It was nearly dark out, 4:30 Wednesday afternoon, when we dropped off a brochure at a design office near Gare de Lyon. "Have you been over to rue Daumesnil?" Stephanie suggested. We took a right out of her office and headed that way.
Rue Daumesnil was one of the last projects executed during the Mitterand years. Patrick Berger designed wood and metal storefronts to set in the arches of the former rail viaduct. On top, a park/promenade (Mathieux) fills the former rail bed. Silversmiths, woodworkers, painting restorers and dressmakers now work and sell their goods in this formerly "fallen to ruins" space beneath the tracks.
Beautiful objects are frightfully expensive. A restored "bird" music box is 6,000 Euros; a lamp, handmade, one-of-a-kind seems a bargain at 1200. We look in the windows of some shops, closed early. The street is deserted.
The most interesting business concept is a gallery featuring hundreds of paintings, in bins. It is possible to buy a 6 x 9 inch oil painting, unframed for about 50 Euros; the biggest, wall-size, 800. I look through the bins, myself, for inspiration. I am tempted to march my Pilgrim and Indian in that direction.
We walk all the way home, via the Ile St. Louis and the beautifully illuminated back of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Here, too, the street is deserted, save for a single accordionist playing at the end of the bridge. As if on cue, a blackbird returns his calls -- he is the first blackbird I have heard in several months.
To find the heart of Paris isn't easy these days, or maybe it's just at the big department stores, flooded with holiday shoppers. If it is there, it must be in the voice of the man hawking chocolates, or the lady selling striped stockings (we buy a pair). I search for regional gifts only to be told if I want that shipped to North Carolina, it will go out of the New York store.
If not the heart, the restaurant is at least a major artery of Paris. Last night, at the PL, Blair and a German journalist discussed the fate of the artisan in today's world. She has been at the restaurant every night this week, soaking up French flavor amidst the cigarette smoke. She talks about how China will be the new venue of the artisan. She displays a gem she bought there, placed in an original setting she developed with the local jeweler. She sees this as a positive direction: life moves forward. Our French friends, meanwhile, worry about retirement.
We walk the streets of Chinatown Saturday morning. We are looking for a store which sells linoleum/block printing supplies. We find it near Gobelins, the tapestry area, but the store is closed -- it is open only 35 hours a week, Tuesday through Friday days. We get to eat lunch at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant, in the glow of the pulsing purple tree. On our walk home, the only little stores we pass are full of antiques or Chinese objects.
We cut through the Jardin Luxembourg, noting the buttoned up beehives, and the outline of the palm trees holed up in the orangerie for the winter. I am stopped in my tracks by a persimmon tree: bright orange balls on leafless branches. Later, I paint the tree, quickly (it is near freezing). An old Chinese woman with a little boy chatters at me excitedly in Chinese as I continue to paint.
Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
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