Learning French at Monoprix

Posted on July 17, 2011 by Parisian Fields

When French is not your first language, every visit to a French supermarket is like walking into a three-dimensional visual dictionary. Even though we have bilingual labelling here in Canada, we still learn new vocabulary each time we go shopping for groceries. After all, we seldom see things like quince jam (confiture de coings) or sea bream (la daurade) at home.

On our last visit, we made the usual trip to the nearest Monoprix to stock up on basics, from breakfast granola (the nearest thing we could find was organic muesli) to Kleenex (mouchoirs en papiers). As we were unpacking, I saw something unusual on the Kleenex box, shown below.

“Pour prestidigitateur debutant.” (For beginner magician.) What was that all about? After thinking about it for a while, I assumed that it was a little joke on the fact that pulling out a Kleenex is a bit like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Ta-da!

The box was one of Monoprix’s house brand products, and on my next visit, I looked for other products, to see if they, too, had quirky little observations on the packaging. They did.

The carton with eight different yogurt flavours in it said, “Vous allez passer plus de temps à le choisir qu’à le manger.” (You’ll spend more time choosing one than eating it.) That was pretty straightforward. But some of the taglines had a Zen-like weirdness.

On a can of flageolet beans: “Il ne faut pas écouter tout ce qu’on dit.” (You shouldn’t listen to everything people say.) Hm. Does it have anything to do with the fact that a flageolet is a type of musical instrument? No idea.

The Brussels sprouts were easier. “Ne comptez pas sur nous pour faire un blague belge.” (Don’t expect us to make a Belgian joke.) The French are always making jokes about the Belgians, the way Canadians make jokes about Newfoundlanders. The only mystery to me was: who the heck eats canned Brussels sprouts?

Some of the lines were a bit lame. On a can of sweet corn: “Si les poules avaient des dents, elles adoreraient!” (If chickens had teeth, they would love this.) Maybe I am missing something.

But I liked the one on the baby carrots: “Le jeunisme atteint même les carottes.” (The obsession with youth has now even reached carrots.)

I got the pun about the sausages with lentils: “Vous imaginez une sauce avec des lunettes?” (You were thinking of a sauce with eyeglasses?) “Lentilles” is the word for contact lenses.

I was stumped by the one on the sundried tomatoes, however: “Elles vont vous sécher.” (They will dry you? Ah, no. “Sécher” can mean to leave one without an answer, in other words, to stump someone. No kidding.)

I also learned a new expression in the mustard aisle: “Prenez-en de la graine.” Apparently “prendre de la graine” means to take inspiration from something. Sure, I can be inspired by mustard.

There are even cultural references. One type of butter is marked, “Goûté et approuvé par le Petit Chaperon Rouge.” (Tasted and approved by Little Red Riding Hood.) Apparently in the French story, LRRH is carrying butter to her granny, among other things in the basket.

Who comes up with these things? And how many approvals do they have to seek before the powers that be sign off on a sauce for crudités (raw vegetables): “Pour que crudités ne rime pas avec nudité” (so that crudités don’t rhyme with nudity)?

Was the creative team falling on the floor at their own puns and rhymes, or going about it seriously? “OK, folks, we need to come up with new taglines for detergent, rye bread, and apricot juice by noon. Sharpen your pencils.”

I must say that I like the design of the packages, with their bright blocks of colour and bold lettering. There are no images, just typography, which presents a challenge for foreigners, but they are easy to spot on the shelf, and can be read from some distance away or by people with poor eyesight. (I’ve always said that France treats older people better than Anglophone cultures do.)

According to the Monoprix website, this new visual identity program (what the French quaintly call in fake Franglais, “le relooking”), was rolled out in late 2010. No fewer than 2,000 products received the treatment. Collect the whole set.

On another website devoted to advertising I learned that the program was created by a firm called Havas City and was intended to cheer people up after a rather gloomy period of recession. The overall theme was “Non au quotidien quotidien.” The agency translates that as, “Daily life should never be routine.” On the whole, the campaign succeeded and sales improved.

Apparently, however, one catchphrase backfired (I guess with 2,000 products, there are bound to be some missteps). The creative team chose this line for a package of verveine (verbena) herbal tea: “L’infusion qui vous fait oublier qu’on ne vous a pas augmenté cette année.” (The herbal tea that will make you forget you haven’t had a raise this year.) When Monoprix employees spotted this, they had a collective fit, since they hadn’t had a raise that year. Damage control. The packages now say: “On ne change pas une équipe qui gagne.” (You don’t change a winning team.) What is the French for “feel-good catchphrase”?

The tagline for the company as a whole is “On fait quoi pour vous aujourd’hui?” (What can we do for you today?) I guess for us Anglophones, you can make shopping just that more productive as we polish our French skills while standing in line at the checkout counter.

Text by Philippa Campsie, photographs by Philippa Campsie and Norman Ball

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Knock knock

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Parisian Fields

Visits to Paris flats or offices often begin with the ubiquitous buzzer and intercom, or the guarded keypad entry code, followed by the click and release of an electrically operated door lock. Mail goes into small boxes in the lobby. However, there are visible remnants of earlier times, when the door knocker announced a visitor or delivery and mail came through a slot in the door. One finds them simply by walking about Paris.

