Beth Arnold

Letter From Paris: What I Saw at The P.O.

 As an homage to Miss Eudora Welty

I was lucky enough to see Miss Eudora Welty read "Why I Live at The P.O." at the Morgan Library in New York.  She had that Mississippi Southern drawl that meant her words went on for yards, sweet and light as lilies and tart as lemon pie. 

In Paris, one goes to the post office to post letters, of course.  La Poste is also a bank, and it has a supply of cute La Poste gifts and knickknacks, perfectly good boxes in which one can send any manner of gifts and/or junk, the typical mailing minutiae, and now machines where we can weigh and stamp our letters ourselves--although this is without the beautiful and artful choice that comes from an actual human being selling them. 

Not the bird's nest P.O. where Ms. Welty's Sister would want to throw her cot, but as is the case in France, one can find art in the most unexpected places.  This is what I saw at my post office in the 20th Arrondissement: 

A porcelain mural by Russian Cubist sculptor Ossip Zadkine (1890-1967), who arrived in Paris in 1908, and created an oeuvre in wood, clay, stone, and bronze as well as producing drawings, watercolors, engravings, gouaches, and tapestry cartoons.

Obamarifix: Goldman Sachs Hell

The President and First Lady, Barack and Michelle Obama, at the White House:

Letter From Paris: A Visual Poet

The Lone Wolf and I were strolling along the rue de Bretagne, and I was drawn to this beautiful book--Paris Venise Paris--in a store window.  These stunning photographs are of Carolyn Carlson, an American modern dance choreographer and performer of Finnish descent, who has been working in France since the 1970's.

Carolyn Carlson:  Paris Venise Paris  (Photo by Beth Arnold)

I was intrigued.  Do you know her work?  This is a short clip.

Letter From Paris: Meet The Neighbors--Gertrude Stein

I was standing to the side of the grave waiting for the small group of people to leave so I could take a clean photo, clear of them and their energy.  One thing I am doing since I've moved to the 20th Arrondissement is repeatedly shooting photos of scenes and things that interest me--on different days with variance of light or change in season, or maybe because I see an angle that I didn't notice before. 

When I lived in my beloved 2nd Arrondissement, we didn't experience the seasonal metamorphosis to the same degree.  Sensory information that naturally envelops us when we step outside here was harder to come by in the historic quarter in which we lived, though I am a lover of its worn stones and the life that was carried out on them.

But on this day I was impatiently waiting to the side of the grave I had come to photograph for this group to be on their way, when a 20-ish-year-old man said in a British accent, presumably to his mother, "Who is Gertrude Stein?"

Wash your mouth out with soap! I wanted to say.

The Lone Wolf would call this fellow a younger-the-dumber.  I had to clamp my jaws together to keep my mouth shut, but I'm sure I was making an appropriate face as I am wont to do.  The mother who had not educated this child properly, in my opinion, starting moving them away from earshot.  Truly, I think she was embarrassed.

Has it been so long that Ms. Stein has been gone (1946) that younger generations no longer know who Gertrude Stein is?  If this Brit didn't know, what about an American of the same age?  For God's sake!

***

Letter From Paris: I'm Here

"I'm Here" can be perceived on many different levels. 

What can this mean?

Seen outside the Centre Pompidou:

Letter From Paris: While Iceland's Volcanic Ash Hovers Above

Crossposted at the HuffigtonPost.com.  Comments not included here.

And dedicated to everyone who took a "volcation." There were too many to know.

On Saturday, the Lone Wolf was outside all afternoon, replanting our geraniums he'd potted for our terrace on Easter. His eyes burned as did a friend's who was here visiting en route from Aix en Provence to New York.

Was it the volcanic ash that has halted travel to and from Europe and stranded travelers on both sides of the Atlantic?

Experts differ on whether the ash poses a health hazard. Which tack should we take? Wear a mask when we go outside--or forget it?

From the Associated Press:

GENEVA -- Europeans should try to stay indoors if ash from Iceland's volcano starts settling, the World Health Organization warned Friday as small amounts fell in Iceland, Scotland and Norway.

WHO spokesman Daniel Epstein said the microscopic ash is potentially dangerous for people when it starts to reach the Earth because inhaled particles can enter the lungs and cause respiratory problems.

....Other experts, however, weren't convinced the volcanic ash would have a major effect on peoples' health and said WHO's warnings were "hysterical." They said volcanic ash was much less dangerous than cigarette smoke or pollution....

All I can tell you is that since Iceland's volcano has been erupting, and the ash cloud has been flowing over us, Spring has flowered in Paris. Our visible heavens have been crowned with our best weather of the year, and on Sunday people were out and about in herds enjoying the warm sunshine.

Parc des Buttes Chaumont (Photo by Beth Arnold)

Letter From Paris: An Appalachian Spring

Crossposted at HuffingtonPost.com.  Comments not included here.

I am a child of Spring, born when the world was renewing itself. And so each year at this time I find myself again .

