A Guide To Art: Doin' Life

This is Part 3 of Pat's Guide to Art. You can find Parts 1 & 2 yourself! This guide relies on my many years of being aware of art, and on the fact that I've seen some art in Paris. I looked at art, so you don't have to.

Today's lesson: Still life

Now, I think it’s safe to say that I know a thing or two about art. I have a Bachelor of Arts, after all. [As proof, I’m also unemployed.] So it has fallen upon me to try and explain the enigma that is ‘still life’. On the one hand, you have a boring bowl of fruit. On the other hand…hmm, this is tricky.

Still life should not be confused with still birth or Still D.R.E. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.

Nature Morte aux Oranges by Paul Gauguin.

Still life is all about capturing that magical moment when you’ve come home from the market and have arranged all of your precious new fruit neatly in a bowl. Obviously, you are going to proceed to ignore that fruit until it goes maggoty and is swarmed by fruit flies. The great painters of history - ever the soothsayers - knew the flies and maggots were coming, so they captured that initial moment forever with their paintings. It’s like a really slow, inefficient version of posting pictures of your dinner on The Facebook. 

Fruit and Vegetables with a Monkey, a Parrot and a Squirrel by Frans Snyders

But there is more to the history of still life. Let me explain…

The government of the day (let’s say, after Shakespeare but before Hitler) had a real hard time getting people to eat fruit. “Fruit is gay”, they would say, choking on the irony of their own statements. To combat public apathy, said government began commissioning the great artists of the time to portray fruit in a better light. If the common people spent their days eating fruit, they wouldn’t realise that all the chocolate and foie gras was going to the fat cats.

The famous “One + A Day” campaign was a roaring success. While it did virtually nothing to improve the health and wellbeing of the common-folk – the vast majority of post-medieval ‘prols’ fell victim to drive-by lancings long before experiencing any medical issues – it did increase the popularity of what are now fairly mundane fruits. The campaign did not last, however, eventually giving way to the now-infamous “Just Lick A Lemon” movement, which it had been hoped would cure lance-related heart failure.

 

The Lemon by Edouard Manet.

As ‘olden times’ went on, still life moved on from its fruit focus, and various meats began to feature. Fish, in particular, became very popular, due largely to their scarcity. Those ones that Jesus had given out were pretty much all gone, and the povos were not expert fisherpeople. [Jesus was not a fan of the ‘teach a man to fish…’ parable, believing it to be sexist]. So paintings such as this one started doing the rounds:

Yeah I'm Bout That Carp Life by Abraham van Beyeren (actual title 'Still Life with Carp").

Now, I’m the last person to say anything bad about carp, obviously. But this is a simply dreadful advertisement for the wonders of omega 3s and mercury poisoning. These carp look tired and lifeless. This would never make it past the editors of Cuisine Magazine.

Birds and game began showing up on canvases (or ‘canvi’), and the artists showed these a similarly paltry sense of care:

Still Life with Hare and Birds on a Ring by Adriaen van Utrecht.

Look at the size of that hare! People always throw around that expression “a hare’s breadth” as though it is something very small or narrow. ‘I missed the Autumnal Equinox by a hare’s breadth!’ is one such commonly used phrase. This hare appears to be about as big as a medium-sized dog. If I had ever heard someone exclaim ‘boy, that bus missed that car by a Tree Walker Coonhound’, then I’d understand this expression. Or maybe I have the expression wrong. Maybe it’s “a hare’s breasts.” That doesn’t really make sense either.

From here, the history gets a bit shaky. Many artists began painting (rather than growing) flowers, such was the ubiquity of pollen allergies at the time. An enormous scandal broke in 1890, when it was discovered that Vincent Van Gogh had been signing his name on the paintings of his nine-year old daughter:

Still life: Japanese Vase with Roses and Anemones by Vincent Van Gogh.

From here, not much is known about still life painting. Philosophers believe that the art was lost somewhere around the industrial revolution, but they are philosophers, not historians. They're not much good at all. [Art historians could not be reached for comment.] We do know that in 1962 some blonde nerd scanned the label of a soup can, and brought still life into the modern age:

Campbell's Soup Cans by Andy Warhol.

  

This article has not been pear-reviewed. I’m not sure how one would go about doing that.

A Guide To Art: Monet, Monet, Monet, Monet...Monet!

