Cycling, Cubism, Computers And Commerce In Paris

I am certainly not the first cyclist to notice that pedaling enhances the senses.  We can see and hear more vividly, and whatever we taste or touch (or touches us) is more intense.  And we all know that our favorite foods and drinks taste even better during and after a ride.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that I found myself thinking about these phenomena as I pedaled around the Place des Vosges and through narrow streets lined with sandstone-colored buildings:  My morning's meanderings ended at la Musee Picasso.

So how are my ramblings and ruminations connected to the creator of Demoiselles d'Avignon and Guernica?

Well, actually, I started to think about the way we receive sensory details--on or off our bikes--on Saturday, while looking at an exhibit of Cubist painters in the Centre Pompidou.  The way Picasso, Braque and others dissected (visually, anyway), faces, objects and vistas, then re-assembling them in new ways, does not reflect the way our eyes see--or, at any rate, the way we are accustomed to thinking that our eyes see.  Rather, those artists were showing us how something besides our sensory organs--call it the mind, the intuition or the spirit (I mean that in a secular sense.) senses the world around us--which, of course, cannot be a re-creation of the object, the face or whatever we see.  

It makes sense when you realize that the words on this page, or any other words, cannot transmit the things they are supposed to communicate or represent.  All they can do is convey something--a code, if you will-- that the mind turns into an image or idea of whatever the words are supposed to convey.  The mind doesn't do that simply by taking in the sequence of letters that form the word; it turns them into something that the mind or consciousness, or whatever you want to call it, can use to portray an idea or essence of whatever that word is supposed to represent.  If you see the word "house", your mind provides you with an image of a house because it turns the letters of the word into something your mind can re-assemble into a visualization of some house or another.

I am not a neuroscientist, so I have been able to describe our conscious processes only in the language I could find in my own intuition, such as it is.  And I know even less about the way computers process data, so please forgive me if what I say next makes less sense than anything I've said before.

Here goes: It occured to me, while riding afterward, that Cubism may well have been a prototype of how computers process data--and, in particular, how information is conveyed through computer systems and, in particular, across the Internet. As I (mis)understand it, what I am typing right now won't be posted directly to my blog:  It must be changed into a format that can be sent and re-assembled into the intended message or content.  And that format, as I understand it, bears no resemblance (at least in terms of logic or syntax) to the language we use and has to be rearranged in ways we never would (or could) do in order to convey our message.

So..Could the Cubists have been proto-computer scientists?  

Anyway, riding is always a great primer for looking at art, or almost anything.  And within steps, literally, of the Picasso there are two other museums.  I was going to go to the Carnavalet, but it was closed for renovations.  So I went to one I visited on my previous trip to Paris:  the Cognacq-Jay.

Like the Jacqmart-Andre, it was the residence of a wealthy couple who collected art and objects.  The collection was on display, but there was also an interesting exhibit about "l'art du commerce."  It shows how artists like Jean-Antonine Watteau were instrumental in bringing about what we might recognize as marketing in the 18th Century.

The convergence of a few factors made it possible. One was, ahem, colonialism, which gave France and the rest of Europe access to a wider variety of materials--and designs they'd never before seen.  Another was the means to reproduce the exotic objects that came from afar, mainly the Middle and Far East.  Then there was the development of merchant and middle classes --whose tastes and demands drove these new markets--and, last but not least, a group of artists and other creative people.  

This is the era in which, essentially, department stores and catalogues began. That is why artists like Watteau others of his generation were so suited for this development: They had sketch-like techniques developed for creating portraits of  merchants, bankers and other professionals:  the sorts of people (and their families) to whom marketing was directed.  So, in some weird way, you can thank (or blame) Watteau for Amazon--or, if you're of my generation, Bike Nashbar, Performance, Supergo and all of those mail-order shops that sold all of those exotic and unaffordable bikes and parts we couldn't find at our neighborhood Schwinn dealers.

Could it be that the bicycle developed from the draisienne to what we ride today because of the l'art du commerce?

Egyptian Art Deco Catholic In Jackson Heights

 Jackson Heights is five to six kilometers from my apartment.  I have ridden through it, many times, along various routes.  Still, a ride can lead me to some interesting corner or structure I’d never seen or noticed before.

This is one such building.  At first glance, it doesn’t seem out of place: Like most of what is now in the neighborhood, it was built during the late 1920s:  around the same time as the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. Also, many palatial movie theatres were constructed during that time, just when movies were becoming the most popular form of popular entertainment.  So it would be easy to take this building for a Loews or RKO cinema, especially when you look up.

