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The morning began with a fresh coffee and oeuf au jambon at Bistrot Mazarin, next to La Palette, where we met Sebastiano Varoli. A curator with a very different perspective on how art should be exhibited, by this time next year anyone worth their sel with be familiar with his name. From there we walked towards La Seine, past the festival of galleries turning left onto Rue Jacob and on towards Le Musée d’Orsay to visit the Marlene and Spencer Hays private collection Une Passion Francaise.
All this we packed in before our private view with “plasticien” Roberto Platé at his exhibition in La Maison D’Amerique Latine http://mal217.org/english/. Part of the 1960s cultural revolution in Argentina, he was a founding member of TSE (Théâtre Sans Explication), and following the scandal of his installation Los Banios, and Eva Peron de Cope in 1969 Platé went into exile. TSE landed in Paris and they continued their collaboration into the 70s until Opera found him.
Walking us through his own exhibition, including a trip through those infamous “public loos” to see the outpouring of expression that had been so offensive to the Argentinian regime, he still the enthusiasm of someone who does not take anything for granted. They do not transcribe – it is a visual experience – just as the book published on his career that spans more than 40 years is completely without words.
Beyond the epic scope and scale of his work, was an extraordinary generosity with both his time and his process.
Working alone and obsessively with maquettes to configure the space, he then paints the finished perspective and presents to the director, thus avoiding any heavy handed moving around of his three dimensional vision. He set up this exhibition of his own work himself. Pulling back a black velvet curtain we stepped with him into infinity: a black pool lined with strip lights reflected endlessly in a mirrored ceiling.
Then standing in front of his design where Joan of Arc gets burned at the stake, he quotes, “Tu ne peut pas avoire peur du feu car tu est le feu.” It is an avant-garde moment, being inside the set within a set, with this master of space and environment living in Paris – the ultimate backdrop where anyone can act out their fantasy.
At midday we had a rendezvous on the right bank to see the finish of the Peking Paris Rally 2013 – and be there to salute my travel hero Michelle Chan and her partner Mike Reeves who had raced across the entire continent. Yin Xin met me at Place Vendome dressed in a cream 1920s linen suit and bowler hat. He was theperfect complement to the classic cars while highlighting the fact that there was only one contestant in the race who was actually of Chinese origin: Michelle.
As the cars turned into the final stretch we saw the flash of a Chinese Dragon and team Shiner soon cruised across the finish line in third position with their little daughter tucked under Michelle’s arm. It had been an epic race, potentially marred by the tragic loss of British motorist Emma Wilkinson but they had overcome every single hurdle that had been thrown at them and never lost their fighting spirit.
As Michelle later told me she had found her mantra when, in their darkest hour, an elderly couple standing by the roadside in the pouring rain held up a sign with these words, “Fortune favours the brave”. They were visibly still very much a couple and I envied them that more than their much-coveted trophy. They are every inch the Abercrombie and Kent dream.
After a long walk through the assembled motorcade which read like a history of the 20th century on wheels from a 1917 France Tourer to a 1970’s Lancia, we retreated to the left bank and hit LIPP for a late lunch: a platter of oysters accompanied by Mumm Champagne. Feeling inspired by the rally, and emboldened by the drink we spontaneously booked a 2CV Paris City Tour (www.parisauthentique.com) which picked us up on rue Jacques Callot outside La Maison MEERT – the Confiseur Chocolatier first opened in Lille in 18th century.
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That evening we crossed the Pont Neuf to the Place Dauphine to have dinner at possibly my favourite restaurant in Paris: le Caveau du Palais. We had a table outside and as the sun went down a game of Petanques began in the sandy square as if we had been transported to a little village in Provence. Our entrecote a point with pommes sarladaise et haricot verts was washed down with a cool bottle of Brouilly. Its seasonal menu always includes its signature dishes of canard and entrecote.
After this we walked back across le Pont Neuf and along to le Pont des Arts, opposite L’Academie Francais. From a distance the bridge seemed to be covered in a shimmering mesh punctuated by the deep glow of the setting sun. As we approached I began to make out little padlocks, the names of lovers inscribed, tied to the bridge that unites walkers from the right to the left bank. It was a living tribute to the lovers drawn to this city of light, but also a powerful metaphor: you cannot have the right without the left, and love is like a bridge over the river that separates you.
“Sous le Pont Mirabeau coule la Seine et nos amours,
Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne,
La joie vennait toujours après la peine.” Beaudelaire
Walking back to my mother Germaine’s apartment on rue Guenegaud we stopped to have a cocktail at PRESCRIPTION joining a young hip crowd deep in conversation sipping their cocktails to the jazz.
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If you need a taxi for your return journey make sure you book it the night before, as Paris is not a city where you can easily hail a cab. That morning with the early morning sun lighting up the mostly empty streets I had a moment to reflect on the difference between the city’s two banks of culture. Part of me loves the Left Bank so much I don’t want to write about it – it was like being in the perfect cocoon.
As I settled into my ample seat on the Eurostar I was grateful that it was facing backwards so that I could look at the city as I left. I slipped into a daydream and woke to the fresh scent of a croissant, giving me my final Parisian indulgence. Behind me, the exhausted organisers of the PekingParis2013 were catching some shut-eye – confirming that, unless you have a classic car or a private jet, this is the only way to travel. God bless the Eurostar: it is the bridge of all bridges – uniting us with the continent we all love.
by Nico Kos Earle