Before Mr LC let us go, he showed us the all-terrain-vehicle (four wheeled motor bike) that he said we could use if we wanted. We all got excited about using it to get to the party, but his suggestion that the one girl amongst us could get on the bike straight away and he could take photos dampened our mood. We thanked him and reminded him that we really had to get to the party.
On departure, two days later, he magically found my cheque, but lost everyone else’s. We haggled over the price of the room (he had originally said 38, then on leaving, told me 46), and we settled on 40, and he threw in a bottle of cider, which I accidentally forgot in the room when we left.
Ah, Mr LC, you know how to run a b and b.
Thirty-three years after the centre Pompidou was completed in Paris the Metz satellite opened its doors this month to a large round of applause (for it inaugural exhibition) and boos (for everything else).
Designed by Mr Paper himself, Shigeru Ban, and Jean de Gastines, it will house exhibitions and portions of the vast Paris collection (the largest collection of modern art in Europe, no doubt only second in the world to MOMA), but amass no collection of its own.
The initial renders of the project depicted a building that was already horribly dated, a blast from the 80s that was programatically dull (only a museum, not a bustling hub like the Paris outpost) and overall, a bit of a mess.
All reality added was bad detailing, cheap window frames, horrible circulation and an empty entry hall.
Ok, lets back up a moment. The design involves a very Shigeru Ban timber lattice thrown over three long narrow galleries stacked on each other. The lattice is actually quite beautiful, and obviously where most of the effort and money went.
The actual envelope of the gallery is a mess of cheap materials, exposed services (if this is a nod to the Paris Pompidou centre, then it is a rather offensive one) and a huge office block that looks like cheap public housing.
Once inside, you will be wowed by the very tall, but rather awkwardly shaped entry hall, before being shoved through a series of rabbit warren like spaces to try and find the exhibition halls. All circulation occurs either through two lifts, or a fire escape that was obviously never meant to accommodate the public.
The only dramatic architectural moment occurs as you rise in the building and start to see some of the gallery spaces intersect within the lattice. An opportunity was lost in not allowing people to walk on and around these volumes except for a few hidden and forgotten balconies.
People will argue, and rightfully, that the exhibition spaces themselves are not bad: well lit, good views at either end. But I will argue back: who the hell decided on the contents of this building? A cafe that only opens on the outside? A puny bookshop? No auditorium?
The Pompidou Centre in Paris not only works as a piece of architecture, with its glorious circulation (the escalator) and flexible exhibition spaces, it also defines itself as more than a museum: cinemas, two floors of public library, shops, the national sound experimentation centre, etc etc etc
The Metz Pompidou centre is nothing more than a museum, the type that was already in existence 200 years ago. It is a lost opportunity in every sense, and is clearly just a reusing of the name "Pompidou" as a type of watered down branding.
This will hopefully not be a sign of things to come. I still have high hopes for the two Louvre satellites, by SANAA and Jean Nouvel. Hopefully this will be the one dud in the family.