What a wonderful combination of the old and new. On the right, we see two variations of the chasse-roues I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. Above those, the modern intercom and keypad, then the pièce de résistance: a well-cared for brass door knocker on a beautiful old oak door.

Sometimes the patina of age seems loving even if a bit lacking in routine care. Nonetheless I find the sturdy door and knocker shown below immensely attractive. It appears to be made of iron which has rusted to an unusual colour.

In this door with its traditional green paint, the ornate door knocker stands proudly. And the angle iron on the right side of the door speaks of a desire for added security.

Not far from an artist’s studio in the 16th designed by LeCorbusier (whom I have not forgiven for robbing one Charlotte Perriand for much of the credit due her), I was captivated by the doorway, cast iron grille work, traditional lace window covering, the typeface of the ever-so-carefully mounted house number and then the door knocker, a cast iron hand hanging down ready to work. But just in case, there’s the back-up doorbell button.

At a time when there was much talk of grève générale (general strike) the owner of this door knocker attracted our attention with the suggestion it was time to relax a bit, or chill, to have a rêve générale (general dream). It was a grey overcast day and the image is not completely clear, but perhaps that is more dreamlike.

As for mail slots, there is again the range of styles that make Paris so interesting. As we walked along a quiet street, this one caught my eye. First because it blended in so unobtrusively, and I liked its strong but understated decoration. And because it was in English.

This functional secure door, which led through a wall facing onto a quiet street, had the usual key pad and intercom. However, the mail slot was there ready to receive suitably discreet deliveries.

And not far away, a gorgeous yellow door came complete with a black metal door knocker mounted about eye level, a mail slot lower down and an metal knob to open the door. I have often seen these made of polished brass. But with such a strong yellow, polished brass would clash and seem over the top (loosely translated as un peu trop).

On a morning’s walk in the 14th, this juxtaposition of traditional mail slot and modern recycling bin somehow spoke to me of just what makes Paris right for me.

In April 2006, I took the photograph below in a small cul-de-sac. The telltale signs of gentrification were all about. I wonder if this door and mail slot are still there. And if they are, what colour have they been painted. The design, bamboo plants (faintly visible on the right) and intimacy reminded me of some backstreets and alleys I found in Beijing during two trips there in the mid 1990s.

And as I bring this to a close, I wonder if I should include this image in a blog devoted to the art of the door knocker? It is one of a series of photos I took of one of the most beautiful elevators I have ever seen. It is not polished to within an inch of its life. Rather, graceful design has been overlain with the sheen of age.

With its stunning stained glass dome and rich details such as this, I would feel I had failed Paris if I did not spend some time at Galeries Lafayette on each visit.

Don’t get me wrong. There is a place for polish when well done. It is not about making ornate brass mirrorlike, but about highlighting depth and features, complementing artistry, inviting light to play.

Text and photographs by Norman Ball.

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The invisible woman

Posted on July 3, 2011 by Parisian Fields

As the saying goes, “Behind every great man stands a woman, rolling her eyes.” In the case of the Modernist architect Le Corbusier, that woman was probably Charlotte Perriand, his colleague and co-creator in the 1930s. Only she was probably too good-natured and well-mannered to roll her eyes. Perhaps from time to time she permitted herself a rueful smile.

On our last visit to Paris, we saw an exhibit of her furniture and photographs at le Petit Palais. It continues until September 18 and we highly recommend it.

Charlotte, who was born in 1903 in Paris, studied at the l’Ecole de l’Union centrale des Arts décoratifs, and got a job after Le Corbusier saw her chrome-tube furniture, shown at the Salon d’automne in 1927. The installation was called Bar sous le toit (bar under the roof).

Actually, she had earlier applied to Le Corbusier for a job, thinking he might have a use for her training in the decorative arts, and he had turned her down with the dismissive comment, “Nous n’avons pas de broder coussins ici.” (We don’t embroider cushions here). It was the exhibit that made him change his mind. She was apparently gracious enough to overlook his earlier boorishness.

But what is more interesting is that the ensemble was not a prototype or a commission for someone else – it was something she had created for her own studio in the place St-Sulpice. Immediately you get a sense of who she was. She didn’t say one thing and do another.

Le Corbusier was famous for saying, “A house is a machine for living in,” and for creating clean white cubes in which everything was carefully positioned at right angles and all clutter was banished. But a photograph of Le Corbu taken by Brassaï in 1931, shows him toiling at a untidy desk, with an unsteady pile-up of books and papers on the shelves behind him, and bits of bric-a-brac on the mantel shelf. The only right angles are in a picture on the wall. Machine for living in, my eye.

Charlotte understood that people have stuff. One of her comments, quoted in the exhibit, caught our attention:

Quel est l’élément primordial de l’équipement doméstique? Répondons sans hésiter: le rangement. Sans un rangement bien conçu, pas de vide possible dans l’habitat.