Those “movie houses” often combined the line structures and geometric shapes of Art Deco with Egyptian motifs. They sound like an odd pairing until you look at them—and you realize that Howard Carter discovered King Tutankhamen’s tomb in the early 1920s, setting off a fad for all things Egyptian just as Art Deco was becoming the most influential style in architecture and design.

That is why this building doesn’t look out of place in Jackson Heights and would look right in parts of the Bronx or Miami Beach, which were also developed around the same time.

What makes this building so unusual, is this:

I grew up Catholic and have entered all sorts of church buildings and cathedrals here, in Europe and Asia.  I can’t say, however, that I’ve seen any other Catholic Church building—or, for that matter, any other house of worship—that looks quite like this one. 

And to think:  I came across it just because I decided to make a turn, and ride down a street, I hadn’t before.  That is one of the joys of cycling!

Although I Couldn't See All Of The Statues, The Ride Wasn't A Bust

Today I cycled to a place where I shed tears whenever I visit.  Yes, on purpose.





 

 

For those of you who have never met me in person, I'm going to share a little secret:  I cry, sometimes in embarrassing, if not inappropriate, situations.  More than once, tears have rolled down my cheeks when I've shared a particularly beautiful piece of writing--like Caliban's "The Isle Is Full of Noises" soliloquy in The Tempest--or when some sense-memory overtakes me.  I can also cry with and for another person, as well as for myself. 

 

So where, you may ask, is this place in Paris that opens up my lacrimal duct?





 

He's at the "gate", so to speak.



That bust, and the statue before it, are studies that became part of Porte d'Enfer by Auguste Rodin.  I went to the museum that houses most of his work.

 The only problem was, the main collection was closed.  So was most  of the rest of the museum.  To be fair, the Hotel Biron, at 77 rue Varenne, has been in need of repairs.  And, as with any museum, ventilation systems and other infrastructure need to be repaired and replaced in order to keep the artist's works from deterioration and other damage.

 

 C'est une injustice! I exclaimed to the guide when she explained the situation.  "J'ai venue d'amerique", I told her, to see Le Baiser, Le Penseur and--my favorite objet d' art--Je suis belle. 

 

 

Thinking about....?

From the day I first encountered photos of those works in an art history class I took as an undergraduate, Rodin has spoken to me, moved me, in ways that only three or four other artists, in any medium, ever have.  For me, seeing the ways he could draw out despair, courage, empathy, isolation, inspiration and so much more--sometimes all in the same work--in such static materials as stone and metal has been a sort of guidebook to the soul.  He doesn't merely  render, express or depict emotions; he makes his materials a conduit for la force vitale.  To me, the only other Western sculptor who did anything like that is Michelangelo.

Sometimes, in museums, I see.  Or I might think, or feel, or simply enjoy.  When I am in the presence of Rodin's works, in his milieu, I live.  You might say it's like  at least for me.

Anyway, the museum is apparently building a new wing as they renovate the old space, and are going to exhibit the works in new ways.  I hope that the newly-restored museum doesn't sacrifice too much of the intimacy of the old one and become another big building full of glass boxes that hermetically seal the artist's works away from the people, from the world, as too many other museums do.

 As the renovations proceed, there is an exhibit of some of the castings Rodin made as studies for his masterworks as photographs taken of them, and him as he made them.  Most of the figures you see in his completed works are clothed, but he made nude studies for all of them to get, not only the proportions, but the ways in which they moved and interacted with their environments, before he created the "final product", so to speak.

 And the gardens are still open.  Even if you aren't a fan of his work, or art generally, it's a great place to unwind--after or before a bike ride in Paris.

 After I left the Rodin and had a picnic lunch by the Seine, I rode some more, spent some time in the Musee d'Orsay and rode some more.  I'll talk about those later.

A Ride To Modern Art

Say "bicycles" and "modern art," and the first work that comes to most people's minds is Marcel Duchamp's "Bicycle Wheel."  Next might the "bull's head" Pablo Picasso made from a bicycle saddle and handlebars.

Ricardo Brey, "Joy" (2018)

But even when artists aren't creating objects from bike parts or images of bicycles, the forms, motions and technology of two wheels propelled by two pedals have inspired creators for as long as there have been bicycles.  "Almost every one of the Surrealists, Dadaists and Futurists did something with a bike," according to David Platzker.  

Nina Chenel Abney, "Ridin Solo" (2020)

He has curated, in collaboration with Alex Ostroy (of the NYC bicycle clothing line that bears his name) Re: Bicycling, a group exhibition in New York's Susan Inglett Gallery.  Spanning the period from the Industrial Revolution to the present, the show includes more than 20 works and pays homage to, not only the bicycle itself, but its potential for autonomy and freedom.  The artists past and present, according to Platzker, "took it to heart" that the bicycle is "a means of self-powered locomotion."

