N'oubliez Pas. . .

To feed your mind and soul.

                                 

                                  Yes that is me in the reflection of the massive cutlery.

       

It would seem that with all the delectable and tempting culinary delights to be had in Paris, one would become lost in a sort of sensory induced state of taste-consciousness, forgoing pleasures of a higher sort in favor of mindlessly pursuing lower indulgences. That's obviously not the case. But it's easy enough to imagine how someone like you or me could be crushed by her overwhelming passion for baguettes or seduced by the sumptuous array du fromage and as a result, well, lose an appetite for tastes of the intellectual or spiritual assortment. Perhaps it's actually the contrary though.




Perhaps indulging in food as an art form has nourished (both literally and figuratively) the artistic genius that marks every landmark, adorns every bridge, and fills every museum of the city that countless artists (such as Vangogh and Rodin to name a few) have helped to create. Paris. A city that will feed you in more ways than one. This past week I have had the pleasure of delighting in several intellectual and artistic experiences and I have realized that when it comes to higher sensibilities, Paris will never go hungry.

But apparently I have been starving. Starving for ideas, for inspiration, for beauty. I am a writer, but for the longest I have forgotten what it feels like to want to write, to enjoy it. Ideas survived on another realm, but my vision barely reached their shadowy clouds. They were dancing above, but I just couldn't hear the music down here. 

It was yesterday, after a whirlwind three days of museums with my visiting brother and brother's wife, that I arrived seule moi, or solo, at Musee Picasso. In a room dedicated to Picasso's surrealist work I found this quote: "La beauté sera CONVULSIVE ou ne sera pas" writen by the founding father of Surrealism, André Breton. It translates to "beauty will be compulsive or not at all". For some reason or another I felt the need to write it down, perhaps to appease my camera-less hands (I forgot my camera that day) or perhaps because I was confused and intrigued by its meaning. Its mystery called to me, the words seeming familiar in my mind's eye, but devoid of instantaneous understanding.

What is beauty? That question has plagued me as long as I can remember. You might even say I came to Paris in search of an answer (in addition to the baguettes of course). As a writer I have always felt ill at ease with the idea of it; is it tangible? Visible? Obtainable? Should we strive for it? Should I? Why? Questions like these were already swirling in my head as I floated through the museum's ornate white rooms, stricken with color. I'll be honest, I never got Picasso. But then again, I never really looked. Cubism, which seems to fascinate everybody under the sun, seemed bizarre, but otherwise distant to my own interests. Then I thought of Breton and his words.

                                   

Eyes in places they shouldn't be. Noses reflecting a mythological landscape. Feelings mixed up with physical space, objects, and time. These were the things I saw. And I thought if this is compulsive, from where is it compulsing? Then it hit me, the beauty is raw. The beauty is the truth from our inner eye, not the logical, discriminating, black versus white eye. This beauty is uncensored, uncool and completely vulnerable. Perhaps it's a bit like crying, universal but unique to each person; most of us pretend we don't do it, but tears fall every day. It's what comes when no one is looking, but it's what we all hope to see or even share.

This is not to say that beauty doesn't require effort. It doesn't negate hard work. It simply means that there is something mysterious in each of us that when revealed is beautiful. Perhaps the work comes in the revealing. After all, for many of us (i.e. moi) our entire lives have been about concealing. 

So maybe all these strange, seemingly misguided figures are really marvelous representations of truth either meant to reach inside the viewer and call upon their own bizarre beings, or simply meant to be the acts of creation that they are. Either way, they ask us to consider considering foreign landscapes and unearthly stimuli, to be fully present in the experience of something new. And this presence requires to some degree, a break with reality and the re-emergence of our own imaginations. 

Paradoxically, it's our imaginations, surrealism at its source, that leads to reality- the reality we have shut out and refused to see; the world in all of its complexity and merciless depths. But it's also where we become malleable and forgiving, where, I believe, there is the best chance for growth and consequently, change. 

(Not Picasso, but certainly surreal and intriguingly bizarre. Location: Musee Pompidou, Paris)

So what has all this "feeding my mind and soul" taught me? Pretty much to hush up that pesky, overly- critical voice inside and begin listening to the song of the strange.

  

                                         

                           

                                                                       ***

  Of course, this also applies to food, so I couldn't forget to feed my taste buds some new and exciting flavors...

(I'm not trying to compare this dessert to Picasso or anything, but this pear tasted like nothing I've ever experienced. Yayyy for new flavors and new experiences!)

   Okay so maybe the presentation is a bit messy, but I had raw figs with cheese and honey for the first time (which we bought from la grande epicerie-see next photo) and it was like the first time you have chocolate, well maybe not that good, but still magical.

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