This is Part 2 of Pat's Guide to Art. Part 1 can be found here. This guide relies on my many years of being aware of art, and on the fact that I've seen some art in Paris. I looked at art, so you don't have to.

Today's lesson: Blandscapes Landscapes

Landscapes are when you take a portrait and tip it sideways. In this lesson, we will be talking specifically about sideways paintings largely comprising natural stuff: lakes; plant-life; bodies of water; boring stuff like that. Why? Because Google says that’s what a ‘landscape’ is.

Fun fact, landscapes are the fourth best type of painting. There’s not much to be done with this information, but it’s good that they make these things official.

One of the good things about art is that you can look at a painting of one thing, and it magically makes you think about another thing. Take this Monet, for example: 

Londres, le Parlement by Claude Monet

This is, apparently, London’s Parliament (even though it isn’t hive-shaped(!)). It has good colours, as well as a healthy sense of mystery (is it morning or evening?). But whenever I see this painting, I can only think of the classic 1981 dramatic fantasy film Excalibur:

This film launched the careers of Liam Neeson and Ciarán Hinds. It also helped bring us Patrick Stewart:

For some reason, I had this movie on tape (recorded off TV2, from memory), and I watched it over and over as a kid. I understood almost none of it, and I never got more than about halfway through (it’s a long one). It features knights, swords, O Fortuna by Carl Orff, heartbreak, beards and betrayal - all crucial to the human condition. There’s also a bit of nudity. And that’s why I like Monet.

This landscape has a rainbow in it:

The Rainbow Landscape

For now, we will overlook that this rainbow is missing some colours (and, it does NOT follow the ROY G BIV pattern). A rainbow is a good thing to paint, because rainbows are magic. The painting was painted by Peter Paul Rubens. He was around in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, and should not be confused with Paul Reubens, who had some trouble in a cinema.

Here’s a landscape by a Swedish guy:

Miroir de l'Eau by Axel Acke

It’s at the Musee D’Orsay. It’s of two women, twins, probably, just messing about in the mangroves in Manukau Harbour (I believe). This one reminds me mainly of that film Twins with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny De Vito. Isn’t art fun?

According to the Musee D’Orsay website, Mr Acke might have painted this as an “allegory” for ‘Sweden's coming to the aid of Finland when it was oppressed by Tsarist Russia’. Then why did he paint naked women? I’m not sure that two naked women would be much good in taking down all of Russia. I would’ve painted tanks or drones, or maybe John Matrix or Mark Wahlberg in Shooter.

One criticism I hear a lot is that landscapes can be boring. They often don’t have people in them; sometimes they are just pictures of people’s gardens. Boo-urns. Here’s one with people in it, and even some farm animals:

Landscape Near Rhenen by Aelbert Cuyp

There’s not a lot going on though. A giant is cramming for his recorder recital tomorrow, while two small people feign interest. The giant has forgotten his gumboots, which is a problem because it might rain. Some people are fishing in the background, apparently from the worst spot possible. The cows aren’t doing much. This is, at best, an episode of Outdoors With Geoff, but without the top tips for cooking fish.

Here’s a landscape by Vincent Van Gogh. It’s a picture of a wheat field, with cypresses:

A Wheat Field, With Cypresses

I’ll admit that he does some good stuff with his colours, and the sky looks nice. But imagine what he could have done with a picture of a T-Rex! Give the T-Rex a machine gun and a Razor scooter - now that’s art! And that’s what’s turning the kids off landscapes these days. Not enough dinomism.

So are landscapes yesterday’s news? In this fast-paced, Nintendo 64, Matrix Reloaded, Smartcar world, is there room for paintings of scenery? Where’s the sex? The violence? The danger? Is it all over for landscapes?

How should I know?

Red Red Whine

What follows is a tale about a time I rode a bike. The French word for bike is vélo, and the Paris city council has a bunch of these called "Velibs", which I imagine is some sort of play on words. 

 
Velibs are a great local government initiative whereby you pay a small fee, and you can use a bike wherever you like for 45 minutes. All you have to do is return the Velib to a Velib station and connect it to the little connecty thingy. The light goes green, and all is well. If the light is red, something is amiss. This follows the basic colour/values convention that is now pervasive all over the world. Green things are good (Tangy Apples, Luke’s new-and-improved lightsaber, Ninja Turtles) and red things are bad (Communism, Republicans, Satan, Simply Red). Orange is the colour of apathy.

