CHAPTER 11: Pompidou Parables

Ooh la la. Take me to the Pompidiou. The current exhibition there has us raving and since it's there until May 10, we are considering going on a daily basis. elles@centrepompidou has over 500 works by 200 artists, all from the permanent collection. It is a history-making show for women.

And listen to this lineup:
Guerilla Girls, who claim they put the "F" in feminist (I'm in! Just give me a gorilla mask!), Suzanne Valadon (here she is again -- Utrillo's mother), Nikki de Saint Phalle (the mosaic queen), Frida Kahlo, Jenny Holzer, Dorothea Tanning...

Suzanne Valadon

There's a rumor that the male artists have been banished to the basement for the duration. I don't think it's true -- we actually saw some hanging around upstairs.

The piece de resistance for me are the works by Diane Arbus. Bernie and I went together to see the movie Fur and he cried because he loved it so much.  After that, he wanted a fur jacket to wear around Paris, but I explained to him that all the fur we see is animal fur, not human fur like the one Diane had. And animal fur is not OK except on animals. Well, that's problematic, isn't it. He is, after all, an animal. Then I had to explain it has to be your own fur, not someone else's. He still doesn't get the part of how the fur gets off of one animal and onto someone else. I thought it best to leave that part vague. I think he assumes it gets shaved off like in the movie.

The first time I ever saw an exhibit of Diane Arbus photos was in New York. I was completely overcome with the magic of her work. I walked out of the gallery, went straight to a corner market, bought a disposable camera -- and immediately trained that cheap lens on every unsuspecting person walking down the street. Or even better, sitting on the sidewalk.

One young man caught my eye. He was sleeping on a corner, surrounded by hand-lettered signs. I took his picture and then spotted his cup. As I was walking over to drop some money in, a skinny young woman ran up to him and whispered something.

He dropped his signs and together, they both ran down a side street, first together, and then splitting up onto opposite sides of the street. It was so startling that I walked nearly into the intersection to watch them disappear.

Moving on, just half a block away, an obviously drunk old man was staggering in circles on the sidewalk and another man was roughly trying to push him down. As the police arrived, it became chaotic and the police began pushing both of them. I was convinced it was a case of police brutality. I squatted down on the sidewalk myself, taking photos between the legs of bystanders.

Then, I realized my interpretation was a bit off.  The police were trying to get him to lie down and keep the other guy off of him. When they got him all the way down, I saw blood all over his shirt and pants.

When the ambulance arrived, I started asking questions. The old man had been stabbed -- by the young woman who took off with the street guy while I was photographing him.

The Pompidou Center is near Les Halles, an area that was originally the outdoor market area of Paris. In the mid 1800s, it was called "the belly of Paris."  Every time we come here, it triggers the memory of a rather unpleasant experience witnessing a French prostitute, her teenage daugher and a potential client when we first moved to Paris and were exploring this neighborhood at night.

The Center took six years to build, covers five acres with seven levels, and has colored tubes on the outside for the building's mechanical systems: green/plumbing, blue/climate control, yellow/electrical, red/safety devices.

Inside is an enormous public library and the Musee National d' Art Moderne, the largest modern art museum in Europe. There are even public lounges in sun drenched atriums, virtually created for afternoon naps.

After spending hours at the show today, Bernie and I sit down for a bit outside in the Place Georges Pompidiou in front of the museum.  A woman watches us from near the fountain, then moves over and sits near us. There's a cold wind today and she has a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The stitching in her shoes has come undone and the little toe on her right foot is sticking out. She smiles, which softens the lines of her face, and I can't help but notice her two front teeth are mssing. It gives her the disarming look of a six-year-old.

"Do you speak English," she says.

"Yes," I answer.

"Perhaps you know someone who can help me," she says, in heavily French accented English.

Now anyone who lives in Paris knows that's how the Gypsies approach anyone who looks the least bit American or British. They all start with the same "Do you speak English" question. Then they hand you a printed sad story about a sister in the hospital, or hungry children. The first time, even knowing better, you may give them some money. But it becomes old fairly quickly and the same story doesn't seem so sad anymore. Even if it's true. But this feels different.

I quickly learn her name is Melody and she has a cat. She has approached me because Bernie is with me and she says she thinks I might have a kind heart. The cat is hungry. The cat has an eye infection. Melody has no money to help it but she loves her cat very much. Do I know anyone who can help them?

I agree to meet her here at noon tomorrow and I'll bring some cat food and see if I can get some feline eye ointment. As Bernie and I head for the Metro, I think, "Why me?" and then I think, "Oh well, why not me."