It was not easy to get into Dresden on Valentine's day. The authorities had re-routed the bus and tram lines to avoid the centre. Although it seemed that some were taken by surprise, it really should have been expected. The police don't take any chances whenever there is a major demonstration by the far right.
The 14th of February has been a cursed day in this city since 1945. On the night of the 13th-14th February of that year, the forces of the RAF's bomber command executed perhaps the most notorious air raid in the European theatre. Two waves of bombers, spaced 3 hours apart, dropped thousands of tons of high-incendiary bombs on Dresden, creating in their wake a devastating firestorm which engulfed the heart of the city. When the morning came, the survivors found that the fire had consumed 34 square kilometres of their home and some 25000 of their neighbours, all but obliterating one of the most beautiful baroque cities in Europe.
Today, 64 years later, the casual visitor might not notice anything amiss. The landmarks of the old city such as the Semperoper, the Zwingler, or most famously, the Frauenkirche, have been rebuilt to their former glory, and the city presents a most beautiful view from the parks on the opposite side of the Elbe. But if you stay here and explore the city further, you will find evidence of it's destruction all around you.
Let us start at my own apartment on 75 Pfotenhauerstrasse. The house I live in was built in 1925, and presents a spartan but nevertheless elegant facade to the street. It is a "row house", sharing its edges with the neighbouring buildings, as do all the houses in my block. My bedroom is on the opposite side to the street, giving a view over the central courtyard. All the houses seem to be of roughly the same age and they fit together in near-perfect harmony.
But let's now go down to the street. Pfotenhauerstrasse runs roughly East-West, and my apartment is at the eastern end of it. Looking further in this direction, you can make out the buildings of the university hospital. But let's turn to the West, and begin to walk towards the centre of the city. On either side of the street you see brightly painted row houses. If it is a sunny day, the windows across the street dazzle with the reflection of the sun-lit houses on our side.
After a block, things start to change. On the other side of the street the row houses abruptly stop, replaced by the car park of the local supermarket, or just waste land. Every now and then you notice a stand of row houses, but these are clearly much younger than my own. Another city block, and now all the older terrace houses have disappeared. On your right you find the first of the looming communist-era highrise apartments, forming what seems a yawning canyon through which Pfotenhauerstrasse has cut its path. If I understand correctly, in these few city blocks we have crossed the limit of the bombing's destruction.
It is cold outside so we go back to my apartment. You stand by the window looking over the street, warming yourself by the radiator. You can barely visualize a stranger standing there 64 years ago, shaking from the cold, or from the night's terror, or in ecstatic relief at their own survival. You struggle to picture the streetscape, strewn with broken glass, dislodged bricks and tiles, ash and dust, and the burned and maimed limping along the road to the hospital. With each year, these ghosts will become harder to see.
Today the bombing of Dresden has become a symbol, and therefore political. I don't think that the far right marchers come here to remember the dead, as otherwise they would appear in number also in Hamburg, or Nurenberg, or Pforzheim. What is truly horrifying about Dresden is that what happened here is not unique, but was repeated time and again across Europe and Asia. If you care to lay a white rose on one of the few low-key monuments around the city on St Valentine's day, remember that every death is a tragedy, and that in the logic of war which language you speak is irrelevant.
I did not buy a white rose on Saturday. Instead, I went for a short walk through the suburb I live in, and tried to imagine a city I will never see.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Friday, May 30, 2008
Journey into Bavaria
As with last Whitsunday, this year I went for a large excursion on my bicycle - cycling from the town of Aalen in the east of Baden-Wuerttemberg to Noerdlingen, just over the border in Bavaria. This is only the second time I've crossed a state border on my bicycle here in Germany. As on the weekend before, the German trains were a bit strange today - the S-bahn from Universitaet to the Hauptbahnhof wasn't running, so to make my connection I had to take the long way into town - charge through the forests behind my house, and then down through the centre of Stuttgart. I made it with 5 minutes to spare.