It was this system of which I ran afoul.

To start: Bikes are a big deal in Paris. There are no helmets, and, maybe as a result, cars and buses are very respectful of cyclists’ space. Driving seems like it would be a bit of a bore, with so many one way streets and ungodly roundabouts. It is a generally flat city. Bikes are just a good idea. On a bike, a (handsome) man is free.

He is not free from the tyranny of the colour police. Or, indeed, the police police. I had seen so many cyclists flouting the road rules that it seemed as though, as long as you rode safely, you could sort of do what you liked. Not, apparently, if you choose to run a red light right next to a police car. Now, in my defence, I didn’t see the police car. Also, it wasn’t a four-way crossing. This was a traffic light to allow pedestrians to cross, and no pedestrians were in danger (nor was I or anyone else). I actually needed to get across three lanes of traffic, and this seemed like a good time to do so, what with all the cars stationary. The police car next to me did not agree.

So I got pulled over by the French police. It was almost exactly like that verse in 99 Problems, except without the coke, the questionable race relations or the oft-forgotten-about speeding violation. The police, in this instance, consisted of two tubby chaps in their 40s (I reckon). The first thing they had to do was put on their hats. French police wear funny little sailor’s hats, which they had neatly folded on the dashboard of the police car. 

[As an aside, I heard from someone recently that, at least in New Zealand, the police have to be wearing their hats before arresting you. Possibly even before issuing any sort of ticket. This should have been the first thing we learned in law school. For shame. [It’s not important whether this is true, by the way, just that I heard it]].

At this point, I still was not certain why I had been pulled over. I had been riding with headphones (everyone does it), and wondered whether that wasn’t allowed. I had also just bolted across three lanes of traffic, and if you did it in a car, you might expect some sort of dressing down. After explaining that I do not speak French, and handing over my driver’s licence, one tubby policeman explained to me in decent English the whole “red is bad” rule. He took down my address, and I suspect he was ready to slap me with a fine.

What played out next was a delightfully-timed cliché: the French take on Good Cop/Bad Cop. His tubby partner, from what I could make out, didn’t seem to think a fine was necessary. [It should be noted that I was genuinely a bit surprised when I discovered that I had been stopped for the red light thing, and I made it pretty clear that I didn’t know it was a problem.] Here is transcript of what I imagine they were saying to one another:

Bad Cop: “He’s getting a ticket.”

Good Cop: “He says he didn’t know.”

Bad Cop: “He ran a light; he gets a fine. Case closed.”

Good Cop: “Look, his licence says he’s from New Zealand.” [‘Nouvelle Zelande’ was mentioned several times]. “Do they even have traffic lights there?”

Bad Cop: “I’ve been there. I went with my mistress. They have lights. Case closed.”

Good Cop: “Thanks for the invite.”

Bad Cop: “Well I was hardly going to take you on my adulterous trip around the world.”

Good Cop: “Just say it, you don’t want to hang out outside of work.”

Bad Cop: “Jesus, not this again.”

Good Cop: “I get the message.”

Bad Cop: “Look, if I don’t give him the ticket, will you please drop it?”

Good Cop: “OK, but I get to drive back to the station. And it would be nice if, sometimes, you told me that my hat looks nice. And sometimes I want to say ‘case closed.’”

Bad Cop: “Fine. But I’m going to glare at the New Zealand kid a few times to send him a message.”

Good Cop: “Case closed.”

In the end, Good Cop won, and they didn’t give me a ticket. I did get the glares though, before Good Cop politely showed me where I could ride my bike to get back on the road. I thanked them robustly, and hurried off home, stopping at all red lights that happened to have a police car waiting at them. Lesson learned.

A Be'er-Do-Well In Paris

I’ve been keeping a close eye on Parisian beer habits. I can confirm that they drink beer. Throughout my study, I have made some observations; have had some thoughts. I will try and have these thoughts again, in writing.

Beer we go!

The beers here seem to fall into two broad categories: lager pilseners (Heineken and Kronenberg 1664 are everywhere!) and strong “Abbey” beers, which are typically Belgian (Leffe, for instance). There is very little of anything hoppy, not an IPA in sight. Not much dark beer (except for Guinness), not much “amber” and nothing “low carb”. While most of it is better than your standard Lion Brewery stuff back home, I am yet to have a beer here that is more than “just another beer”. The beer aisles at supermarkets are nothing like the long, packed shelves back in Wellington. Everything is beerily similar.

