Paris: Encore Une Fois

It all started as just a work trip to Paris. "How do you fancy a trip to Paris Photo?" said The Boss. "Yes, please" said we. Having only just had a birthday visit, fallen a bit in love with the joint, I was well up for a bit of 1st class Eurostar and a fancy boutique hotel. Then, some bright spark (The Boss) conjures up the idea of a Blunt photography competition. This sounded like great fun. Take nice snaps of Paris, choose your top five, submit for judging, prize for the winner.

Then, aforementioned bright spark decides I have to compete using her Leica Digilux. No fun on my new iPhone or Hipstamatic effects for me. Now, don't get me wrong - I admire the Leica greatly, it's a beautiful bit of design and a wonderful camera with a dream lens. The tan leather case alone has me in raptures. Haven't the faintest idea how to use the bloody thing, mind. Fine when it's snap-and-shoot, but manual? One pro snapper I know hasn't worked it out properly yet, so how's Miss Luddite supposed to manage?

"You're quite right, Geoff. Even a monkey could have done a better job than that."

But it was fun! I've shot the shit out of Paris. Snapped like a motherfucker. If was out there in Paris this weekend, I've framed it badly and captured it on that fancy camera. Have a sneaky suspicion it may all look a bit shit, though. Despite getting surreptitious text tips sent from Blighty by the lovely Dean Rogers (snapper supremo), my efforts are really nothing to write home/blog about (when I tried to breath on the lens for a dreamy effect as per one suggestion, it just looked like a really terrible fog had fallen over Boulevard St Germain).

Team Blunt at Paris Photo.

Leaving it to the professionals, Paris Photo was superb but a little overwhelming. The concept is that all the finest galleries and publishers of the photography world converge in one space, showing their wares, selling their prints. It's all a bit too much for me, stunning though it is, housed under the beautiful glass-domed roof of the Grand Palais (imagine a big Kew hothouse, but filled with the finest of snaps instead of palms and plants).

A top rooftop.

I did make a wonderful discovery, though - the lovely people at Steidl publishers tell me that Julian Germain's beautiful book 'For Every Minute You Are Angry, You Lose Sixty Seconds Of Happiness' has now been reprinted. This book really touched my heart when I first saw it a few years back. One day, Julian was on his way to a football match, and as he parked on a back street, he noticed a house very different to the others on the street, painted in bright, cheery colours. The occupant was a nice old chap called Charlie, who offered to keep an eye on Julian's camera kit. He invited Julian into his home for a cuppa. Following this chance meeting, Julian befriended Charlie, who was a widower. The house still had post-it notes left by Charlie's wife, little reminders to buy things, do tasks, put the milk bottles out (I'm filling up just writing this - jesus). Anyway - you get the picture. Look here - this book is very special:

http://www.juliangermain.com/projects/foreveryminute.php

Once the work party had departed for England, there was less of the camera stuff for me, more of the hanging out stuff with my old mucker Nads, and a delicious dinner in a restaurant called Amour (oh, l'Amour!) with Les French and their good friend Antoine. The three of them have created Pop Noire, a new music label, and a good enough reason for me to stay in Paris for a few more days, as Pop Noire host a launch for an EP by French artist Lescop.

Loved it here.

Pop Noire kindly arranged a sweet hotel in St Georges area - Arvor St Georges - I'd recommend a stay. The rooms are simple and stylish, a decent breakfast, and it has lovely, friendly (and in one case particularly) attractive staff:

http://www.arvor-hotel-paris.com/en/bienvenue.html

Monday brought the bluest skies - the weather in Paris has been spectacular for the time of year - but why do more sightseeing when I can hunt down a cinema (and sit in the dark at 1pm) to see a film I've wanted to see since I read the rave reviews from this year's Cannes?

The Artist is filmed in black and white, set in the Hollywood of the late 1920s, at the peak of silent cinema. And it is a silent film - yes, they do make 'em like they used to. The story follows George Valentin, an established actor and star, as he battles with the onset of the talkies. There's love interest in the form of an up-and-coming actress called Peppy, who is bright, sparky and utterly gorgeous. It's a little formulaic, but so beautifully and charmingly done that you dont mind the obvious. Great central performances by Jean Dujardin and Berénice Bejo (John Goodman and wee dog Uggy don't do so bad either). When Jean Dujardin smiles, he looks uncannily like Gene Kelly, which is a good thing in my book. A thoroughly pleasurable couple of cinematic hours.

