Surrealist artist Marcel Jean 1983
Paris 1983
I raised my head in a Paris morning, plodding along from my hotel bedroom to my bathroom. The path was steeped in an imaginary bank of clouds.
I stretched my body into the massive bathtub filled with hot water. I hefted a volume of Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire in one hand and James Joyce’s Ulysses in the other. A bit of an odd marriage that works my need for escapism and my intellectual spirit.
I opened my bathroom windows to the city rooftops, with Paris fall weather blowing across the heat rising from my tub. The heat and cold managed a foggy stationary front lofting above my body.
The ghosts of Joyce’s Stephen Daedulus and Anne Rice’s Lestat sat on my window sill while I reanimated. They were either guarding my soul or alerting me to an omen yet to be recognized this morning. The morning read was my rite of passage during my Parisian travels. My hours reading were sometimes long and tranquil. But today my ghosts interrupted the tranquility with a motion for me to get along. Yes it was time to hit the streets. I dressed and stepped out to experience the mysteries that will arise. Today I was meeting the fabulous surrealist artist Marcel Jean.
But first, my eyes caught my favorite cheese shop...to buy my favorite saucisse (sausage) in buttered baguette with sharp mustard and agreeable cheese to accompany me up to Sacré-Coeur. My French hotdog in hand, my ghosts in tow I stepped along Rue Bonaparte to Rue du Bac. The route delivers many amusing diversions. Among my favorite was Deyrolle, one of the great companies of entomology and taxidermy in Paris. Not only is it the home of many natural history curios, but sometimes I can feel the ghost of my intellectual hero Walter Benjamin stand with me. We become like two chemical compounds merging into one. My eyes invade Benjamins. We stare into the shop like children teared with wonderment. Benjamin bemoans the loss of the Parisian Arcades. Together we share the passing of time. Our eyes pass from curio to curio imagining the histories to be told, and the lives lost. It is a lovely saddening experience.
All of Paris is the life of fantasies and realities merging before our eyes.
A photographers life is essentially a conversation between a camera and a human being. Maybe I am a bit drunk with life like James Stewart in the movie “Harvey”. One is alone with his thoughts as he/she marches through life. It can be extremely animated, but obviously alone. You hear voices, and watch myriads of people. It remains a great life, that is filled with quirks. Those quirks are filled with moments listening to sounds that motivate your mind and passions. Sometimes just wandering the streets my stride might be driven by head scratching sounds: Little Anthony’s “Hurts So Bad”, Brian Ferry’s “Avalon” or Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher”. “Quirks”.
I summon my ghosts to dance along with me. We pass the Hotel des Invalides, the Sorbonne and a bit of Pigalle before landing in front of Sacré-Coeur. Montmartre Cemetery is a breath away. The walk had been a bit quixotic a bit romantic.
Once I arrived near the Montmartre Cemetery I remembered photographing a half dressed model riding atop a barren headstone... She was dressed like Ludwig Bemelmans illustrated schoolgirl “Madeline”. It was a lame attempt to mimic the photographers Guy Bourdin or Helmut Newton. But that is what young photographers do. Fortunately I moved on towards my own voice.
We went past the cemetery and finally arrived at the home/studio of Marcel Jean.
The Surrealist artist was one of the most fascinating artist I have met. His English was slightly better than my French. He made great efforts to show me his work and more importantly make me feel as if for those short moments, I was the most important person in the room.
For me he was the French version of an earlier blog about the English artist John Piper. Publishing intellectual theories and essays about contemporary artists seemed to be more important than the artistic creations.
I have mentioned more than enough that even in 1983, artists were more curious about the other artists I had photographed than the shooting moment at hand. In hindsight it was something to embrace. But I have always tried to drive the conversation towards the subjects ideas and passions. There is this constant curiosity that needs to know what someone else is creating...I don’t know why, but it has been a constant.
He pointed to a round table near his paint brushes. Waiting for me was some coffee, a few cookies and a bottle of whiskey ... We continued to share our worlds until the
morning had become afternoon. It was time to finish I what I had come for.
I raised my camera and ...
Paris again was waiting for me.
Surrealist Artist Marcel Jean
Paris 1983