One of the more perplexing differences between New Zealand and France (it’s probably more than just France, but how should I know?) is the slight difference in serving sizes. For instance, instead of 600mL bottles of soft drinks, they go for 500mL. Instead of 330mL bottles, they prefer 250mL or 500mL (they also refer to these as 25cL or 50cL. I can only assume this is some high-brow existentialist maths). This actually makes sense; 600mL is a stupid volume. Half a litre is more common sense (by the way, 2.25L?). But having had the 600mL, I just can’t get used to the smaller bottles. I bet that’s how Heidi Klum feels.

You can get beer in 33mL bottles and cans, but it’s far less popular than the littlies and the slightly biggeries. I’m told you can also get craft beer, but it is rarely on tap, and the range is not like back home. Which seems odd. You would expect there to be a vast range of beers from all over Europe, each nation’s export claiming to be superior to the next. But maybe this is that thing that you always hear about: the snooty (read: xenophobic) French. They know what they like, and what they like is usually French (or Belgian, but what’s the diff?).

[Beer in mind, I realise that a great deal of the beers here are not from France. I am trying to say that the stereotype of the French not being open to new ideas might be reflected in their beer selection, as it is not varied. Like Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends.]

Before leaving New Zealand, people kept warning me about the French, and how they can be so rude if you don’t speak le français. I haven’t found that thus far. Most people are very nice. In fact, just this evening, a man rang our doorbell, wanting to advertise that he is a real estate agent, and if we ever want to move apartments, here is his business card. He spoke about as much English as I do French, so this (theoretically) short interaction took about five minutes, with both of us trying to express something or other in horrific versions of the other’s mother tongue. It was delightful. Pointless, as we are locked into our lease for a year (something I failed to express immediately), but delightful. There have been two occasions where people have said something to me in French, and then become pretty brassed off when I replied with “je ne parle pas français”. One was an apparently crazy old woman, and the other was a 20ish young guy who I think wanted to seem tough. I could have taken either of them.

Sorry for the tangent. Thanks for beering with me. I mentioned earlier the strong beer fetish. It is perfectly acceptable to stroll around the streets, parks and canals of Paris with one of these things:

That’s proper homeless territory, as far as I’m concerned. Just this morning, I saw a guy, mid-thirties, suit and tie, leisurely heading off towards the metro with one of them in his hand. It was 10:30am! He’d probably just brushed his teeth. And this is pretty popular over this way. It seems pretty much the norm to have a big, strong beer for brunch, on a work day, while you walk, pushing a pram. Maybe it’s a bohemian, life-is-meaningless-type thing (you know, Jacque Kerouac-style). All I know is, if I ever drink one of these things, somebody better get John Kirwan on the phone:

When I Googled Faxe Extra Strong, I got a bunch of “Worst Beers Ever” reviews. That is a litre of 10% beer in one can. Don’t tell Family First.

On the plus-side, the Parisians have done a few things right when it comes to beer:

-       A pint here IS ACTUALLY A PINT!!! As in, when you ask for a pint, you get roughly 473mL of beer (usually they round up to 500mL). Bars in New Zealand seem to have concluded that the word “pint” is just an expression, and will happily advertise “a pint for $5” and proceed to deliver a handle. A pint is a specific measurement, which makes that false advertising. DON’T MAKE ME CALL FAIR GO!

-       Happy Hour is an institution, and somewhere along the way, someone must have wrongly translated “hour”, because it’s never just an hour! Our nearby café Les Anemones (“the anemones”) has a happy hour from 4pm-midnight. What’s the point in ever having full price?

-       There doesn’t seem to be any liquor ban here (as evidenced by my suit and tie friend above). It doesn’t seem to cause much of a problem. Whereas us Kiwis can’t be trusted – we fight or break shit – the French just seem to get a bit tipsy and talk about Voltaire (I assume). There are a lot of street cleaners out in the mornings, though.

And those are my thoughts, more or less as I thought them. Apologies if you expected something comprehensive, but I think we got the beer necessities. (Good night.)