What is the crucial element in domestic equipment? We can answer that immediately: storage. Without well-planned storage, it is impossible to find space in one’s home.

Truer words were never spoken. Norman is building shelves in our basement as I write this. If we could, we would buy or recreate the furniture Charlotte created – elegant, multifunctional shelves and cupboards that make modern wall units look clumsy and amateurish by comparison.

Charlotte worked in Le Corbusier’s studio for about 10 years. The rest of her career was full and busy. She travelled widely, lived and worked in Japan at various times, married twice and had one child, and collaborated with other artists, architects, and designers, including Fernand Léger and Jean Prouvé.

The exhibit shows how she drew inspiration from the world around her. In a videotaped interview on the Petit Palais website, Jacques Barsac, her biographer (and, we gather, son-in-law), said that she used photography as a way of taking notes of things that interested her. The exhibit does a wonderful job of pairing photographs and objects – the slatted bench beside the picture of a fish skeleton, the roundabout beside the similarly shaped mountain refuge she designed.

She spent a lot of time outdoors – hiking, swimming, skiing. The keynote image in the exhibit is of her with her back to the camera, facing a range of mountains, raising her ski gloves in the air, wearing nothing above her waist but a string of beads (probably her signature necklace of steel ball bearings). She looks strong, healthy, and down-to-earth.

Her awareness of the world around her extended to the lot of the less fortunate. In one of the other galleries of the Petit Palais, we were impressed by a huge mural/collage on the theme of “La Grand Misère de Paris.” She had created it for a salon devoted to “arts ménagères” (domestic arts) in 1936. Not what you’d expect in such a venue, but Charlotte was aware of the dire living conditions of the poor in the city and the need for healthy housing. Modernists get a bad rap for wanting to sweep away “picturesque” slums and replace them with clean new housing, but you cannot fault their good intentions.

It’s a wonderful exhibition, but a couple of things surprised us. We saw the official document that Charlotte, with Le Corbusier and his cousin/partner Pierre Jeanneret, had received, patenting the design for a reclining chair (chaise longue basculante). Her name comes first. First. Yet in the display – in an exhibit devoted to her work – the design credits are generally listed as “Le Corbusier, Jeanneret and Perriand.” And the piece of furniture in question was for years known as a Le Corbusier design, as if she’d never existed. In most furniture shops, it is still described that way.

We were also surprised by the dearth of books about her in the gift shop. There was no catalogue, nor one of those magazine-like overviews that the French do so well. Only a fold-out brochure, one third of which was taken up with the keynote image of her, and some cards (not postcards). She deserves better.*

We could not take photographs of her work inside the museum. But in Le Bon Marché department store, there was a display devoted to her, presented by the furniture manufacturer Cassina, a company that has reissued editions of her classic designs. Her work is also in the Musée des Arts Décoratifs. But again, in most cases, the designers’ names are listed with hers last. We both got quite irked by this downplaying of her role in the design.

Even the wording of the chronology of her life written on a panel at the Bon Marché exhibit seemed to efface her. The last line reads, “1999 – disparition de Charlotte Perriand à Paris.” Yes, in French you can interpret the word “disparition” to mean death as well as disappearance, but did they choose that word because her work had “disappeared” into that of others?

Charlotte, we owe you an apology. For years you were the invisible woman behind the furniture designs attributed to Le Corbu and his brother, and only belatedly – and seemingly half-heartedly – are people acknowledging your creativity and contribution. It’s time we gave you the credit that is your due.

Text by Philippa Campsie; original photographs by Philippa Campsie and Norman Ball. Colour photograph of Charlotte Perriand by Pernette Perriand-Barsac, Charlotte’s daughter. Photograph of Le Corbusier by Brassaï.

*Books about her do exist, including an autobiography. A list appears on her Wikipedia entry.

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The art of the chasse-roue

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Parisian Fields

Paris often reveals itself in the details. And as a historian of design and technology, I am drawn to the many different ways that the French seem to find for doing the same thing. In this case, protecting the sides of the wide double doorways or archways known as portes cochères from the damage by the wheels and sides of carriages or carts — now cars and trucks — going through them. Like the spikes of the anti-burglar devices I looked at in an earlier blog, they say: keep your distance. I photographed many of these devices before I even knew their name.

Let us begin our tour with a rather imposing and clearly important entryway. On either side, note the humble-looking guard stones. That is the English term, but when I took the picture, I didn’t know either the English or the French term. I enlisted the help of Adam, author of the wonderful and informative blog Invisible Paris, who has a gift for research, and he came up with the name chasse-roue (to chase the wheel) or bouteroue (to push the wheel out of the way).

For contrast, consider this image. Although it is made of cast iron and sited in humbler circumstances, it does the same job as the chasse-roue at the porte cochère of a diplomatic residence.

Before the age of cheap iron and steel, chasse-roues were traditionally made of stone. In the Passage St. Paul in the 4th the beautiful sequence of chasse-roues reads like horizontal archaeology.

Once I knew the correct name, I searched online for more images, and found a wonderful site dedicated to the heritage of the Somme region. Even if you don’t read French, click here to see a whole range of stone versions in the region to the north of Paris.