Black and white and not a word in sight - lovely.

Spot of wandering in the sunshine brought us to the Pompidou, a saunter along the Seine and then I think I took leave of what little sense I have remaining - and boarded a horsey carousel. Paris finally fried my overly romantic brain.

Back to the hotel, a quick change, and straight out for our musical soirée. The Pop Noire night was held, aptly enough, at a bar near Rue Oberkampf in the 11 arr called Pop In. A great little dive bar, and owned by another small French label called Pop In (funny that...). An enthusiastic crowd, the place was heaving and sweaty in no time, with Lescop whipping us all into a Pop Noire frenzy. The main track 'La Forêt' went down a storm. Turns out Lescop may be Blighty bound in January, so keep an eye out. His performance is a bit Ian Curtis (top spazz dancing), marginally more fun, great voice, catchy tunes, all coupled with intense dark eyes and great cheekbones. Le sigh.

The finale is a real treat, as John and Jehn take the stage to squeals of "we love you, Jehn!" and some wag shouts as an afterthought " and you too, John!" and everyone is laughing. A truly top finale to my trip.

Popnoiretastique.

So, I'm sitting here writing on the Eurostar heading home, reflecting on the breathtaking architecture I've seen, the interesting people I've encountered (very friendly and very rude), the mad driving (one particularly crazy cab driver beeped anyone who even drove anywhere near our car), the smoking (constant fug of Camel smoke drifting up your nose from the next table at any given café - Roy Castle would be turning in his passive smoker's grave), and the sheer expense (I actually paid over five quid for a tiny beer in one St Germain eatery - merde). Hence, the newly coined phrase:

C'est Paris.

C'est très jolie.

C'est bankruptcy.

Moi.

A Rive Gauche Birthday

Sometimes, a girl has to throw caution to the financial wind and sod off somewhere lovely for her birthday. Wanting to avoid any of the usual fuss, a plan was hatched to head over La Manche for a bit of culture and a spot of promenading. With Lady Doc in tow, an early Sunday start found us heading out of St. Pancras via Eurostar, ditching bags at a sweet little hotel on the Left Bank of the Seine, then off for a wander towards the newly revamped Musée d'Orsay (my main reason for the trip). Happened across these chaps round the corner - excellent jazzy start:

The Musée d'Orsay - it's beautiful. Sensory overload. I felt swamped by the wonderful art I saw, housed in the most stunning old railway station, a gorgeous Beaux Arts building (amazingly, it was nearly pulled down in 1970 - travesty narrowly averted):

Favourites (I now know I'm not really arsed for Manet and Cézanne - is this sacrilege?): Camille Pissaro, Alfred Sisley (the light is just dreamy in their landscapes), the wonderful decorative items (gimme anything by Hector Guimard - the most beautiful Art Nouveau creations). And a couple of pieces which actually made me feel...well, sort of...aroused. My lovely friend Howard, upon hearing of my jaunt to the Musée, insisted I looked for a painting by Gustave Caillebotte - Les Raboteurs de Parquet (The Floor Planers). He said he could happily look at it for ages - and, so it seems, can I. The light on the skin of the men as they work, the lines and muscles on their arms - god, I'm nearly off again:

Is it crass to think 'phwoar'?

And an image I can't seem to find anywhere - an 'odalisque' (female harem slave) by Benjamin-Constant - reclined on a sofa, naked, shadowy, with rich red hues, draped with velvet. I had to walk away, it must have been obvious to anyone near I was having a moment.

Later, we wandered along the banks of the Seine as twilight fell, and just as we crossed the bridge back to St Germain, the Eiffel Tower started twinkling like a huge Bonfire Night sparkler. Perfect.

Locks of l'amour on the Pont des Arts.

Altogether now - aaawww.

Crime passionnel, cherchez la femme ou cherchez le chat...

Wonder what scrapes M. Duluc gets involved in?

A very grand petit déjeuner.

The most perfect couple of days - I drank Kir Royale, bought Hemingway at Shakespeare & Co, had breakfast at Ladurée, sipped Cointreau, people-watched from pavement cafés. A happy, happy birthday to remember.