A Guide To Art: Part 1

If you’re an art guy, like me, then Paris is the place for you. You can find whatever you want here, whether it’s timeless masterpieces, modern marvels, or tasteful penis statues:

Apologies for the bad photo. This is in the window of some Sex Museum near the Moulin Rouge. In a museum = art.

The trouble is, there is so much art going on, how do you know what to talk about? What if your boss, Mr Stringfellow, asks you for your thoughts on art at the company picnic? You can’t let Mr Stringfellow know that you’re nothing but uneducated scum.

Lucky for you, I’m unemployed, and have been spending plenty of time following guided tours of art galleries and listening from a distance. I looked at art, so you don’t have to.

Today’s lesson: Portraits

Portraits are like photos of people, only worse. Some very old portraits are worse than black and white photos, even. So why should we look at them? Surely we should just look at great photos, like this one:

Or this one:

Well, the thing about portraits is that some of them are famous, and that means you have to know about them. It’s a peer pressure thing.

When looking at art, it’s important to ask oneself, what was the artist trying to convey? What were they trying to invoke? Take Gabrielle d'Estrées and One of Her Sisters (at the Louvre), for example:

What’s going on here? I’ll tell you. Art! The artist (apparently ‘anonymous’) captures the thrill and majesty of a breast exam. His subjects’ joy simply leaps off the canvas. Also, if National Geographic has taught us anything, it’s that boobs sell. I bet ‘anonymous’ was like the Terry Richardson of his day.

Here’s another nude. To be honest, the Louvre is a bit porny. 

Bathsheba at Her Bath by Rembrandt, who I think is a Ninja Turtle

Many portraits were painted to show how much the artist adored their subject. For example, James Whistler must have really loved his mother in order to portray her as a lifeless, withered crone:

So evocative; so sensual. Can’t you feel the love? That’s art right there.

Here’s a portrait of Jesus. It's by a chap named Antonello da Messina.

You get quite a lot of pictures of Jesus at the Louvre, especially. His mainly does sad poses, and there is a quite a lot of him during his Passion of the Christ phase. I suppose that was a pretty important time for Jesus, but it’s be nice to see a few smiles from the King of the Jews – even if just for the juxtaposition. I, for one, would like to see Jesus on the Swings; Jesus at the Santa Parade; Jesus Opens His Easter Eggs – things of that nature.

The most famous portrait is the Mona Lisa. I believe it is named after a Julia Roberts movie:

I have seen this portrait three times. Just thought I’d brag.

Some portraits are self-portraits. Most of them are like selfies, at best. But many of them were painted before selfies were invented, and that’s why they aren’t very good. This is a famous pre-selfie self-portrait:

A narcissistic self-portrait by Vincent Van Gogh

This guy thinks that people are made of lines. Nobody told him that people are made of atoms, not lines. Sometimes that happens with art. The artists go to art class, and they miss science class, where you learn about atoms.

The easiest way to identify a portrait is to remember that it’s a “people painting”. Usually one person, but it could have more people. You could have a portrait of some majestic creature like a horse or a hermit crab, but it’s easiest just to remember people. When you look at a painting and it has more mountains and flowers, or boring bowls of fruit, it’s not a portrait. A mountain or field painting is called a “landscape”, and that is what we will cover in the next part of my Guide To Art. And if you thought there were a lot of boobs in portraits…

Messin' With the Mouse

By Topalaska (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

In the No Man’s Month during which the Baguette Winner had arrived in France and I was still in New Zealand, my aforementioned girlfriend made an executive purchase: tickets for two to Disneyland Paris.

The tickets had to be used in June. Yesterday was a day in June, and thus the tickets were used.

Here are several things that the wise ol’ internet advises about visiting Disneyland Paris:

-       Try not to go in Summer;

-       Try not to go on a weekend;

-       Definitely try not to go on a long weekend;

-       Saturday is a day of the weekend, idiot. It might even be the worst day.

We went on the Saturday of a long weekend (Monday is Whit Monday in France, obviously), but it isn’t technically Summer yet. It was however a perfectly sunny day which, apparently, was only 26 degrees (felt like 36). So Disneyland was busy.

It is actually two lands: Disneyland Park and Walt Disney’s Studios. The first is (apparently) much like its famous sister park in Anaheim, and the latter is very similar to Warner Brothers Movie World on the Gold Coast. There is also a mall and a golf course.

