I saw them for the
first time as I reached a Never Never Land
inhabited by artists from around the world, located in Marais ,the heart of Paris. Tired and wet,
with my arms 10 cm longer& spinal column 5cm shorter due to 32kg in 2 backpacks ,after a 14h trip, I rang the
bell. Don’t ask how I managed to travel this long to France from Croatia, but I
did. Wanted to cut corners with low cost carriers from places not so close to the start position.Didn't check my luggage limit, ended beat & paying the price of a first class flight from Zagreb airport.
It was around 3 A.M. Glancing around, hoping someone would open the gate,
couldn’t help noticing neatly stacked
row of tents ,pitched on the marble passage, under the columns, leaning on the
thick glass window of dented-in lobby.
Seemed lost in time and space, teleported from a happier place on a coastal
Croatia, for example. It was November in Paris "the city of lights" & as I
came to realize during following months; always rainy , windy, gray, old-stone monster. Sex appeal was
lost in summer warm winds swooshing by bike riding girls in gauze-thin dresses
Nope,there was nothing sexy
about the cardboard, laid in the attempt to thermally isolate tents from the marble. Vine bottles in front didn’t mean that someone got lucky, had it been in some vacation spot.
The porter came, tidy
looking ethnic gentleman with curly graying sideburns. Almost made me believe
he was expecting me; no, he didn’t mind to be awaken: “ Ouie , yohr signature ier…”
Lobby was considerably
warmer, in a few short steps I was on the other side of the looking
glass away from the misery with company, dragging my luggage to the elevator. In the
morning the marble passage was clear, as if the homeless community was
just a bad dream.
Following night however, as
many other nights after, they were back.
Careful to be after working hours, after dark, ignoring the regular citizens, equally
being ignored. Chatted about the orders
of their day as were preparing for the
night. The camp was small, around 8 people with 2 friendly ,humble dogs. There
was a huge black haired man, caucasian,
in his early 30es,kept walking back and forth in the corridor. When he wasn’t
discussing with an invisible partner ;he was just pacing ,turning around
,pacing back. Some strange calm was on his face as if he was doing a smooth
jazz solo, pleased with his work. Laying
on his sleeping bag ,shaven and trimmed middle aged gentleman spent his
evenings reading paperbacks. Seemed as tranquil , on an everlasting holiday of the retired. The cold didn’t touch them,
even when I was using extra blankets, pumping the heating up. Being on the first floor, the Croatian
atelier was straight above the camp, there was just concrete floor between us,
air distance maybe 3m.
I know they were all
French.
So, this is "the survival of the fittest ", I wondered what made me so fit. What was the fundamental difference that put me
on the ”right” side of the looking
glass. I felt more hunter gatherer than bourgeoisie artist , for sure. So
far I was successfully masked …
At that time I was taking long walks at night,
stealing images from Parisian pavements
.The city was like a carnivorous plant
,alluring with shiny flowers. The old streets were hiding ancient murders, pretending
to be noble. They wouldn’t change or
evolve, repent for their cruelties. No, they would get
another layer of white wash and
carry on. After all, here is where the bourgeoisie was invented.
Girls kept on chatting up boys in bistros, as if nothing unusual was going
on, street lights were sweet.
Passersby were texting, getting good or bad news. Dogs-those big hearts
on leashes were being walked. As if nothing was strange. But ….if you turned
around quickly there might be a flicker in this black corner, a halo of a different color around that man. Was
it a shadow or a tentacle of…..something? Perhaps a dorsal fin of a shark whose
hunger overflows Paris gates and balconies in a prophesized next Big Flood.
African people walked
with their gods and spirits above and around
them, like ethereal kaftans. Breathing statues of mahogany or chocolate,
some knowing why they are here, in this cold land,some lost-dreaming of hot
heavens, fearing their mornings. All
were a part of a shadow play of Paris.
One night , there was an ambulance car parked by the corridor camp. There was one tent less. I continued
pretending that I was on the right side of the looking glass.
Paris-anime-WORK IN PROGRESS can be seen on a Paris Rhapsody Gallery
Goran Manic, August,
2011.
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