"A vous, c'est un parc; c'est beau; c'est beau. A nous, c'est un monde."
"We ought to do something cultural; something important."
Pompidou? I asked. Elles m'ont dit, ouais
Jean Cocteau? I asked. Elles m'ont dit, ouais.
So we walked (or did WE. It felt an awful lot like me walking, and I was glad for that.) meandered through the chain of chambers on the sixth floor of Centre Pompidou in a cloudy space that bled the life and times of Monsieur Cocteau. The rooms were filled with things that SURROUNDED him. Faces, numbers, drugs, sports and it was all bundled up into a sort of personal attic collection. If we could have touched the letters - to Picasso, Proust, Man Ray letters, with real smudges and real folds and tears - we would have been too close. He showed us, from death, his view of pleasure, in fine lines and without hestitation, without reservation or shame. Right on a red red wall, without hesitation, reservation or shame.
Two hours to amble through.
Two hours to nod myself on.
Two hours to be taken with a magnitude of surprise by the things I don't know.
Pompidou? I asked. Elles m'ont dit, ouais
Jean Cocteau? I asked. Elles m'ont dit, ouais.
So we walked (or did WE. It felt an awful lot like me walking, and I was glad for that.) meandered through the chain of chambers on the sixth floor of Centre Pompidou in a cloudy space that bled the life and times of Monsieur Cocteau. The rooms were filled with things that SURROUNDED him. Faces, numbers, drugs, sports and it was all bundled up into a sort of personal attic collection. If we could have touched the letters - to Picasso, Proust, Man Ray letters, with real smudges and real folds and tears - we would have been too close. He showed us, from death, his view of pleasure, in fine lines and without hestitation, without reservation or shame. Right on a red red wall, without hesitation, reservation or shame.
Two hours to amble through.
Two hours to nod myself on.
Two hours to be taken with a magnitude of surprise by the things I don't know.