We had done a cursory amount of research, and knew vaguely which rides we most wanted to ride. Anything with a health and safety warning was at the top of the list. Trouble is, Disneyland has evenly distributed these roller coasters around the park, so we had a whole lot of walking ahead of us. It was hot, thirsty work, and it took extreme heroism to pull it off.

To be honest, Disneyland is too big. Neither of us are huge fans of many, many people, and our day involved a lot of weaving through human traffic to rush to the end of a 40-minute queue. [According to the web, lines can sometimes get up to two hours, so we could have had it much worse.] A few years ago, we went to Movie World (mentioned above). That park has five or so very good roller coasters, and our day there mainly consisted of traipsing from one to the other and standing in queues (much like here). However, that park is much smaller and easier to navigate, and you can happily move from ride to ride searching out the smallest lines. Disneyland is not great for this, especially when hot and busy.

What Disneyland does have, however, is impeccable production value. Every inch of the park is beautifully laid out with cobbled stones, perfectly manicured hedges, fountains and statues. We spent so much time flying around, flustered because of all the people (ugh, all the children!) that we completely ignored the 50-strong troupe performing choreographed numbers from Mary Poppins in the street, and we never bothered to explore the castles, ponds and parks-within-the-park. Also, the rides themselves must have cost a fortune! Some of the pretty boring ones (Pirates of the Caribbean, Phantom Manor, Buzz Lightyear Laser Blast), which are clearly best for children, were flawlessly decorated worlds, entirely indoors in what must have been aircraft hangars. They were amazing, if pretty disappointing from an adrenaline perspective. 

Since we’re talking rides, here’s a quick top five:

1) Space Mountain: Mission 2 - This is the best roller coaster at Disneyland. Think the Superman ride at Movie World, but in the dark! And with cool holographic comets and things whizzing past. Also, the line moves pretty quickly, somehow. Do it often.

2) Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster with Aerosmith – This is in Walt Disney’s Studios. The entrance is a bit like the Hard Rock Café, with music memorabilia (signed guitars, etc) on the wall. There is a weird (read: terrible) video with Aerosmith while you wait, and the roller coaster itself is meant to be the inside of a recording studio. You ride an early Aerosmith soundtrack, with bits of chatter from the band during the stops. All of that is irrelevant, as the actual ride is fantastic. It’s fast, dark (an indoor ride), with tons of loops. Basically everything you want from a roller coaster, but with Steven Tyler’s ghoul face all over it. If this was a Kiss ride, it might have been number 1.

3) Twilight Zone Tower of Terror – This is the other great ride at Walt Disney’s Studios. It is very similar to the “Giant Drop”–style rides which ever theme park seems to have. As with much of Disneyland, this ride wins because of the theming. The ride takes place in the malfunctioning service elevator of a haunted hotel; all of the staff are dressed as hotel porters, and you are encouraged to “enjoy your stay”, rather than your ride. Much like the Giant Drop, you are taken up in the elevator, before dropping without warning a few floors. However it is not just one descent: you go down a few, then up a few, then down a lot, etc. At each stop you see out onto that floor (full of ghosts!), or straight out the window (to see how high you are). The overall experience is probably not quite as stomach-churning as the ride at Dreamworld (Gold Coast) or its equivalents, but it is more interesting. I thought it had enough of that awful dropping sensation, but with some pretty entertaining added extras.

4) Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril – The most traditional roller coaster at Disneyland. It is outdoors, with loops and barrel rolls, and basically what you would call a “typical” roller coaster. Still good though.

5) Big Thunder Mountain – This is another outdoor coaster. It has fewer loops and barrel rolls, but more sharp turns and drops. The line for this was disproportionately long and slow, and in future we will probably do one of the top three again as opposed to waiting for this. But, if the line isn’t too bad, it is definitely worth a spin.

Some odd thoughts from our day:

-     Although this review wasn’t glowing, Disneyland is undoubtedly perfect for families with young kids. The parade; the castles; the cast members; the teacups and Dumbo rides; it was pretty magical.

