Backdrops

As much as I love Shakespeare, I have to tell you this:  The man never had an original idea in his life.  At least, not an original idea for a story.  Every one of The Bard's plays was written, in one version or another, by somebody else.  The reason we read, perform, watch and beat them to death today is that he imbued his characters with a depth never before seen in drama, at least in English:  Until his time, most dramas were "morality plays" or other kinds of vehicles to impart lessons or accepted wisdom.

Likewise, Alfred Hitchcock's most iconic scene is no more original than any murder story has been since Cain and Abel.  Even if you've never watched the whole movie, you know that scene:  Marion, played by Janet Leigh, is taking a shower when a female figure stabs her.


 


I am not saying the scene--or the film--does not deserve to be as famous as it is.  Rather, I am just pointing out that Hitchcock probably paid a visit to the Louvre, or at least looked at an art book or two, some time before he started making Psycho.

Please don't ask me how it took so long for me to come to such a realization.  But I might be the only visitor in the history of the world's most famous art museum to laugh while looking at Jacques Louis David's The Death of Marat.

Like Marion Bates, Marat was stabbed by a woman.  He met his fate in his bathtub, where he spent much of his time (and, in fact, did much of his writing) because of a skin condition.  It's extremely unlikely that Marat could have taken a shower, even if he had known they existed:  Even though the first indoor shower was invented two decades before he was murdered, it would be another six decades before modern indoor plumbing would make them workable. The originals were operated by hand pumps.

Anyway, for a time in my youth, Jacques Louis David was my favorite painter.  His combination of revolutionary fervor (He, as a deputy from the city of Paris, voted for the execution of the king.) and painting technique--dark backgrounds that made for vivid, dramatic colors and forms, a technique often called "chiaroscuro"--appealed to my sensibilities in those days, almost precisely because I could not see it as another side of the sentimentality I thought I was rejecting.

But one lesson I learned from Marat and David is that backgrounds or backdrops matter.  Why do you think I came to Paris again?  Why do you think my favorite muesums in Paris are the Rodin, Cognaq-Jay, Picasso and d'Orsay?  I mean, I love much of what Rodin, Picasso and the Impressionists did.  But there's nothing like going to the museums devoted to them (especially Rodin, in my opinion).  On the other hand, I can't say I was a fan of much of the work that's in the Cognaq-Jay.  But it's become a "new favorite" precisely because of the environment it creates and the way those works are presented.  Plus, it has some of the friendliest staff I've encountered in a museum.  (Oh, and it's free!)

Anyway...A great backdrop can make for a great ride.  That's why I can put up with the insanity of Paris traffic (Then again, I'm a New Yorker): What's not to like about riding among beautiful buildings and gardens?  

But cycling also transmutes, if not transforms, backgrounds.  A bleak, apocalyptic necropolis becomes bearable, and an interesting--and in its own way, even beautiful--image when it's the setting of a good bike ride, even if it is just from work to home, or vice versa. I used to pedal through such a setting every day when I was a student and worked in a factory; that ride might be what kept me (relatively) sane.

I have been able to ride through far more beautiful vistas.  Some were natural, whether in mountains or along seashores.   But for the past few days, I've rolled through some of the most beautiful urban scenes in the world.  It's made for some great riding--and a great trip!

From The Beach To The Cathedral

I took a ride to the beach:

It probably doesn't remind you of any beach you have visited. (I know:  I'm assuming you've been to a beach. Believe it or not, I've actually met people who haven't.)  That's because "Paris Plage" (Paris Beach) is actually on a stretch of the Left Bank.  Of course, nobody goes swimming in the Seine:  As far as I know, it's not allowed and no sane person would do such a thing.   Many Parisians go to actual beaches in places like Deauville and Dieppe on the English Channel, Lacanau (really nice--I've been there!) and La Rochelle on the Atlantic and, of course, any number of places along the Mediterranean.  But even the hardiest denizen of the City of Light can't get to them in a day by bike!

As you probably surmised, I didn't come to Paris to go to the beach.  In fact, I've never traveled anywhere specifically to go to the beach, and have no interest in doing such a thing.  (I must be one of the few people in this world who has had no wish to go to Hawai'i.)  I didn't even come for the biking, although that is worthwhile.  Rather, I'm here to see friends and "get kuhl-chyuh".  So, of course, I split most of yesterday between two museums.

