Tag Archives: architecture

AN EARLY EVENING IN PARIS

???????????????????????????????????????? (previously posted on February 2013)

“…at the intersection near Saint-Eustache, the opening to the Rue Rambuteau was blocked by a barricade of orange pumpkins in two rows, sprawling at their ease and swelling out their bellies. Here and there gleamed the varnished golden brown of a basket of onions, the blood-red of a heap of tomatoes, the soft yellow of a display of cucumbers, and the deep mauve of aubergines; while large black radish, laid down in funereal carpets, formed dark patches in the brilliance of the early morning…”

This beautiful passage was written by Emile Zola in his La Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris). An immensely descriptive, humorous and exciting novel, it is the third of his twenty-volume series of Les Rougon-Maquart novels; still little known in this country.

La Ventre de Paris captures the essence of Le Forum des Halles: the central gathering place and traditional market integral to the lives of Parisians for 800 years.

In 1971 the food stalls of Les Halles were removed. Intricate glass and metal sculptures were built-in their place, which though controversial, create the strong impression that you are standing in a former open-air market -and it is today every bit as colorful and chaotic as it was in Zola’s day.

I love this bustling nucleus of Paris: its noise and confusion; the filthy, arrogant pigeons that march around us as if they own the place (which of course they do in their little bird brains). I am fond of the restaurants where I spent innumerable hours in (in another life and many years ago) like La Poule au Pot and Au Pied de Cochon, which is open 24 hours.

Here, at the tip of Rue Montorgueil, in the midst of the bailemme that is Les Halles sits Saint Eustache church, a masterpiece of late Gothic architecture. Designed by Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, the construction was lengthy (1532-1637). During that period the gothic style fell out of fashion in favor of renaissance, which explains why a gothic church features unexpected renaissance details. It has a ground-plan analogous to that of Notre Dame with a nave of five bays and a choir aisle with 24 chapels. The high cupola reaches a height of 190 feet.

So, I was in Paris -breathing in the city rather than exploring her, and casually I strolled inside Saint Eustache. It was the first time in almost 20 years that I ventured within its sacred walls. No, I did not take a trip down memory lane. I just admired my surrounding silently. Saint Eustache has not changed much.

The beautiful stained glass windows, which were created by Antoine Soulignac, and likely modeled after drawings by Philippe de Champaigne were still there. Intact and with the perfect radiance of a minor masterpiece.

The pipe organ, containing 8,000 pipes, is the largest in France. It was silent during my visit, but it is a sleeping giant capable of producing some of the world’s perfect music.

And of course I admired the paintings by Santi di Tito, fellow renaissance brethren to Piero della Francesca (and fellow citizen) and Rubens.

The church was mainly empty. A couple of tourists were looking around with tired faces and uninspired expressions. The silence was covering the gorgeous interior like a warm blanket. A beautiful woman with striking red hair was admiring the expansive interior, walking slowly, her figure occasionally obscured by the shadow created by the game of light.

I sat in a chair, thinking of the young Louis XIV taking his first Communion here. In my mind I saw the Cardinal Richelieu and Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson (the future madame de Pompadour) being baptized, and I saw the distressed face of Mozart at the funeral of his mother. I also saw the happy expression of Moliere getting married to Armande Claire Bejarde. I thought of all of them, all of the events that have happened here at Saint Eustache.

One thing has become clear since my last visit. Saint Eustache requires a great deal of love and attention. Centuries of smoke from the candles have left a dirty gray coat on the walls; the marble pillars are chipped in many places; chairs are scattered around like fallen leaves. Many of the 24 chapels are as unkempt as the hair of a rock star.

Saint Eustache parish hosts numerous activities, and touches the lives of many in the phantasmagorical surrounding that is Les Halles. Music, both sacred and contemporary can be heard here regularly, and the rotations of expositions and events make Saint Eustache as busy as an American airport on Thanksgiving. Social justice and community outreach also play a fundamental role in the life of the parish; and the Center Cerise, a cultural hub for artists and arts group (some well-known) is housed here.