Chasse-roues are warning signs: keep back, keep your distance, don’t brush up against me. Most of the surviving chasse-roues that I have seen in Paris are from the age of economical iron or steel. And of all the cast iron chasse-roues I have seen in Paris, none give a more workmanlike message that those where the buses pound through the archways to cross the interior courtyard of the Louvre.

As with so much of the material world, we don’t know who made what we see. I have only found one chasse-roue in Paris with a name attached. Unfortunately, I don’t know who B. Dubuc was, but I assume he was the owner of the Paris iron foundry where this conical cast-iron chasse-roue was cast.

One of the beauties of cast iron — a material that I am very fond of — is that while molten, it may be poured or cast to take many forms. Once someone has made a pattern or mould of the design (the most expensive part of the process), each casting is relatively cheap. That is why we have so many inexpensive ornamental cast-iron products from the latter 19th and early 20th centuries. And because cast iron is so fluid, it can be made into elaborate shapes. Here are only a few of the many ornamental cast iron chasse-roues I have photographed in Paris.

Some of the cast-iron chasse-roues project a sense of strength and solidity. This one seems to say, “I might not be pretty, but I have a job to do and I do it well.”

Others seem to combine the image of strength with a sense of elegance. This is a beautiful but substantial casting.

Here we find a similar design executed with greater attention to detail and less encrusted in detail-obscuring paint.

Some are quite elaborate but without sacrificing the strength needed to do the job. With the holes or voids in the design, this casting would have required greater time in making the pattern or mould and greater care in cleaning the casting than for others we have seen. Nonetheless, it was still a process that allowed for production at a reasonable price.

In chasse-roues, as in gargoyles, one finds works depicting mythological or creatures from nature. And often there is a certain sly impudence. Am I imaging things or is this a cat (or lion) with attitude?

Sometimes chasse-roues work in conjunction with other protective devices as with this corner-mounted protector.

Whatever shape they come in, whatever they are made of, chasse-roues all do a similar job. The variety is part of the human technological experience and what I have seen in Paris helps reinforce my view that nothing we do is purely functional. And for that I am truly grateful.

Next time you wander about Paris, look for the chasse-roues. You will be surprised by their number and variety. Perhaps you will find my friend, which I call the “Buddha of the Marais.”

Text and photographs by Norman Ball

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The balcony scene

Posted on June 19, 2011 by Parisian Fields

The painter Gustave Caillebotte and his brother, photographer Martial Caillebotte, loved balconies. They frequently painted and photographed people standing on ornate balconies overlooking wide boulevards, gazing down at the passing scene below.* And sometimes they set up an easel or a camera on a balcony and captured what they saw from that viewpoint. One of my favourite pictures is the one that Gustave painted of the view from his balcony on the boulevard Haussmann in 1880 – a tiny view into the everyday world 130 years ago.

On our most recent visit to Paris, we rented an apartment with a balcony, and like the Caillebottes, we spent a lot of time on it, watching people come and go. However, our apartment did not overlook a wide boulevard, but a narrow, one-way street, and the first thing we saw when we looked out was not a tree and a bench, but…a Velib’ stand. Here it is, with some of Paris’s finest pedalling by.

We realized after a while that this stand served much the same function as the bench in Caillebotte’s picture. People sat on the bicycles or the docking stations just like the man pictured on the bench, but in this day and age, they were usually smoking a cigarette or making a phone call.

With the introduction of anti-smoking laws in France, outdoor smoking is common and the spot was a popular one for smoke breaks for the kitchen staff and wait staff of a local restaurant. The restaurant entrance was on the next street over (a spacious boulevard), but our balcony overlooked the staff entrance. The women’s footwear is a clue to the type of restaurant.

Another 21st century feature of the view was the green cross advertising a pharmacie – this establishment also faced onto the boulevard one block over, and the sign simply directed customers to the location of the entrance. These green crosses fascinate me. Somewhere, there is a factory churning them out for the French market, and the workers must spend their lives coming up with new patterns of green lights on a black background. It seems that no two signs have exactly the same patterns.

Because the street was one way with parking on both sides, and because it served as the back entrance to the buildings opposite, we would sometimes hear car horns blaring in futile frustration as the street was blocked by someone loading or unloading. The noise would reach a particular crescendo when the blockage was caused by the green recycling truck that picked up the wine bottles from the restaurant. The truck had hoists to raise up the bins full of bottles and tip them out into the pile inside. Deafening. And there were always a lot of bins to empty.

Every day, indeed every hour, there was something new to see – somebody doing a little housekeeping…

…moving in…

…or walking a dog.

But every evening, we were treated to free entertainment in the form of the valet parking guy (voiturier). Farther down the street was a Chinese restaurant that was clearly popular with the well-to-do. Between 8 and 9 p.m., the BMWs, the Jags, the SUVs, and the Bentleys would pull up and disgorge their impeccably dressed occupants. Then the parking guy would take over.