Ebecho Muslimova, "Fatabe Dirt Unicycle" (2021)

For that reason, he says, "Modernism--and modern art--would never exist without bicycles."

Claes Oldenberg and Coosje Van Bruggen, "Bicycle Ensevelie, Fabrication Model of Pedal and Arm" (1988)

 

A Ride From Art To Marlee

 I've ridden to museums, galleries, plays, poetry readings, concerts and other cultural events.  It's one of my favorite ways to spend a day: I get to combine some of the things I love most.  

The problem, though is parking. I know, I sound like a motorist when I say that.  But only in a few venues can one bring in a bicycle. The Metropolitan Museum has bike racks in its parking garage and valet bicycle parking during certain hours.  But at most other events and venues, you take your chances with parking on the street.

A couple of days ago, during a late-day ride, I came across a solution to the problem:

The 5-50 Gallery is located, as the name indicates, at 5-50 51st Avenue in Long Island City.  More specifically, it occupies a garage--from what I can tell, a commercial one.  Converting industrial and retail spaces to use for art and performance is not new, but this gallery's space is uniquely accessible. 

No, that isn't a portait of Marlee on mushrooms.  It's one work by Kyle Gallagher, the artist featured when I stopped by. 

The paintings have a grab-you-by-the-collar quality, full of  colors that flash with, at once, the energy of street festivals and the urgency of flashing ambulance lights.  And the way cats and other living beings are rendered makes comics seem like a kind of mythology of the subconscious,  spun from threads of graffiti, street portraiture and abstraction.

All right, I know, you didn't come to this blog for two-bit art commentary. But there was something oddly appropriate, almost synchronistic, about encountering those paintings on a bike ride through an industrial-turned-trendy neighborhood.

When I got home, Marlee didn't care. She just wanted to know, "what's for dinner?"  

Park At The Met

Yesterday I contrasted the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" with the speeches of the Republican National Convention, which ended the night before.

Speaking of dreams: One of mine has long been to have indoor, or at least protected, bicycle parking at museums.  Well, that dream has just come true--for a while, and at one institution, anyway.

Today the Metropolitan Museum of Art is, like the Statue of Liberty* and a few other New York City museums and landmarks, re-opening to the public.  Visitors must purchase tickets and schedule their visits in advance.  Upon arrival, their temperatures will be checked and anyone who is 38C (100.4 F) or higher will be asked to visit on another day.

Some visitors, however, will be treated like VIPs.  From today until 27 September, "the Met" is offering valet bicycle parking at its Fifth Avenue plaza, just north of the steps to its main entrance.  An initiative by Kenneth Weine, the museum's vice president of external affairs, resulted in a partnership with Transportation Alternatives that brought about the parking arrangement.

Weine, who describes himself as an "avid biker," routinely rides from his Brooklyn home to work.  The museum has tripled bike parking capacity for staff in an effort to encourage more cycling to work.  Weine lauds the city for developing more bike lanes and says that "if we can be one extra link in that chain" by "offering an additional way for people to come to the museum, we're happy to do it."

In other posts on this blog, I have said that cycling enhances my perceptions of art, and that some art should be seen only after riding a bicycle to reach it.  I wonder whether Weine, or other museum administrators or curators, feel the same way.

Don't Move These Bikes!

Although it's only 80 kilometers from London, the land on which the town of Milton Keynes stands was mostly farms and woodland until the town designation order was made in 1967.  Though equidistant from London, Cambridge, Oxford, Birmingham and Leicester, MK, as it's known in Britain, was never meant to be a suburb of any of those cities.  Instead, it was planned as a hub, albeit a smaller one, in its own right.  Since then, it's become one of the UK's technological incubators--which is somehow appropriate, given that some of the oldest Bronze Age tools were found when it was excavated.

Some people deride or even loathe it for its modern architecture and art. (The "concrete cows" are the butt of many jokes.)  Other people love, or at least appreciate it, for the very same reasons.  One thing that can't be denied is that some of it, especially the public art, won't be found anywhere else.

An example is this mural:

John Watson created it in 1978 and, with the help of students from the nearby Stantonbury School (now known as the Stantonbury International School), installed it on the side of a building in the Stantonbury retail centre.

Well, a retailer wants to destroy the retail centre.  Aldi, based in Germany, has supermarkets all over Europe and in the eastern US.  They want to demolish the building the tile mural adorns.  The supermarket chain says, in its plans, that the mural could be "reprovided somewhere (nearby)".  However, Ian Mitchie, chairman of Public Arts Trust Milton Keynes, is applying to Historic England to have the artwork listed.  Moving it, he said, is almost certain to destroy it, as ceramic tiles don't take well to relocation.