Stepping off the train in Aalen, I started heading east. The first hour of the ride was by and large rather dull, but also anticipated the tiresome head wind that I would be facing for much of the rest of the day. After an hour I reached Lauchheim, passing through the charming town gates (left). Looking at my map, I realized that I had 
already come about half-way to my ultimate destination, so I decided to take a short diversion to the north and visit the origin of the Jagst River. Located just outside the sleepy little village of Walxheim, there is a modest picnic spot under a stand of beech trees, all clustered around a small spring, which is the source of the Jagst. This flows some 200-odd km through the Schwaebisch Alb, running to the north of Stuttgart, finally joining the Neckar river just after the Kocher. Washing my face in the surprisingly strong-flowing spring waters, I tasted the salty sweat of my exertions. The view below is looking south.
I now turned east again towards Unterschneidheim, before heading south to the edge of the Ries. The Ries is a large depression in the eastern Alb, roughly circular with a diameter of 24km. It is, in fact, one of the most recent large meteorite impact craters in the world, formed an estimated 14.8 million years ago (perhaps even causing a miniature extinction event). My destination was the town of Kircheim am Ries, which lies at the western rim of the crater. Approaching the rim, the landscape appears to buckle, forming a ridge before dropping down into a shallow, flat valley. This ridge runs through Kircheim; to the west of the town there is a particularly high point with the stunning view below. This isn't actually accessible by bicycle, so I had to scramble up the last 50 metres of the hill on foot.
Sitting there eating my lunch, the full scale of what once happened here began to sink in. The Ries is dizzyingly enourmous - the estimates on wikipedia speak of an explosion 6 orders of magnitude greater than that which destroyed Hiroshima, i.e. roughly 25 billion tons of TNT. To put that into perspective, this is (probably) comparable to detonating the entire US or Russian nuclear arsenal in one place simultaneously. The ejecta from this impact can be found as far away as the Czech Republic. Europe would have taken centuries to recover from this blow. But it is a mere baby compared to the Chicxulub crater which wiped out the dinosaurs (180km in diameter). Without the crutch of numbers, the mind recoils from the full implications of such destruction. Nothing like it has ever been seen in human history, and we must fervently hope that nothing like it ever will.
I now descended into the Ries, curving south-eastwards along the edge. I did not have to travel too far before crossing the border in Bavaria, just outside of the town of Riesbuerg. I'd cross back into Baden-Wuerttemburg a little later, and then finally back into Bavaria for the rest of the day. Somewhat strangely, I did not notice any sign announcing the change of state. The point where I crossed the border for the last time was just before I came to the site of an ancient Roman farmstead, of which today only the foundations remain (shown left). I didn't stop for very long, however, but instead pushed on eastwards to the site of the Battle of Noerdlingen (1634).
It's hard to pick a worse strategy than to attack a superior force on the top of a hill, but that is what the ill-fated Swedes attempted against the Spanish at Noerdlingen. With my bicycle the climb was very difficult, but I was
unencumbered by armour or terror. At the top there is a simple stone cairn marking the site of the slaughter. Standing there on that centuries-old battlefield, I tried to imagine the horror of that day. Wars back then were very intimate affairs - swords and pikes only work at close range. Today we expect that the wounded can be somehow repaired; not then. It is easy to know, but difficult to believe, that 20000 men not completely unlike me lay dead or dying here on a September evening so many years ago. There are no perfectly-arranged rows of white crosses; no reverential ceremonies of remembrance; there is no record of the dead; the last woman to mourn a young man who died here herself turned to dust centuries ago. Standing there, looking out over the beautiful and peaceful early-Spring panorama, I felt almost choked by a deep sadness.
I now pushed on towards the southern-most rim of the Ries, just behind the village of Moenchsdeggingen, although I wasn't too impressed by the small hill which passed for the crater rim that I saw there. As the afternoon was already growing old, I decided to turn north-east and cycle into Noerdlingen. This leg was perhaps the most pleasant of the day, as finally I had the wind behind me, and it was only 40 minutes later that I sailed through the town gates into the old centre. I had two hours to explore the city before my train left, and it would prove to be one of the highlights of the day.