His job was to find a spot somewhere, anywhere, in the vicinity, park the car, and sprint back to his position to get the next car. He was very fit and very good at parking. We once watched him back up and round a corner at the next intersection when a spot became available on a cross street. His office was a battered Peugeot, where he kept the keys to all the cars. He had an assistant who stood around looking helpless and who was clearly not allowed to get behind the wheel of a car. I guess his job was to keep an eye on the car where the keys were kept.

If you look closely in the picture below, you will see a sort of blur in front of the Velib’ stand. That’s our guy, running flat out, to retrieve or move a car. My camera shutter speed couldn’t keep up with him.

Never a dull moment. What, I wonder, would Caillebotte have chosen to paint if he had lived on this street today?

* We saw the work of the brothers Caillebotte at the Musée Jacquemart-André. This special exhibition continues until July 11, 2011.

Text by Philippa Campsie; photographs by Philippa Campsie and Norman Ball

Posted in Paris art, Paris automotive, Paris civic functions, Paris streets | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Don’t go there

Posted on June 12, 2011 by Parisian Fields

On a recent trip to Paris, we arranged to meet up with a friend, a Canadian architecture-school librarian. As the three of us wandered about Montmartre, she asked us an intriguing question: “What are those spiked things for?” I replied, “They mean don’t go there.” They are more than mere barriers – they are designed to intimidate.

Some are simple, with only a single layer or row of spikes. Others, such as this fierce specimen, threaten intruders with evisceration.

All of them – and I include only a few of the many I have photographed – have one purpose: to tell you not to even think about going there and to stop you very painfully if you try. The two shown above are warnings not to climb up the drainpipe to gain entry to anything you might otherwise plan on breaking into.

Sometimes they are less obvious. On a lazy August day, we watched boys playing soccer on the wide, shady sidewalk in front of an attractive Ministere des Finances building. It was an idyllic scene.

But take a closer look. Cast your eye upwards along the grey front to the right of the group of boys. Here, let me help you with a telephoto shot.

The rings of metal thorns – even when reflected in a windowpane – are all about business, the business of saying: don’t go there.

On another building, the U-shaped light well that brightened the interior of the apartments might have provided an ideal entry point for those with evil intentions. The message of the intimidating barriers is clear: Think twice about it.

On the building below, the downspout ring of iron thorns seems lacking in enthusiasm but the bottom two levels of windows are barred. Moreover, there are three security cameras.

Now take a closer look at the barriers at the side of the building. It would be very dangerous to stand on the pillar or to try to get past it.

Even those who might gain access to the higher levels will find that many buildings have barriers to moving sideways from one building to another. Some manage to be ornamental as well as intimidating.

Others are less subtle. The closer you get the louder they seem to scream their message.

As we paused to look closer, we noticed the netting that usually indicates there is structural work to be done on whatever is underneath. Another good reason not to climb.

And the nearer you get to your imagined destination the more you know you ought to be somewhere else.

And it is not just people who get the messages. In the inner courtyard of Le Petit Palais, where we paused for lunch, we noticed a few messages directed at the pigeons: don’t even try to land or perch here. Your feet will regret it.

Best to just fly on by. There are better career opportunities elsewhere. How about acting as a “fascinator” at a regal gathering?

Text and photographs by Norman Ball.

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A palace of commerce and a 1904 rendez-vous

Posted on June 5, 2011 by Parisian Fields

“Dimanche soir – reçu lettre ce matin. Compte sur toi pour mercredi. Embrasse tous. Jean.” Sunday night – received letter this morning. [I] count on you [to come] on Wednesday. Love to all, Jean. The date on the postmark is June 13, 1904.

The message is written on the picture side of a postcard that we found in the stamp and card market in the gardens just off the Champs-Elysées. The photograph showed a huge building we didn’t recognize, with the words Dufayel on an elaborate clock tower topped with a dome which was further topped with a spire. Printed on the card are the words “Vue panoramique prise de la Butte Montmartre – P.P.C. – Paris.” (Panoramic view from the Montmartre Hill. P.P.C. might mean “picture post card.”)

Dufayel? Apparently it was a huge department store that sold furniture and housewares. When it opened in 1856, it was called Le Grand Magasin des Nouveautés. When the original owner died in 1888, an ambitious employee called Georges Dufayel bought it and gave it his own name.

Dufayel (1855 -1916) was quite an operator. He either invented or popularized the notion of buying goods on the installment plan and buying from a catalogue. He also sold coupons that could be used in other stores, and took a cut of each transaction.*

Les Grands Magasins Dufayel expanded over the years until the store occupied most of a city block to the east of the hill of Montmartre – about a hectare in all. The inside was palatial, with chandeliers and mirrors, and contained a winter garden and a theatre that seated 3,000. On top of the dome was a revolving searchlight of 10 million candlepower – roughly similar to the light that currently revolves on top of the Eiffel Tower. The statues on either side of the entrance represent “Credit” and “Publicity” and over the door is “Progress” riding in a chariot. (For pictures of the interior, click here or here.)

