Skip to main content


After a day wandering the Parisien streets we decided to finish our brief Paris trip with a stop off at the Arc de Triomphe.

It dwarfs with its size.

After taking some cliché tourist photos (those things that everyone takes, but no one really looks at) we took the tunnel under the street to climb up in the in the middle and see it first hand. Capitalism had another plan since it seemed that it would cost 6 euros each just to wander around the base. Fulya decided that we should just enter through the exit. As we left we noticed that some officers had stationed themselves at the top of the stairway, but as we went up it just became apparent that paying would be ridiculous. The shape of the Arc created a wind tunnel of cold night air, so we stayed mostly in the other tunnel of the arc that was shielded from the wind.

A girl in a hooded jacket sitting off to the side makes momentary eye contact but then looks down at a journal or sketchbook. I assume she is making observations of the diverse crowd of people at the Arc.

After leaving we take the metro again. In a confusion of which stop to take I get out too soon and jump back in just as the doors close. I make it in but in the instant that I make it though and the doors close it they close on my camera bag trapping it in the door. The strap snaps as if it required no force at all. We pull and try to twist it through the opening in the door but it is tightly shut. Finally the door releases slightly and I pull the bag through. The front cover of my sketch book has been dented, folded. But thankfully nothing is wrong with my camera.

I sew the strap back together on the foggy car ride back to Rennes. We awkwardly sleep sitting up in the backseat for most of the ride back. Our driver is a balding Algerian dental assitant who wear metal rimmed glasses. I fear we frustrated him as we both slept in the back, where he was actually wanting to have more conversation.

La boheme plays over his stereo system. I can’t seem to escape this song, but I also can’t seem to track it down in French and not English to download.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi.  It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...
French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.

The Toulousian Painting.

I sneak in a mirror reflected reference photo. While we were in Toulouse we ducked into a nice little salon de thé that to me felt like something out of a 1940s representation of Europeans in Africa. Probably just the French dealing with the heat of the south. While at this place I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables reading on her phone. Perhaps surfing the internet, perhaps reading a book, I couldn't quite tell as it was in Asian characters. I would guess that it was either Chinese or Japanese. In such a beautifully intriguing place I found it to be somewhat odd that she would pass the time ignoring her surrounding to immerse herself in her phone. I remember they also had nice restrooms. The girl then left and we stayed a bit longer sipping on our drinks, which if I remember right were not actually tea but something cool to counter the heat of Toulouse. Taking a breather in the hectic nature of our vacation. It was one of those towns where I ...