1939 Suspended By Simplex

Some of my favorite civil structures are suspension bridges.  Perhaps my taste was developed by seeing the construction of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge--still one of my favorites (Would I feel that way if I had to pay the toll every day?)--as a child.  Of course, I also love the Golden Gate Bridge as well as the George Washington (I don't have to commute over it every day!).  The Bronx-Whitestone is also quite nice, in my opinion.

The Bronx-Whitestone opened in 1939.  Somehow it seems entirely appropriate:  There is a certain distinctive style--epitomized by that year's World's Fair in New York-- to the buildings, vehicles and much else from that year, and the bridge fits it perfectly.  It, like the exhibits at the Fair, was vaguely futuristic but harkened to the Art Deco designs that had recently been popular. 

So why am I giving you an entirely amateur history/critical analysis of the art, architecture and design of a year and a period?  Well, I recently came across a photo of a bicycle accessory.  Before I read the caption that accompanied it, something in my mind said, "This could have been made only in 1939."

And, indeed, it was.  Apparently, it was produced only during that year.  Now, given that it was made in France, the fact that production stopped probably had more to do with a certain event that started late that year than to any change in tastes.  Like so many other things that stopped because of the war, production of it never resumed.  Some things can't be picked up where they were left off.  But, in this case, I think that the real reason Simplex didn't start making it again when they got back to manufacturing derailleurs, chainrings and other components and accessories is that Simplex simply stopped making bottle cages altogether. Or so it seems.

It looks great with the rust and patina.  I can only imagine what it looked like when the steel reflected the sun and sky:  Somehow I imagine that seeing it would feel a bit like looking at one of those bridges as ripples of water flickered at its feet.

I'd bet that it made a bottle look like it was suspended from the bike--especially if it was mounted on a handlebar, as this double version of the cage probably was.

If I Were A Museum Director...

 Every museum should have bicycle parking facilities--preferably indoors, with a valet.

The Metropolitan Museum in New York offered it briefly, thanks to a collaboration with Transportation Alternatives, when it re-opened after its pandemic-induced closure.  I was reminded of that during my latest Paris trip, when I went museum-hopping on the bikes I borrowed and rented.

In nine days, I visited the Rodin, Picasso, Modern Art (twice), Jacquemart-Andre and Orsay Museums. Sidewalk or curbside bike racks stood just outside all of them, secluded from the traffic.  Also, there were Velib ports near all of them.  So, in Paris it is easier than it is in New York to bike from museum to museum, without having to worry about whether your bike will be where you parked it after spending a couple or a few hours looking at paintings and sculptures.  Still, I would love to see indoor facilities--and even more encouragement of, not only cycling in general (which Paris' current mayor seems to be doing plenty of) but of riding to museums and other cultural sites.

"The Scream" isn't Edvard Munch's only painting.

I mean, for me, there is nothing like taking in the colors and forms, and the ideas and feelings they convey, after a ride along city streets.  The people, buildings and streets I see, almost kaleidoscopically, put me in a mind and mood about how artists see the subjects of their work and transform them into transmissible visions. 

Perhaps it has to do with the blood that pumps into my brain as much as the sensory stimuli I experience while riding.  That might also be the reason why I can go into "old favorite" museums like the Rodin or New York's Guggenheim, or newer favorites like the Jacquemart-Andre,  and feel as if I am, not only re-connecting, but re-discovering.

Lady Macbeth, by Fussli

Now, in the Jacquemart- Andre, I sauntered through a special exhibit of Johan Heinrich Fussli, an artist I knew peripherally through his connections with the London literary and theatre worlds of the 18th Century.  But its permanent exhibit, like the one in the Rodin, also felt fresh. So did seeing the more as well as the less famous Edvard Munch works in a special exhibit at the Orsay:  Even the "Scream" resonated for me, as did the works of Oskar Kokoschka in a Modern Art special exhibit.

Oskar Kokoschka, self-portrait

If I were a museum director, I would make bike riding a requirement for entrance.  Or, at least, I would offer a discounted admission price. (I can't exclude people who can't ride, after all!)  On second thought, if I had my way, all museums would be free.  It would be the only policy that would be fair to everybody, wouldn't it? 

That I think that way is probably one reason why I never could be a museum director:  They have to raise money somehow.  But perhaps one will listen to me when I say that cyclists make the best museum visitors.  Really, we do.