Noerdlingen is really a little jewel. An exceptionally well-preserved medieval town, it is also sufficiently remote that it doesn't attract hordes of tourists. At the centre of the city stands the magnificent St-Georgs-Kirche. I climbed to the top of the spire, where I met a curious old man who 
apparently lives as a caretaker at the top. After a brief little conversation, I climbed the final set of step to admire the breathtaking panoramic views, which you can see below (top is looking to the east, bottom is looking to the west). After descending I headed towards the city wall - Noerdlingen is one of only three cities in Germany where the medieval city wall still stands completely intact. There are several gates on this wall, each built in a different style, of which you can see a cylindrical example on the left. The walk along the
city wall (completely free) was delightful - expansive panoramas over the city, and glimpses of lush, cool gardens in the moat below. There are also two rather cute trivial facts about Noerdlingen - it is one of the sister cities of Wagga Wagga (see the sign on the right) and it also featured prominently in the 1971 film "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" - in the final scene, when Charlie, his grandfather and Willy Wonka ride above the city in Wonka's flying elevator, the views of the city below are of... Noerdlingen!
Stepping off the train in Aalen, I started heading east. The first hour of the ride was by and large rather dull, but also anticipated the tiresome head wind that I would be facing for much of the rest of the day. After an hour I reached Lauchheim, passing through the charming town gates (left). Looking at my map, I realized that I had 
already come about half-way to my ultimate destination, so I decided to take a short diversion to the north and visit the origin of the Jagst River. Located just outside the sleepy little village of Walxheim, there is a modest picnic spot under a stand of beech trees, all clustered around a small spring, which is the source of the Jagst. This flows some 200-odd km through the Schwaebisch Alb, running to the north of Stuttgart, finally joining the Neckar river just after the Kocher. Washing my face in the surprisingly strong-flowing spring waters, I tasted the salty sweat of my exertions. The view below is looking south.
I now turned east again towards Unterschneidheim, before heading south to the edge of the Ries. The Ries is a large depression in the eastern Alb, roughly circular with a diameter of 24km. It is, in fact, one of the most recent large meteorite impact craters in the world, formed an estimated 14.8 million years ago (perhaps even causing a miniature extinction event). My destination was the town of Kircheim am Ries, which lies at the western rim of the crater. Approaching the rim, the landscape appears to buckle, forming a ridge before dropping down into a shallow, flat valley. This ridge runs through Kircheim; to the west of the town there is a particularly high point with the stunning view below. This isn't actually accessible by bicycle, so I had to scramble up the last 50 metres of the hill on foot.
Sitting there eating my lunch, the full scale of what once happened here began to sink in. The Ries is dizzyingly enourmous - the estimates on wikipedia speak of an explosion 6 orders of magnitude greater than that which destroyed Hiroshima, i.e. roughly 25 billion tons of TNT. To put that into perspective, this is (probably) comparable to detonating the entire US or Russian nuclear arsenal in one place simultaneously. The ejecta from this impact can be found as far away as the Czech Republic. Europe would have taken centuries to recover from this blow. But it is a mere baby compared to the Chicxulub crater which wiped out the dinosaurs (180km in diameter). Without the crutch of numbers, the mind recoils from the full implications of such destruction. Nothing like it has ever been seen in human history, and we must fervently hope that nothing like it ever will.
I now descended into the Ries, curving south-eastwards along the edge. I did not have to travel too far before crossing the border in Bavaria, just outside of the town of Riesbuerg. I'd cross back into Baden-Wuerttemburg a little later, and then finally back into Bavaria for the rest of the day. Somewhat strangely, I did not notice any sign announcing the change of state. The point where I crossed the border for the last time was just before I came to the site of an ancient Roman farmstead, of which today only the foundations remain (shown left). I didn't stop for very long, however, but instead pushed on eastwards to the site of the Battle of Noerdlingen (1634).It's hard to pick a worse strategy than to attack a superior force on the top of a hill, but that is what the ill-fated Swedes attempted against the Spanish at Noerdlingen. With my bicycle the climb was very difficult, but I was
unencumbered by armour or terror. At the top there is a simple stone cairn marking the site of the slaughter. Standing there on that centuries-old battlefield, I tried to imagine the horror of that day. Wars back then were very intimate affairs - swords and pikes only work at close range. Today we expect that the wounded can be somehow repaired; not then. It is easy to know, but difficult to believe, that 20000 men not completely unlike me lay dead or dying here on a September evening so many years ago. There are no perfectly-arranged rows of white crosses; no reverential ceremonies of remembrance; there is no record of the dead; the last woman to mourn a young man who died here herself turned to dust centuries ago. Standing there, looking out over the beautiful and peaceful early-Spring panorama, I felt almost choked by a deep sadness.