Sancerre is a great white wine. Produced in the easter region of the Loire Valley, it is a semi-dry variety that comes from Sauvignon-Blanc grapes. In my opinion it is also a perfect aperitif. It is what I was drinking in the evening after my visit to Saint Eustache, sitting at a cafe’ across from the church and the Rue Montorgueil. As I was sipping that flawless, cold Sancerre, I thought about the universal value of art and architecture. Of how sacred places of worship are fundamental pieces of the community everywhere, and beautiful architecture is the mirror of an intense community life.

Yes, indeed universal.

Just like those pigeons that were lazily moving about outside Saint Eustache.

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Filed under blog, Church, Europe, Europe, France, literature, racconti, Sacred Architecture, Paris, Churches, Arts, French Wines, Emile Zola

Lontano da dove

“Vai dunque laggiù? Come sarai lontano!”

– ” Lontano da dove?”

storiella ebrea

Ho passato l’ultima settimana ad Hartford nello stato del Connecticut lavorando ad un edificio bellissimo e complicato: la Parish Hall della Chiesa Episcopale Del Buon Pastore. La sua storia e’ unica ed affascinante. Fu fatta costruire nel 1867 da Elizabeth Jarvis Colt la vedova indomita di Samuel Colt. Si proprio lui! Quello delle pistole. Dell’epopea del West selvaggio. Degli Indiani e dei cow-boys. Di Tex Willer e Kit Carson. Morto il prode Samuel, la vedova d’acciaio prese saldamente in mano l’impero armigero del consorte, e anche se, data la sua condizione di donna non poteva ancora votare, poteva bensi’ dirigere un’industria possente.

Gran pezzo di Storia Americana. Se capitate da quelle parti, ad Hartford (CT) andate a vederla. Ne vale la pena.Good Shepard

Terminato per il momento il lavoro (tornero’ ad Hartford in Settembre e poi ad Ottobre, Novembre e Dicembre), ho preso la macchina per andare a Filadelfia. Era domenica. C’era il sole. Il cielo era veramente azzurro, e non sto facendo il poeta, ma era per davvero di un blu intenso come raramente si vede in questa parte di mondo. Brillava.

A volte nel cosmo gli astri muovono a nostro favore. All’autonoleggio mi hanno dato un upgrade. Sempre una Chevrolet che onestamente nel mondo delle automobili non passera’ alla storia come un Bugatti, ma almeno era nuova. Non sembrava una scatola di tonno con le ruote e aveva anche la radio satellitare. C’era traffico, ma questo scorreva abbastanza veloce anche se io avevo deciso di prendermela comoda. Non avevo fretta. Il mio primo appuntamento a Filadelfia era per le nove di mattina del giorno dopo. Lunedi.

La voce unica di Frank Sinatra mi teneva compagnia dal canale a lui dedicato della radio satellitare Seriusly Sinatra (il nome della radio e’ Sirio, da qui Seriusly, non e’ un errore). Donne, drinks, baci, love, carezze, promesse, uomini soli. Quella voce inimitabile mi buttava addosso tutto questo e insieme all’aria condizionata mi teneva compagnia.

Il traffico continuava ad essere veloce.

Improvvisamente la mia mente che si era stancata di essere cullata, inizio’ a giocarmi scherzi beffardi.

Mentre guidavo presi a pensare a persone che avevano riempito la mia vita come fanno le pappardelle al sugo di cinghiale in uno stomaco vuoto. Mi tornarono in mente esseri umani a cui avevo fatto del male. Che hanno pianto per me. Che io avevo ferito. Per l’ennesima volta mormorai delle scuse chiedendo loro perdono.

Intanto ero arrivato a Greenwich, CT.