-     Disneyland is open til 11pm! We didn’t really think about this when we went, but next time we will definitely go later in the day. By 4pm, the lines had started to ease, so we think we will try arriving then and staying late. Also, dinner and drinks at Disneyland sounds pretty cool (yes they sell booze). Plus, apparently there are pretty lights:

Image from radiodisneyclub.fr

-     We thought Disneyland had really missed a trick by not having a bunch of Wizard of Oz stuff, especially a Yellow Brick Road. Stupid us, while Disney has produced three spin-offs (including the James Franco one), they don’t own the 1939 movie. So that explains that.

-    We actually never saw anyone in a Mickey Mouse costume, which was weird. I saw Baloo, and the BW saw Donald Duck.

-     We couldn’t find milkshakes. We stopped in at a bunch of the fast food restaurants and food trucks, but couldn’t find them. They may have had them at the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream store, but that was too far away. Seems silly not to sell them.

All Purple Everything

ACT I: Setting the scene
4:30pm-ish: The Baguette Winner and I were wandering around our neighbourhood Sitis Market – basically a Four Square – buying low-calorie, high protein snack foods, and not ice cream (obviously). On the radio we hear a couple of snippets of Purple Rain and When Doves Cry, with some French chatter in betwixt. ‘Hm,’ I said, ‘perhaps Prince is coming to France this year?’ [And wouldn’t that be amazing?].

Sitting around at home, I figured I’d Google “Prince Paris”, just to see whether we might have any luck. Shocked, I was, to discover that not only was Prince coming to Paris, but he was coming TONIGHT (ie, yesterday). Two shows, one at 6pm and one at 9:30pm. As it was nearly 5pm, I (with immense help from the BW) set about trying to find tickets. Eventually, we found a GA ticket for the 9:30pm show, heavily marked-up on a third party website. I have always said that I would happily pay more to see Prince than anybody else, and this ticket was about even with some of the pricier gigs I’d been to. The ticket was duly purchased. I WAS GOING TO SEE PRINCE!

Confusion. Shock. Despair. CYCLING…

After finding a nice hotel where we could print off the ticket, I set about becoming wildly excited.

I also had dinner.

The Baguette Winner and I discussed what time we thought I’d need to get there; General Admission, after all, and I wanted to get a good spot. I checked the ticket to see when the doors would open.

How peculiar: this ticket says the show starts at 6pm (it was now after 6).

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! They sent the wrong ticket. [I have since double-checked, and I definitely selected a 9:30pm ticket. My lawyer (me) has demanded a refund].

This must be what it feels like to be the President of South Sudan. The power, the glory, the new-found independence. On election night he’s on top of the world. And then the next morning he wakes up and realises he’s the President of South Sudan.

I was in a panic, and the Baguette Winner gave me one simple instruction: “ride like the wind”. [She actually said that!] The concert venue – Le Zenith – was about a 15-minute ride away. So ride I did.

 

ACT II: In Which Sarah Ulmer Could Not Find A Place To Park Her Bicycle

I rode really fast, making great time. I was only going to miss, maybe, the first hour. But Prince would play for 2 hours at least, I figured, and Purple Rain would be right at the end.

Two issues: I only vaguely knew where Le Zenith was. It’s in a big complex – a park which straddles a canal – and the venue could have been anywhere. Also, I was riding a Velib, one of the very affordable subscription-based bikes that Paris offers. These are wonderful when you are not in a great hurry, but sometimes it is hard to find a place to park them. [There are Velib parks all over Paris, but you need one that has a free space to hook your bike to]. For some reason (I blame sin), all of the parks out near the venue were out of order. Eventually, I found somewhere to leave the bike, and began sprinting in the general direction of the venue (I had peddled past it earlier, but wasn’t quite sure how to get in).

By now, it was 7:20, and I knew there was not much left of the show. Desperation; heartbreak; anger at myself for believing that good things can happen to great people.

At this point (I was still running), a man (Turkish, maybe) dressed in black, with a funny little bum-bag called out to me ,‘you want Prince?’

I said, ‘yes, which way is it?’

‘I have two tickets for you, my friend’.

I walked past him, as I already had my ticket, and hurried off down the pathway to the venue. About 100 steps in, I decided that I had NOT come all this way to see 20 minutes of Prince (and who knows when my next chance would be?).

I went back, got money out, and bought a ticket off my "friend". [This ticket was literally half the price of the one I had got online, which wasn’t even the right fucking ticket!]

And I went in to catch the last 20 minutes of the first show.

