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.