The building is only one of the points of interest in the photo. There is a tall chimney on the right, and a sort of crane on the left. In front is a lively street scene, with people coming and going to and from small, awning-shaded shops. The area is not fully developed, since “Terrain à Vendre” (land for sale) is painted on one of the walls in the foreground.

Curious to see what was there now, we set off with a friend on a fine May morning to find out. We located the building shortly after leaving the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro station. We approached its southern front first, which was also impressive, before we found the west-facing façade shown on the postcard. The building is now occupied by the BNP Paribas bank.

Alas, what was once the front entrance is now the back of the building and is obscured by an ugly fence. The squared-off dome was gone, and so is the huge clock face, but the stonework with its relief sculpture of Progress riding in a chariot is still there.

We wondered if the view from the Butte Montmartre would still show the street in front (rue André del Sarte). We climbed the steps at the end of the street and headed into the Louise Michel park to take a look.

At first we took the lower path, where thick trees and bushes prevented us from getting a clear sight of the building.

But when we took a closer look at the postcard, we realized that since the lower path was visible at the bottom left, the picture had been taken from much higher up.

Eventually, on one of the upper paths, we found a bridge over what must have been a small creek or gully that gave the same view as the postcard, although trees still obscured part of the view.

The land that was for sale at the turn of the century had been sold. The chimney and the crane were gone. But the street still contained small shops and cafés, and people were still coming and going.

What about the other side of the postcard? Who was Jean expecting on Wednesday? The card arrived on the same day it was sent (the Monday). Who needed e-mail in those days of same-day mail service?

The postcard was addressed to “Mademoiselle Lucienne Ricard, 18 rue Nicolas-Simon, Tours, Indre-et-Loire.” Rue Nicolas Simon does not appear on Google maps, but I found it on an image of an old Baedeker map of Tours. When I compared it to the current map, I realized that the street had been renamed rue Jules Simon. No. 18 is still there, visible in Street View.

Jean must have known Lucienne well, because he used the intimate “tu” form of address. I wonder if they were brother and sister. And, if Jean’s last name was Ricard, whether he was the novelist of that name who published several books in the 1920s and 1930s.

I hope Lucienne made the rendez-vous in Paris with Jean. Perhaps they shopped at Dufayel, entering the palace of commerce by the grand doors under the clock tower.

Text by Philippa Campsie, photographs by Philippa Campsie and Norman Ball.

*Dufayel also bought a house at 76, avenue des Champs-Elysées, which had once belonged to a duchess, tore it down, and had the architect who had designed his store (Gustave Rives) create an even more elaborate mansion (now demolished). He installed himself there in 1905 or so with his art collection. His name is also associated with Sainte-Adresse in Haute-Normandie, where there is another large building bearing his name. He created a resort area in the town known as “Nice – Havrais” (the Nice of the area of Le Havre). Busy guy.

Posted in Paris history, Paris postcards, Paris quartiers, Paris shops, Paris streets | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 32 Comments

Rattled in Raspail (adventures in banking)

Posted on May 27, 2011 by Parisian Fields

In 1910, Stephen Leacock wrote a short story called, “My Financial Career,” which began with the words, “When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.” Leacock expressed this reaction to a bank in a small Canadian town. What would he have made of the grand and intimidating Banque de France on the Boulevard Raspail?

Perhaps we should explain. We had received a 500-euro note from our bank in Canada. They didn’t have much in the way of choice, and we needed some cash for our trip, so we took it.

When the time came to change it, we entered an ordinary bank near our apartment. The teller was aghast. Surely we did not expect change for this note? No, no. Banks do not change money. What a preposterous idea!

We asked politely where we could change this troublesome note. The Banque de France and only the Banque de France was the answer.

The next day, we found ourselves on the Place de la Bastille, where there is a branch of the Banque de France. We entered. This itself is a process. Press a button. Wait. Enter a little airlock between two sets of doors. Perhaps decontamination occurs at this point. Push another button. Wait. Enter the bank.

We approached the teller and repeated our request. Ah non! Not this branch of the Banque de France! How could we have thought such a thing! No, no. We must go to the bank on the Boulevard Raspail. That is the one and only place in Paris to change a 500-euro note.

OK, fine. Whatever. It is close to the Bon Marché and we are always happy to visit the Grand Epicerie there. So we head to the Boulevard Raspail.

Now, it is important to time one’s arrival. The bank isn’t open just any old time to passersby. It opens at 8:45 a.m. and remains open until noon. At that point, the bankers need their lunch. It reopens at 1:30 p.m. and remains open until 5 p.m. But if you need the services of a teller, you must get there before 3:30 p.m., when the guichets (tellers’ wickets) close.

So far, so good. We arrive just before 3 p.m. We go through the airlock ritual and enter the bank. It is all heavy marble and dark wood and gloomy shadows. We see a desk labelled “Accueil” (welcome), but no one is there to welcome us. Somehow, we cannot imagine feeling welcomed to this oppressive spot.

On the desk we find forms that must be completed in order to carry out a cash exchange. Norman gets out a pen. (The bank does not supply one.) Date, name, first name, address, amount, origin of the funds, phone number, profession, signature. Proof of identity is required.

