Saturday: Scurried off to the old conversational group in the morning (startled to have overslept, rushing through the essentials), happy to cross that side of the river again, happy to be striding up Sébastopol toward Les Halles. I saw four familiar faces for sure, not all in my room. Sobering, it is, how much gets lost if it’s not used regularly (that saying is true). I can still process simple questions and answers with no trouble, but attempting to hold forth on the appalling wealth distribution in the U.S., or give those heading out to La Nuit Blanche in the coming evening a heads-up about the Métro’s reduced schedule long before it’s over (based upon painful experience) taxes the vocabulary. And anyone speaking at (Parisian) speed will just have to accept the fact they’re going to have to repeat, for the present.
Afterward I wandered—deliberately not caring about getting lost since I know I can get unlost, in the Marais, in the daytime—vaguely in the direction of La Bastille and Place des Vosges. I intend to keep doing that, in fact, becoming (more) familiar with the Marais being one goal. And I kept my word, because I was promptly disoriented, though in the process found Rue des Rosiers, which I had wanted, at some point at least (though l’As du Falafel was closed, I grabbed a pirojki to go from another nice little shop I hope to make it back to (there were also all sorts of interesting sweets), which I ate in a small park (Square Georges Cain) where other people were eating, idling, a couple of sets of parents entertaining toddlers in the little central grassy part). I thought I’d found Rue St.-Antoine, which I remembered as one of the main thoroughfares; when I realized it was Boulevard Beaumarchais, I knew I was completely turned around. I missed Place des Vosges this time entirely, but made it to Place de la Bastille, whereupon I had my bearings again, and wandered up and down, in and out of a few places including a Monoprix, till the body was requesting relief.
La Nuit Blanche. Still psychologically scarred from the last one, I went for moderation—which wasn’t really even all that much a case of denial, because not all that much looked compellingly interesting. Nothing, really, at all on the island, which I briefly confirmed on foot before crossing over to l’Hôtel de Ville. The cathedral was dark (well, as usual, with a line of tourists waiting to enter nonetheless; nothing like last year’s massive mob), there was nothing at the Hôtel Dieu, nothing on the Pont St.-Louis, it being ¾ blocked at the moment for resurfacing. Nothing at the Hôtel de Ville, for that matter. BHV had a similar light display to last year’s around its façade; I could never make out the words (not Marcel Duchamp quotes, at least); perhaps related to the “Noël Québecois” it’s promoting? Or not. Which culminated repeatedly in a sort of lighted skyline.
So from there, I walked as briskly as crowds would permit up Rue du Temple, past another massive line for something I’d seen online and decided to pass on (as in, I really don’t even recall what), till reaching another line that, judging from the block it was in, I was pretty sure was for the installation at the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire du Judaïsme, so I started standing in it. We moved pretty quickly, and eventually, through a security check, were in its courtyard, where the Polish artist Miroslaw Balka’s “Heaven” was. It resisted photographing well, and I doubt my words will do it justice, but it was magical: long twists of—mylar? or something similar, suspended on invisible strings all through the court, catching light in the darkness and constantly turning, some appearing to fall twisting till they disappeared, like rain that doesn’t make it to the ground; others, lower, seeming to rise from the earth like steam or smoke that dissipates.
After a little while there I made my way back to the Hôtel de Ville and its Métro station, heading for the only other installation I’d chosen to see. Line #1 (the infamous early closer of memory) to Concorde, then 12 to Abbesses (and that in itself a little wondrous and nostalgic; it had been years since I’d simply traveled to Abbesses—not that the crush of La Nuit Blanche and the children’s carnival rides set up right outside its entrance, I’m guessing related to Montmartre’s Fête des Vendanges that begins Wednesday (yes! there are still vineyards in Montmartre) did much to cater to that brief inclination). As in the past, the crowds kept swelling and gradually becoming more raucous as the evening wore on. The Square Louise-Michel is the one in front of the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur; once there, I snapped a couple of photos of the basilica above by night, but couldn’t see any candles. Moving around the left side toward the stairs, I was about to ask a guard when I heard someone else confirming that this was, in fact, the way to the “bougies,” and followed. There were a lot of people waiting for the funicular to the top, which I thought I’d disdain as always and climb—but then thought, that’s stupid: it’s warm, you’re already tired, plus you’re—well, old. The same ticket that gets you on a Métro is good for the funicular (and wasn’t I glad I’d saved all those leftover tickets from last year), so there was only the wait. Which wasn’t too terrible. Until we were shoehorned into the car when it had descended to us, giving “pressing the flesh” a whole new meaning. Similar to, but exceeding, the really crowded Métros. I’m sure there was a lovely view as we ascended, but it was a couple of dozen people away from me. The initial reward was the great drop in temperature when we exited at the top; it was cooler everywhere by then, of course, but markedly so that high up.
And there, far below near where I’d seen the guard and heard of the “bougies,” they were: Renaud August-Dormeuil’s installation “I Will Keep a Light Burning.” Not candles, precisely, but little oil lamps, scores of them, in a representation of the Paris night sky as it will appear one hundred years from today, one for each star. Do I need to employ the word “magical”? Wouldn’t that be overkill?
Slowly jockeying for position, fending off some strange young man (several times; the words “Quel est votre problème? J’ai des enfants plus agés que vous” finally got used), snapping photos, descending a little (in the dark, and there were no lights at all on the steps, I assure you, it was caveat emptor all the way), snapping from another angle, and just—looking, ensued. Till I was right upon the installation, which was no less magical at close range. I hope maybe a photo of a young boy raptly looking, too, his face reflecting the glow of the lights, turns out.
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