Questa cittadina di circa 62,256 abitanti ha il record davvero invidiabile di essere secondo un censimento del 2012 la citta’ con il reddito pro-capite piu’ alto degli Stati Uniti. E se vivete in America anche quello d essere il posto ideale per vivere. Svoltai a destra e sono andato a vedere Greenwich. Chissa’? Magari avrei trovato qualche diamante per terra o bigliettoni da cento che crescevano sugli alberi invece che le fronde. D’altronde tutti e due sono verdi. I dollari e le fronde.

Invece la prostata mi chiese di fermarmi e di aiutarla. Una stazione di servizio mi apparve simile a un’oasi nel deserto. Scendendo dalla mia temporanea Chevrolet vidi intenta a far benzina una donna bellissima e chiaramente molto “Greenwich”. Perfettamente magra come solo la ricchezza invece che la povertà può far diventare perche’ la magrezza dei poveri e’ diversa. A volte e’ violenta altre troppo triste per essere raccontata da uno scribacchino del mio calibro.

La dea di Greenwich, aveva lunghi capelli scuri, le lunghe gambe erano fasciate da pantaloni attillati (ma come si fa ad entrarci in pantaloni di questo tipo?).

Quando la vidi era tutta intenta a fare il pieno al suo Mercedes SUV e notai come la sua fosse la macchina meno appariscente fra tutte quelle che facevano benzina in quella stazione di servizio. Era ovvio che per lei il mondo non esisteva se non per sentito dire. Lo sguardo era vacuo e non alla pari con il resto del corpo. Insomma, guardandola negli occhi potevi scorgere il retro della sua testa.

Entrai nella stazione di servizio per chiedere le chiavi che aprivano i servizi igienici situati in un angolo estremo della stazione. Anche se tutto questo duro’ meno di un minuto un ragazzo forse del Bangladesh o del Pakistan, lavava con vigore il vetro della porta di entrata. Gocce di sudore erano incastonate sulla sua fronte come se fossero una piccola collana di fatica e il sudore gli macchiava la t-shirt lisa dal colore ormai indefinito e perduto.

“sorry boss, sorry boss” mi disse facendosi prontamente di lato, come di sicuro faceva molto spesso per quasi tutti quelli che lo avvicinavano. Vidi nei suoi occhi neri come la brace la paura di chi e’ senza terra e la solitudine di chi cerca di restare aggrappato alla sua dignita’. Lo ringraziai e gli augurai buona fortuna. Mentre salivo nella mia macchina lo vidi riprendere instancabile il suo lavoro di lavavetri. Improvvisamente si volto’ guardando nella mia direzione. Mi regalo’ un timido gesto di saluto con la mano libera.

La strada verso Filadelfia mi accolse di nuovo. Sfrecciavo insieme a migliaia di automobili diretto a sud. Dopo qualche chilometro notai riflesso nello specchietto retrovisore che il cielo non era piu’ azzurro. Erano arrivate nuvole gigantesche che basse e grasse sembravano essere appese all’orizzonte. E il cielo si era fatto scuro.

Scuro come la pelle di un lavavetri.

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AN EARLY EVENING IN PARIS

????????????????????????????????????????“…at the intersection near Saint-Eustache, the opening to the Rue Rambuteau was blocked by a barricade of orange pumpkins in two rows, sprawling at their ease and swelling out their bellies. Here and there gleamed the varnished golden brown of a basket of onions, the blood-red of a heap of tomatoes, the soft yellow of a display of cucumbers, and the deep mauve of aubergines; while large black radish, laid down in funereal carpets, formed dark patches in the brilliance of the early morning…”

This beautiful passage was written by Emile Zola in his La Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris). An immensely descriptive, humorous and exciting novel, it is the third of his twenty-volume series of Les Rougon-Maquart novels; still little known in this country.

La Ventre de Paris captures the essence of Le Forum des Halles: the central gathering place and traditional market integral to the lives of Parisians for 800 years.