At the bottom of the form is written, “The lack of compulsory information will make the operation impossible.” (This is the bank’s translation, not ours.)

To one side are three guichets, enclosed in glass. Probably bullet-proof. Only two are staffed. A woman teller is occupied with a young man who has what appear to be large pouches of money. He has been there some time, we can tell, and he has the air of someone who expects to be there for even longer. He tries to make a cellphone call and the teller raps angrily on the glass. He is to desist, immediately. He promptly ends his call.

The other teller, a man, is engaged in a transaction with another customer. Across from the tellers are some benches with people sitting on them. They are formal and rigid, and when you sit on them, you feel like someone waiting for the outcome of a judgement in a courtroom. The benches imply that you are guilty.

After a while, we notice a little contraption that dispenses paper tickets with numbers on them. We tear off a numbered ticket and sit down again. Nothing happens for quite a while. Godot was here some time ago, but he left in despair.

Eventually, the male teller finishes with his customer, and a man from the bench steps forward eagerly. The teller motions for him to stay where he is. He freezes. After a while, it becomes clear that the teller is having computer difficulties. Time stands still.

Eventually, a woman member of staff approaches the benches of the accused. She says that the ordinateurs (computers) are hors de service (out of order). They might be working again in five minutes, or in an hour, or not for some time. She has no idea. Teller service is hereby suspended. She does not apologize for the inconvenience.

One might wonder why a computer is needed to change one cash note for a series of smaller notes. Presumably one’s passport must be scanned to determine whether one is wanted by Interpol. It is clear that someone with a 500-euro note is up to no good.

Norman says he will wait until 3:30 since we are here anyway. Philippa goes across the road to the Bon Marché to use the facilities. When she returns, there is a notice on the door.

No exchange today. We go home.

Norman goes back the following day on his own, and approaches a teller with a working computer. The man delivers something of a lecture on the inadvisability of travelling with such a monstrously large note. Norman replies with some feeling that he was not given a choice by his bank in Canada, and that Paris did not give him any choice in where to cash it. Standoff. Security is not summoned. This time.

Years ago, on our first visit, we used American Express travellers’ cheques, which we exchanged at the Amex office opposite the Opera. This was once a grand place to see and be seen, where people used to come to fetch their “post restante” mail and book tickets to exotic places. It gradually withered to a small hole-in-the-wall office, but it was still bright and cheery and the staff members were pleasant. Those were the days.

Well, our time at the Banque de France was, as they say, a learning experience. If you are reading this and planning a vacation in Paris, heed our advice: do not let your bank fob you off with cash in large denominations. Get nothing larger than a 50-euro note.

Text and photographs by Philippa Campsie and Norman Ball

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Traces of tragedy on a quiet street

Posted on May 20, 2011 by Parisian Fields

Not many people walk the length of the rue Jean Goujon in the 8th arrondissement. Either they are strolling along the river, or gazing at the likes of the Christian Dior boutique on avenue Montaigne (fashion central), the next street over. The rue Jean Goujon runs between the river and avenue Montaigne, and it is as quiet as the tomb. I use this simile advisedly.

We chose it by chance, and by chance we stopped to admire a handsome church facade and dome topped with a golden statue reflected in the windows of the office building opposite. The double glazing made a double image.

A small sign by the church caught our attention. Something to do with a “Bazar de la Charité.” We crossed the road for a closer look. No, it wasn’t about an upcoming rummage sale. It was the raison d’être for the whole structure.

The church is called Notre Dame de la Consolation, and the consolation is that of the bereaved whose wives, husbands, children and parents perished in the fire of May 4, 1897, that occurred here.

The Bazar de la Charité was an annual fundraiser for the poor, and like all successful fundraisers, the organizers had secured the participation of some celebrities — in those days, that meant people with titles. The Duchesse d’Alençon was the highest ranking of those in attendance.

The bazaar wasn’t just your average church craft and white elephant sale. The organizers had created something that looked like a medieval street in a large wooden building on this site, made of painted cloth, cardboard and papier-mâché. There was food and drink on offer, and trinkets to buy in little boutiques staffed by society ladies, but most of all there was entertainment. And so, to be as up-to-the-minute as possible (this was 1897), the organizers arranged for moving pictures.

Alas, the equipment didn’t work as it should have. In the end, nobody was really sure what happened. Some said the assistant did something wrong. Others said it was a malfunctioning projector that started the fire that immediately spread to the rest of the building. Many of those in attendance escaped, but about 130 people perished, most of them women.

The chapel was later built on the site to commemorate the dead of the Bazar de la Charité. It is not a large church, as it might seem from the façade, but a rotunda under a dome that can accommodate about 75 or so people. We also glimpsed a cloister open to the sky, with tombs on one side, opening off to the rear of the chapel.

Feeling thoughtful, we continued our walk. And a few steps further, we found another memorial of another kind, this one to people who died far away, in another country.

The Apostolic Armenian Cathedral in Paris, St-Jean Baptiste, is a completely different style of church, although it was built only a few years later, in the early years of the 20th century.