Plenty of times in life we don't know who we are. The truest parts of us may hibernate for self-protection, or we disconnect from our psychic lifelines when the noise of life drowns our inner voices. We stare at the mirror and don't recognize the faces there, and our lost-ness allows desolation to settle in.

The question is how do we reconnect? It is taking me a lifetime to learn, and I'm trying to teach my daughters, Blair and Bret, so they may have a step up from me. Why don't we women guide one another the way we could?

Among the steps on my personal route are prayers that I render to the Cosmic Goodness, the Universal laws, the Spirit of Love, or whatever one wants to call God. Reading or listening to inspirational messages every day lifts me up. There is absolutely nothing wrong with happy thoughts! Learning to take care of myself by eating well, exercising, taking time for meditation, and hot cups of tea. I hope for the courage to jettison my psychic trash, so that I may free myself. And, all along the way, I look to my family for the earthly sustenance I need.

***

This Spring, as this cloud of volcanic ash flows over the skies of France, I think of the West Virginia miners who died last week and their grieving families. Appalachia is also a personal subject for me. My grandmother Anna was born a mountain woman in Kentucky in the early part of the last century, and she and her little brothers dug coal out of the mountains themselves. Considering her life is a part of me discovering myself.

Letter From Paris: A Different Elegance and Grace

Drum Roll...announcement.  The Lone Wolf and I are beginning to really like living in the 20th Arrondissement. 

Yes, I know I've whined about being out here.  The 20th is not the center of the city--the picture postcard Paris, where I lived for five years, and which I adore even if some people call it "bourgeois."  It is that heart of Paris that is so stunningly beautiful that I can never get over it.  On the hush-hush, I must confess I relish the feeling of being wrapped in Parisian history that was played out in its monuments and streets. 

It is this beauty and elegance of the material foundation of Paris--its streets and architecture, the rolling Seine, the handsome bridges that connect Left Bank to Right, the treasure of art and monuments--along with the spirit and specter of personages that lived or spent time here to elevate their knowledge and consciousness that give Paris its grace.   

But that was then.  Today, I live in the Paris that is made up of hamlets and villages--Ménilmontant and Belleville--that were once on the outskirts of the great capital, and were absorbed into the city's voluptuous skirts in 1860.  It actually feels like a village out here on top of our hill.  From the rise of Ménilmontant, we can stand and see the smog that hovers over the Paris where we used to live, a cloud over the Centre Pompidou.  I never knew it was there until I moved.

In Belleville (Photo by Beth Arnold)

Letter From Paris: Opening Doors

My theme today is opening doors,  which can be a loaded subject.  A subject people are afraid of--or don't want to talk about in any real way.  Opening doors means leaving our comfort zones.

What doors were opened to each of us?  Did we take them?  Did we recognize opportunities that appeared out of the blue?

Or did we lose confidence and hide?

Could we have known that what broke our hearts could also have cleared our paths to actions we wouldn't have dared before?  A critical ending--some kind of death--really did have to scar us before we could let the old go and imagine a new existence.  It is Nature's way of clearing our psychic trash.  Burn, baby, burn so you can live again!  Peel away another layer of spiritual skin. 

Why didn't we understand how important it was to learn and grow into ourselves, our talents, and our desires? 

Civilizing rules and societal values often beat us down to the nub of being like everyone else, taking our ever-so-particular identity away--or trying to.  Pounded into us:  Fall in line.  Fall in line.  Don't do it your way.  Do it mine.  Do it like this.  You are wrong, and that is crazy. 

Artists, especially, hear this a lot.  But anyone who dares to be different gets it for just being themselves.

To Balzac's house.  (Photo by Beth Arnold)

Letter From Paris: The Beautiful Ride of The Saut Hermes

Leave it to my fab friend J. to be covering the chicest of chic Parisian (and other European) events.  The girl's got game, my darlings.  She is so in the fashion know we can only bow down with one of the best lines in movie history, which happens to come from nutty-romp-through-Mike-Meyers'-mind Wayne's World.  No, I'm not talking about "monkeys might fly out of my butt."  It's the genuflecting "We're not worthy!!"

J. was kind enough to invite me to tag along while with her to the Saut Hermès au Grand Palais, an international level show-jumping competition and a series of events based around the horse held April 2 - 4, 2010, and organized by purveyor of leather luxury Hermès.  From Hermès:

Open to the general public, le Saut Hermès au Grand Palais is an event that celebrates the many facets of the horse riding world, with its “Fantaisie équestre” that mix sport, culture and know-how. Over the two days, under the glass roof of the Grand Palais, there will be a succession of events, from the five-star international show-jumping competition, recognized by the International Equestrian Federation and the French Equestrian Federation, to a never-before-seen horse-riding show, exhibitions...

Hermès started out as a maker of harnesses, then saddles and all the equipment needed by riders and horses, before they exploded in the entire opulent lifestyle market.  So the company has gone back to its roots, though in grand style.  What else would one expect?

Hermès saddle  (Photo by Beth Arnold)