As the old neighbor I met the other day learned, the Museum Pass isn't worth it.  At least, there aren't very many people for whom it's worthwhile.  First of all, nobody should go to more than two museums in one day--especially if one of the museums is a big one.  Hopping from one museum to another--one of the few things that makes a Museum Pass worthwhile--induces burnout in even the most avid art and artifact lover.  And, if anyone visiting a large museum like the Louvre for the first time should devote a whole day to it.  (Please, please don't be one of those people who goes in, takes a selfie with the Mona Lisa and leaves!)  If it's not your first visit to such a museum and you want to spend, say, a morning or an afternoon, choose an exhibit (a temporary one is a good idea) or theme or genre (like, say, 18th Century French paintings) and spend your time in those.

Also, if you're going to be in town for a few days and you want to do more than one museum (or activity) on  a given day, choose venues that are near each other.  Having to make mad dashes across town will burn you out almost as easily as trying to take in too much at once.

Another tip:  Check to see whether a museum you want to visit is open late on a particular night.  For example, I found out that the Musee d'Orsay is open until 9:45 pm (a.k.a. 21h45) on Thursdays--which worked very nicely for me yesterday.

Speaking of the d'Orsay:  I also learned that there's a combination ticket available for that museum and the nearby Musee Rodin.  That combo (jumelee) ticket allows its holder to visit each museum once at any time from three months after the ticket is purchased and costs a few euros less than purchasing each museum's tickets individually.

So...I spent yesterday morning and early afternoon at the Rodin.  Time there is some of the most rewarding and cathartic time I can spend off my bike.  

The very first time I went to the Muesum, more years ago than I care to admit, some of the sculptures--two in particular--affected me in such a basic way that I could not understand, let alone explain.  

On one hand (pun intended), the fingers resemble the arches of a Gothic catheral.  But the first time I saw "Cathedrale", I knew that it wasn't only about the structure or inner architecture of a big medieval chuch, any more than Mary Shelley's novel Frankenstein is about a monster created in a laboratory.   Rather, it's about the forces that arise within us, and what we create within as well.   Rodin's cathedral is not just; it is a space we find or create, as needed.

Then there is this.  

While actually part of the Porte d'Enfer (Gate of Hell) monument, Rodin actually made a copy of it as a stand-alone.  One of the reasons why it affected me as it did was that I could feel the tensions between--I was going to say between the man and woman, but I knew it wasn't really about them.  The man and woman are distinct individuals,but they are really the same person--which is the source of the tension.

If that isn't my story, I don't know what is.  Cycling is not an escape from it; rather, it integrates those tensions and turns them into motion.  At least, that is what cycling has always done for me, long before I understood it.

After spending the morning and early afternoon at the Rodin, I rode--over a distance only slightly more than that between the Picasso and Cognaq Jay--to the Orsay.   

What's This Bike Doing On the Place des Invalides?

The Retrogrouch has written an excellent series about the rise and fall of the US bicycle industry, and how the rise helped to make Shimano the largest component manufacturer.  In the third of his four installents, he discusses the rise and fall of Schwinn.  One commenter made a couple of interesting points, one of which is that the "Bike Boom" didn't happen in Europe because Europeans didn't have one or two generations that didn't ride bikes, and bikes made decades ago are still in use.

That commenter also couldn't understand why The Retrogrouch and others were describing Schwinn as the top Amerian bike.  That commenter had never seen. let alone ridden, one.  Come to think of it, the few Schwinns I've seen in Europe were ridden by Americans who brought them for tours or other rides.




Today I saw something that's even rarer than a Schwinn in Europe:  a Ross.  A Eurotour, no less. Isn't it funny that an American company would call something "Euro" when it has no connection with this continent--and it ends up here anyway.  It's like McDonald's selling "French Fries" to the French.



I didn't get a chance to take a photo of that bike, as I was dodging and weaving traffic near the Place des Invalides, where the bike was parked.  But it's the same model as the one in the image above.  I'd be curious to know how that bike got here.  These days, most airlines charge over 100 dollars to bring a bicycle aboard.  (For a long time, Air France and other airlines simply counted it as one of your checked bags--they allowed two--as long as it wasn't over the weight limit.)  Although there's nothing wrong with the Ross, I simply can't see spending that much to bring it along unless you're moving here and absolutely love its ride, or if it has sentimental valus for you.

Tomorrow I will tell you some more about my adventures here.