In 1971 the food stalls of Les Halles were removed. Intricate glass and metal sculptures were built-in their place, which though controversial, create the strong impression that you are standing in a former open-air market -and it is today every bit as colorful and chaotic as it was in Zola’s day.

I love this bustling nucleus of Paris: its noise and confusion; the filthy, arrogant pigeons that march around us as if they own the place (which of course they do in their little bird brains). I am fond of the restaurants where I spent innumerable hours in (in another life and many years ago) like La Poule au Pot and Au Pied de Cochon, which is open 24 hours.

Here, at the tip of Rue Montorgueil, in the midst of the bailemme that is Les Halles sits Saint Eustache church, a masterpiece of late Gothic architecture. Designed by Italian architect Domenico da Cortona, the construction was lengthy (1532-1637). During that period the gothic style fell out of fashion in favor of renaissance, which explains why a gothic church features unexpected renaissance details. It has a ground-plan analogous to that of Notre Dame with a nave of five bays and a choir aisle with 24 chapels. The high cupola reaches a height of 190 feet.

So, I was in Paris -breathing in the city rather than exploring her, and casually I strolled inside Saint Eustache. It was the first time in almost 20 years that I ventured within its sacred walls. No, I did not take a trip down memory lane. I just admired my surrounding silently. Saint Eustache has not changed much.

The beautiful stained glass windows, which were created by Antoine Soulignac, and likely modeled after drawings by Philippe de Champaigne were still there. Intact and with the perfect radiance of a minor masterpiece.

The pipe organ, containing 8,000 pipes, is the largest in France. It was silent during my visit, but it is a sleeping giant capable of producing some of the world’s perfect music.

And of course I admired the paintings by Santi di Tito, fellow renaissance brethren to Piero della Francesca (and fellow citizen) and Rubens.

The church was mainly empty. A couple of tourists were looking around with tired faces and uninspired expressions. The silence was covering the gorgeous interior like a warm blanket. A beautiful woman with striking red hair was admiring the expansive interior, walking slowly, her figure occasionally obscured by the shadow created by the game of light.

I sat in a chair, thinking of the young Louis XIV taking his first Communion here. In my mind I saw the Cardinal Richelieu and Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson (the future madame de Pompadour) being baptized, and I saw the distressed face of Mozart at the funeral of his mother. I also saw the happy expression of Moliere getting married to Armande Claire Bejarde. I thought of all of them, all of the events that have happened here at Saint Eustache.

One thing has become clear since my last visit. Saint Eustache requires a great deal of love and attention. Centuries of smoke from the candles have left a dirty gray coat on the walls; the marble pillars are chipped in many places; chairs are scattered around like fallen leaves. Many of the 24 chapels are as unkempt as the hair of a rock star.

Saint Eustache parish hosts numerous activities, and touches the lives of many in the phantasmagorical surrounding that is Les Halles. Music, both sacred and contemporary can be heard here regularly, and the rotations of expositions and events make Saint Eustache as busy as an American airport on Thanksgiving. Social justice and community outreach also play a fundamental role in the life of the parish; and the Center Cerise, a cultural hub for artists and arts group (some well-known) is housed here.

Sancerre is a great white wine. Produced in the easter region of the Loire Valley, it is a semi-dry variety that comes from Sauvignon-Blanc grapes. In my opinion it is also a perfect aperitif. It is what I was drinking in the evening after my visit to Saint Eustache, sitting at a cafe’ across from the church and the Rue Montorgueil. As I was sipping that flawless, cold Sancerre, I thought about the universal value of art and architecture. Of how sacred places of worship are fundamental pieces of the community everywhere, and beautiful architecture is the mirror of an intense community life.

Yes, indeed universal.

Just like those pigeons that were lazily moving about outside Saint Eustache.

118 Comments

Filed under Sacred Architecture, Paris, Churches, Arts, French Wines, Emile Zola