David Hockney superstar
Wednesday. Another miracle of where I’m staying – a walk across the Seine to the Palais Royale metro stop, and straight out on the #1 line to the Bois de Boulogne and the Fondation Vuitton, on the opening day of the David Hockey retrospective. I’d had a fond plan that after the exhibition, I’d stroll for a bit in the woods. But 2 ½ hours of art later, I could hardly walk and headed for home.
David Hockney – what to say that’s not been said? “I believe the very process of looking can make a thing beautiful,” he once said, and that’s what he proves to us; we see the world through the eyes of a man who looks hard and makes things beautiful. What’s clear is that, despite being born to a humble, non-artistic family in northern England, he had a phenomenal talent from the very start; he was born in 1937, and the first work in the show, a portrait of his father, was done in 1955, when he was eighteen, at art school. The piece next to it, done in 1956, stole my heart, and that was it, I was done for.
Room after room in this overwhelming show — perhaps the man never sleeps. He works in every medium — watercolour, oils, acrylics, photography, stage design, and more recently with tech tools like the iPad, which allows him to work in nature without a lot of equipment. It’s all beautiful.
He moved around the world. His California paintings are perhaps his most famous, the swimming pools and the multi-coloured highways. But then he moved back to England and captured his home country in many paintings and sketches, often of the same place in all seasons; then he lived in Normandy for some time and painted that. He studied and honours great artists of the past; some of his background slashes look like Van Gogh’s skies.
For me, he’s a modern Picasso, though I like his work much more; it’s joyful, filled with bright colour and sensitivity and, often, humour. And dogs, he loves dogs. It didn’t surprise me to learn in reading about him that he’s close with his four siblings and adored his mother. There’s a warmth and happiness in his work. Below, he painted British hawthorn trees in spring, and described them as being “showered with champagne.”
One of his latest, on iPad — a self-portrait. His button says, “Stop bullying soon.”
The museum wasn’t too crowded and the art was easy to see, partly because the rooms are large and some of the art is enormous. One tip, though — it was so overwhelming, I took a break halfway through and went out into the park behind the museum to find lunch and sit in peace. But lunch was elusive; there was a food truck with a long lineup right outside, but I could not find an alternative in the park, at least not without a long walk, which is not what I wanted after a lot of standing. Luckily I’d brought some nuts — thank you Jean-Marc! — which kept me alive until I got home and could eat. If you go, I advise taking a break to clear your palate, so to speak, but also, for the good of your palate, bringing something to eat.
And as I walked away, what did I see a few blocks from the museum? A stop for the ubiquitous #63 bus. It looked like a great trip through the heart of the city to take me right home, but the woman waiting at the stop had a vicious cough. So I walked to the metro, then through the Louvre courtyard – mad mad crowds – and home.
That evening, an exotic dinner with Juliet, a blog companion, a Canadian who’s lived in France for many years but will be moving to Spain next year. We sat at the bar in a small restaurant and ended up chatting with the couple next to me, who assumed we were American. “Non non non!” I cried. “Canadiennes!” And we talked, of course, about the monster. Le fou.
A walk home through streets crowded with people carousing at cafés. Today, again, at lunchtime, it felt like millions of people sitting lunching on the street. Things are expensive in Paris, and I wonder — how do people make enough money to live here if they spend so much time in cafés? But doing that is symbolic of the French way — making time to enjoy life. When I’m in NYC, looking in the shop windows at the ridiculously expensive stuff for sale, I feel a bitter anger at the financial inequities of our world. But here, even though the same absurd stuff is for sale — nearby, a store that sells bespoke men’s shoes for 700 euros, not to mention the priceless antiquities on sale all through this neighborhood — but it doesn’t feel wrong, it’s part of life here, the celebration of the finer things in life, even if you can’t remotely afford them or want them.
This morning, the Ligne 1 metro to Bastille, then walked along the Faubourg Ste. Antoine — this area is the real Paris — to the Marché d’Aligre, a flea market, scores of tables laden with junk and treasure, chipped dishes, broken ashtrays, faded handbags, shoes, books, posters, silver, jewelry, Arab vendors shouting at each other, the usual bunch of savvy pickers and weirdos like me sifting through. Luckily I cannot buy anything because my suitcase is too small. I once bought a lovely little bowl here, that gives me pleasure every time I use it. But today, just the pleasure of being there. There is also a big food market, veg, fruit, cheese, meat — white asparagus — beautiful.
A few streets over is the restaurant L’Ebauchoir, where I’d booked a table for lunch. Lynn and I discovered this place by chance, a classic French resto, almost no tourists, not expensive, great service, good food. A treat. I had the menu, two courses for 17 euros, plus a little glass of Cotes du Rhône and an espresso. Happiness.
And then down the street to the Danish shop Flying Tiger, where I always buy my reading glasses. The price has gone up, they’re now 6 euros, but they’re terrific, I bought four pairs. And this time, I also bought one of those necklace eyeglass holders. As Chris says, that’s how you know you’re old, when you wear your glasses on a chain around your neck. But then, I know I’m old.
I know because once, on a beautiful day like this, I would have walked the very long way home. This time, I happened upon another terrific bus, #83, that took me all the way back to St. Germain, winding through streets crowded with people still having lunch. Got out a stop early and went into l’Eglise St. Sulpice, another massive monument to the power and money of the Catholic church, now busy getting ready for Easter.
Stopped to buy a pain au chocolat, just because. And now, a nap. Tonight, another challenge: La Musée d’Orsay.
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