A small poster indicated a display of front pages from international newspapers and magazines relating to the massacre of the Armenians during the First World War. The exhibit was in a space behind the church, reached by a narrow passage that opened out into a courtyard.

Although the exhibit was officially closed (it was after 5 p.m.), a woman motioned for us and another visitor to enter through the glass doors, and descend the staircase to the underground exhibition hall.

We spent some time examining the display, but we didn’t want to linger too long and incommode the church staff. What we saw was sufficiently sobering. When we came up the stairs, the lady in charge asked if we would like to see the church. She ushered us through the side entrance.

The church was a little larger than the chapel of Notre Dame de la Consolation, but it was still an intimate space, with an organ in a loft over the entrance, and an impressive painting on the curved apse behind the altar. The space was full of colour, with rich carpets on the floor, and glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

We emerged into the sunny street thinking about two different stories of tragedy and loss — one local and immediate, one distant and unimaginably vast. Paris is a space of memories, held within its stones and its communities. There is still an association devoted to the memories of those who died in the fire of 1897, just as there are associations that perpetuate the memory of the victims of the Armenian genocide.

Behind almost any facade on any street in any city there are stories to be told. If we were to pick a Paris street at random and an address at random, and somehow talk to the oldest inhabitant of that address, what stories would we hear?

Text by Philippa Campsie; photographs by Norman Ball.

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Signs of Paris

Posted on May 13, 2011 by Parisian Fields

On the first day of our first shared trip to Paris, signs such as this made me realize we were walking through history. We had bought the makings of a picnic lunch, which we ate on a park bench. We wandered about Montmartre and one of us spotted a now-familiar blue-and-white sign.

Cities and progress often go hand-in-hand. Paris is filled with majestic signs of progress. Think of the Eiffel Tower, the Wallace fountains, the Louvre, the historic grand department stores such as Le Bon Marché and arcades that showed the world how to shop, or the many bridges that have turned the river into an art gallery of civil engineering and construction.

But for people who lived in the flats of Paris, this sign indicates a more immediate kind of progress. “Gas on all floors.” Gas for cooking and lighting, perhaps even heating. If you hadn’t had such a luxury before, this was important.

We have since seen many variants of this type of sign, the most common touting both “Eau et gaz à tous les étages.” Gas and running water.

But we have only seen one sign such as this. Perhaps one of our readers could help us find another where less of the writing has disappeared. The sign proudly proclaims this is a Healthy House (Maison Salubre). The next line tells us why it is so healthy. “Tout à l’égout.” All the floors are hooked up to the sewers. Indoor plumbing had arrived; no need for chamber pots; the so-called night soil disappeared instantly. This, along with water and gas, announced real progress.

Indeed, simply having standard signs of any kinds was at one time an important innovation. Street numbering was introduced during last years of the 18th century, when France still used the Revolutionary calendar. Not everybody was in favour of the idea. Some people thought it was a precursor to new forms of taxation. Others objected to the fact that everyone had a number. Liberté, égalité, and fraternité was all very well, but the wealthy objected to having the same type of identifier as poor households. The numbers were put up at night in order to attract as little attention as possible, but this led to all kinds of errors. The blue-and-white enamel versions for streets and numbers were introduced in the 1840s.

Street signs represent layers of history. The name of Charlemagne conjures up powerful images of history long gone. But even before it was rue Charlemagne, it was rue des Prestres. As the language evolved, the letter “s” sometimes disappeared to be replaced by a circumflex accent and Prestres became Prêtres or priests. At some point, Charlemagne’s name displaced that of priests. Perhaps it occurred during a period of anti-clericalism. But then, why change rue Percée, a street named to mark an opening in a wall, to Prévôt (Provost), which can stand for a clerical office? There is a story there, but I don’t (yet) know what it is.

Official statements of name changes are relatively common. Unofficial reminders of what went before are less common. Is this a real name, or a personal comment about a former inhabitant of the street?

And some signs suggest that another name would be more appropriate, or that more thought should be given to the rights of children. Did this sign appear only here or was it put up more widely?

Other signs speak to us of different slices of Paris history. It was a chilly November day when Philippa drew my attention to a small but important sign and explained it marked the water level of the great flood of January 1910. At that time, I had not even heard about the flood. Since then, I have learned a great deal more and read whole books on the subject.

Many modern signs announce other kinds of social standards. Cities succeed only because people cooperate voluntarily in upholding certain norms. But sometimes we need reminders of how to behave in areas we share with many others. It is a nice dog but….

And we know your dog loves children, but sometimes children want to be alone, even when the dog is on a leash.

Sometimes signs confirm other impressions. On an April day, it was more than the warm sun that reminded us of a trip we had both made to Malta to speak at a conference. Some of the enclosed balconies on the street reminded us of those in the streets of Valetta and as we talked about Malta (where Philippa’s father was born), this is what we stumbled upon.

A little corner of the Mediterranean on the streets of Paris. Perhaps there is another story there, too.

Signs help us peer into the past, glimpse the daily life of others, and anchor our thoughts and experiences. They are documents I study.

Text and photographs by Norman Ball.

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