Where Were You When You Broke The Law?

 I broke a law.

Well, it may not have been a law where I committed the evil deed.  But a man did the same thing in another locale and was arrested.

To be fair, there was a warrant for his capture.  And the violation was just one charged to him when he was apprehended.

The cops who effected the bust were based in barracks in a town with one of the most quirkily beautiful toponyms I’ve heard:  Shickshinny, Pennsylvania. Imagine answering the query, “Where are you from?” with that.

Anyway, the benighted soul they ensnared, 51-year-old David Thomas Totten of Wilkes-Barre, was riding a bicycle eastbound in the westbound traffic lane of West End Road in Hanover Township.  It was just after midnight on 4 September 2023 and Totten didn’t have any lights on his bike.

Now, some officers might ignore such breaches of bicycle safety protocols. And unless the officers on duty had been involved with whatever led to Totten’s warrant—or there’s some tagging technology we don’t know about—they couldn’t have known about that warrant . So the question remains of what prompted the ones on duty to stop Totten and conduct a search that yielded a cigarette pack hiding suspected methamphetamine and a syringe.

Now, I’ve never smoked, owned or used a syringe or anything that could be construed as methamphetamine  or had warrant for my arrest (that I know of!). I’ll concede that I’ve ridden in the dark without lights or reflectors, though not within the past few decades. So what, exactly have both Mr. Totten and I done that resulted in an arrest for him, but not me.

He was carrying a table when he was stopped. I’ve done it, too, on more than one occasion. I’ve also carried chairs and bookcases—and a framed art pieces, including one that measured at least 2 feet by 3 feet (61 by 91 cm.).

The latter was a delivery I made, as a Manhattan bike messenger, from a Soho gallery to Judy Collins (yes, that one) on the Upper Wear Side. I made similar runs with oversized objets d’art and home furnishings in the steel and concrete canyons. I also hauled them as part of a move from one neighborhoods to another.

Of course, the prints, tables and such didn’t fit into my messenger bag, backpack, panniers or whatever I was using to haul stuff on my bike.  So, of course, I had to carry the item in one hand and navigate the bike with the other.

Such practices, it turns out, are transgressions against Chapter 35, Subchapter A, Section 3506 of the Pennsylvania vehicle code:

“ No person operating a pedal cycle shall carry any package, bundle, or article which prevents the driver from keeping at least one hand upon the handlebars.”

I guess it’s a good thing I was in New York and New Jersey when I committed my foul deeds—unless, of course, the Empire and Garden States have statutes like the one in the Keystone State.  Then again, if said laws exist, I would guess that the statute of limitations has run out. (Is that one of the benefits of getting older?)

4-1/2 Ft.

Probably the most famous objet d'art that has anything to do with cycling is the "bull" Pablo Picasso fashioned from a bicycle saddle and handlebars.  

There are others, of course, including Marcel Duchamp's bicycle wheel.  On the other hand, we don't often hear about performance art based on bicycles or bicycling.

Now an artist and librarian based in Oakland, California plans to help fill that void.

Lisa Conrad plans to cycle across the state of Nebraska from Thursday, 30 May until 15 June.  She will be accompanied by other artists who plan to traverse the state from west to east.  After the Cornhusker State, they plan to ride across Iowa. 



Now, they are not the first cyclists to ride across either state.  What will be different is their route, which will trace abandoned railroad tracks and the gaps between them.  The purpose, she says, is to explore the role of the railroad in the making of the United States, in particular through examining the tension between the romance of the rails and the reality of making them, which was often exploitative, to put it mildly.



While she doesn't mention anything about it, the ride/performance piece--called 4 -1/2 ft, after the standard width of a railroad track--the  coincides with the 150th anniversary of the Transcontinental railroad. 

This isn't the first such ride for Conrad and the other artist-cyclists.  Previously, they did a similarly-themed ride across Washington State and Northern Idaho, and another through Montana into Wyoming.

You can learn more about 4 -1/2 ft at their website.

This Dutch Couple Is A Treat!

When I say "The Netherlands", what's the first thing you think of?

Well, since you're reading this blog, I wouldn't be surprised (or displeased) if you said "cycling."

OK, so what's the next thing you think of?

Some of you would say "windmills."  Fair enough. I'd also bet that some of you think of art.  After all, it's a country that gave us Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh and Mondrian.

So it makes sense that the Dutch would produce some nice bike-related art.

OK, so this isn't worthy of the Masters, classical or modern.  But, as we say here in Queens--in a Cyndi Lauper accent, of course:  Ya gotta love it!

(She once said, "I speak the Queens English.  It's just the wrong Queens, that's all!")