Act III: In Which Dreams Come True

I walked into a surprisingly small, surprising not full venue. Standing, as I was, at the back, I was maybe 15 metres away from the stage. The next 20 minutes are a complete blur. I remember coming in to the end of a very funk/rock number that I didn’t recognise. He then played Something In The Water (Does Not Compute), which I also didn’t know, but was amazing. 

And then it happened. I had been in the room for 10 minutes, when the first few notes of Purple Rain kicked in. And I cried a bit. [In that totally masculine way that girls respect because it shows you have feelings and aren’t a robot.] It was one of the most surreal moments of my life. And 12 minutes later, Purple Rain had finished and the house lights had come on and I was off to wait in line for the real show.

Evidently there aren’t the same liquor bans over here as in New Zealand. People, knowing they’d be queuing for awhile, had brought a few beers down to pass the time. You could also buy them a number of people who had set up stalls around the queue. Although I didn’t have one (I was petrified of having to leave my spot to find a toilet), I thought it was nice. Nobody was especially drunk, by the way, just having a couple of beers on a Sunday evening.

After about an hour in line, and half an hour in the General Admission area, Prince came back. [He actually did a couple of laps on a bicycle outside to see all the crowds lining-up (separated by a huge fence, of course)].

The show started with a cool funk/rock version of Let’s Go Crazy, and then Take Me With U. I had actually been pretty worried about the setlist. This was a small venue, and he is in Europe all the time. He is also with a new band, and they are releasing an album sometime soon. I was worried that it was going to be a whole load of new stuff, as well as some other obscure miscellanea that I would not recognise. It was neither of those things.

Prince proceeded to play almost nothing but hits, and he played them pretty honestly. He also seemed to have a marvelous time doing so. Raspberry Beret; When Does Cry; Sign O’ The Times; Kiss – all the big names were there. Early on, he announced ‘At our parties, we play the songs we want to hear!’, and went into an awesome re-working of Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough. He played Little Red Corvette, the whole thing, and it was incredible. He sang a long version of Nothing Compares 2 U, and it was pompous and camp and spectacular. And then he went off-stage.

For the encore (one of those encores that’s really part of the set), he came out on his own and gave us a medley on the piano: Diamonds and Pearls, The Beautiful Ones and a great version of How Come U Don’t Call Me Anymore, the song he wrote for Alicia Keys. And then it was Purple Rain again. The feelings this time weren’t quite as powerful as the last time around, but the spectacle was better. For one, I was in the fifth row back from the stage, and when the purple confetti dropped it was everywhere. The guitar solo was (obviously) sublime; both true to the original, but with some vamping in there to show he was trying. It’s a pretty remarkable thing that this was so affecting, when you consider the backbreaking number of times he has had to play this song. 

And then he went off-stage.

The people of Paris were not content with one encore (although I had now been standing for 6 hours, and was pretty content). 5 minutes of cheering and screaming later, and Prince was back onstage again. He played three songs in this encore, and while I didn’t know any of them, it was still a grand ol’ time. He went away again.

More cheering and screaming, and back he came. The highlight of this encore was What’s My Name, which I didn’t really know either. [I can’t find a video of this one, sorry]. This involved a lot of really silly dancing from Prince, while police sirens blared over the chorus. It was really excellent. He went away one more time.

This time he came back and played the only song that I was hoping to hear, which he was ever actually going to play. [I would’ve died if he’d played International Lover, but that was never going to happen]. The final encore was a beautiful, passionate version of Sometimes It Snows In April, which you will remember from the end of the film Under The Cherry Moon (obviously). And then he was gone again, this time for good.

It was, without a doubt, the best concert I have ever been to. Seeing Prince in a 6,000-seat venue (which wasn’t even totally full) was pretty much the best case scenario, and he played every song I could’ve requested. 

The only downside was that he HATES people filming or taking photos, and he had security people shining bright lights in the faces of anyone holding up a camera. I still managed to get a couple, however, so that will do. I will say that the lack of phones being held up did help to keep focus on the show, so maybe it was a net positive.

I rode like the wind home, stopping only to buy a poster on the way out. I triumphantly strode through the door at 12:30am, where I was promptly told off by an angry Baguette Winner, who had been expecting me back at home 3 hours earlier. But it was all worth it when she saw the beautiful purple confetti centrepiece on our coffee table...