(Postscript: Back in that gorgeous city again this coming weekend. Photography at Paris Photo, music with lovely Pop Noire, and there's even been talk of dancing girls at Moulin Rouge. Sounds dull as fucking dishwater - might stay home and wash me hair...only kidding, Boss.)

Buns

I was recently pleased to find I'm not just good at eating buns, but no slouch at baking them either. And so, last Saturday, following an invitation over the hill for tea by Les French, I could take flapjack and banana bread made with my own fair hand. Don't think they put it in the bin...and chit-chat reveals that I'll be in Paris twice in one week, and then I discover they'll be there at the same time, which is a lovely surprise. This means partying à la Pop Noire ahead, at the launch party for their recent musical collaboration with Lescop: 'La Forêt' (Les French are actually none other than John & Jehn: gorgeous, talented, handsome pair and all-round good oeufs) - superbe - watch here:

Lescop - La Foret (english subtitles) from John & Jehn on Vimeo.

A lovely Sunday spent with The Boss and Dean at Miss J's pied à terre in Marylebone, to discuss all things creative, arty and bookish. No buns here, but I did bring Dean a bit of my bloody brilliant banana bread (alliteration overdrive), and Miss J cracked open the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (get.in.my.mouth.now). As we're looking at Miss J's vast and beautiful book collection for inspiration, I happen across a lovely thing - 'Avedon: Portraits'. Not a book in the page-turning sense of the word, it comes in concertina-style form, filled with his wonderful portraiture. I read the back page, which consists of a portrait of Avedon's father, taken when his father is old and ill with cancer, and a copy of a letter Avedon wrote to his Dad, after finding his Dad didn't like the portrait. The letter is beautiful. I've struggled to find the page in its entirety to show you, but here's a link to most of it, posted on another blog I've stumbled across:

http://www.robertlpeters.com/news/allnews/richard-avedons-letter-to-his-father…/

Mr Avedon Sr.

If you've read the letter link, you should also know that when his father died, Avedon discovered the letter, carefully folded and tucked away in the pocket of his Dad's best suit. Obviously, this made me have a little blub (it's a Dad thing), and my kind colleagues didn't take the piss in the slightest, for which I was very grateful.

Monday brought a houseguest to Disgracelands. Colin Lane is, without question, a great rock 'n' roll photographer. The man who gave The Strokes and Kings Of Leon their pictorial cool is also a laid-back, good-humoured joy to have around. You may be familiar with Colin's work - or at least familiar with the arse of his ex-girlfriend:

Nice buns.

The NME are quite keen on that arse too:

http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=10&p=11295&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#more11295

Over from NYC for a press and PR shoot with a new band (the label clearly hoping that Colin will work his trademark narrative magic on these fresh-faced youngsters), I get to have dinner 3 nights in a row with a man who knows his onions on the music front (he lived in Austin in the late 80s, saw the birth of SXSW - nuff said). Some of the best over-the-table conversations I've had for ages (who else can wank on about Bill Callahan like me? Well, it tranpsires Mr Lane can).

Once my lovely snapper has flown off to Warsaw to see more life through his lens, I'm back at the Blunt grindstone. My Paris jaunt means I'll be away from the office on the big day, so I get to enjoy an early birthday cake treat. My lovely workmates know how to treat a girl. As I'm so keen on all things fancy cakewise (Patisserie Valerie / afternoon tea at The Wolseley / Ladurée - that's me), they really pushed the boat out - 3 buns from Greggs. With Santas and reindeers on (?). And trick candles which will not be blown out. There is footage of this, which I'd be more than happy to upload and reveal myself to be the least cool person on the face of this earth, and possibly the most out of breath. Unless I can work out Blogger's little foibles, you'll just have to use your imagination. While you wait, feast your eyes on the envelope my card came in:

Yes, it's a drawing of a big, veiny penis by a lesbian artsist who has a surprising...ahem...'grasp' of the subject matter. And some Xmas buns - in November.

(Postscript: on my recent trip up North, I was doing a spot of charity shop trawling, when I heard an unmistakeable voice. I turned around to discover my old friend Nick Sykes, who I haven't seen for years. This is the man who bought me a ticket to my first ever out-of-town gig, The Jesus And Mary Chain at Leeds University. He also nicknamed me 'Bunman', because I always had a bun or bit of cake wrapped up in foil or paper in my handbag. Almost 30 years have past...some things never change.)