I now pushed on towards the southern-most rim of the Ries, just behind the village of Moenchsdeggingen, although I wasn't too impressed by the small hill which passed for the crater rim that I saw there. As the afternoon was already growing old, I decided to turn north-east and cycle into Noerdlingen. This leg was perhaps the most pleasant of the day, as finally I had the wind behind me, and it was only 40 minutes later that I sailed through the town gates into the old centre. I had two hours to explore the city before my train left, and it would prove to be one of the highlights of the day.
Noerdlingen is really a little jewel. An exceptionally well-preserved medieval town, it is also sufficiently remote that it doesn't attract hordes of tourists. At the centre of the city stands the magnificent St-Georgs-Kirche. I climbed to the top of the spire, where I met a curious old man who 
apparently lives as a caretaker at the top. After a brief little conversation, I climbed the final set of step to admire the breathtaking panoramic views, which you can see below (top is looking to the east, bottom is looking to the west). After descending I headed towards the city wall - Noerdlingen is one of only three cities in Germany where the medieval city wall still stands completely intact. There are several gates on this wall, each built in a different style, of which you can see a cylindrical example on the left. The walk along the
city wall (completely free) was delightful - expansive panoramas over the city, and glimpses of lush, cool gardens in the moat below. There are also two rather cute trivial facts about Noerdlingen - it is one of the sister cities of Wagga Wagga (see the sign on the right) and it also featured prominently in the 1971 film "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" - in the final scene, when Charlie, his grandfather and Willy Wonka ride above the city in Wonka's flying elevator, the views of the city below are of... Noerdlingen!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Back in the saddle
Willie Nelson put it best, in this charming little vignette of redneck culture. The thrill of just cruising through the countryside, humming a tune (or not) and "seeing things that I may never see again". And this day's ride, on the lovely fresh morning of the 4 May, and the first of the season, took me from Vaihingen an der Enz across country to Heilbronn. This would give me a taste of the country lying to the north-west of Stuttgart, which until today I had not explored.
By a rare stroke of luck the train from Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof was a few minutes delayed, or else I wouldn't have made it. Within only a short time I found myself standing on the platform at Vaihingen, consulting my bike map as to the best route. I would initially head east towards the village of Sachsenheim, and then turn noth into the Naturpark Stromberg-Heuchberg. There are three Naturparks around Stuttgart - Stromberg-Heuchberg, Schwaebisch-Fraenkisher Wald, and Schoenbuch. Stromberg-Heuchberg is the least intact, with the forests confined to the ridges of the hills. You can get a good impression of this in the panorama below, looking north from Sachsenheim towards Hohenhaslach.
And it was such a beautiful Spring day! Look at the bright green of the new leaves on the trees! Look at the fields of rape, glowing bright yellow under the sun! White blossoms covered the apple trees, but a touch of ice was added to the day by the apparent absence of bees. I've read much about the so-called colony collapse disorder, which is apparently decimating bee numbers across the world - and I wonder if what I didn't see was a part of this silent disaster?
I continued north to Hohenhaslach and then turned west towards Ochsenbach. After a very steep climb, I found myself on the top of the Stromberg, a forested ridge running east-west through the Naturpark (the very same ridge you can see in the panorama above). Although the day wasn't hot, I was glad for the cool of the forest. Even so, I did not spend much time on the Stromberg, but instead coasted down the other side into the Zabertal. The Zaber is a minor tributary of the Neckar (joining at Lauffen - see my post from the end of last year), running through several small towns. At Frauenzimmern I started climbing out of the valley again, through rows of budding vines. It was here that I took the panoramic shot below, looking south towards the Stromberg.
I continued now along the other ridge which gives its name to the Naturpark - Heuchberg. After a short ride into the forest, I emerged into the vineyards above the small town of Neipperg, shown right. And yes, that is a castle standing above the middle of the village. I had hoped to find a shady park somewhere in Neipperg where I could eat my lunch, but alas I had no such luck. Instead, I cycled just a bit out of town where I discovered a small pond which seemed just perfect for a break.
After eating my lunch I wandered down to the side of the pond and for several minutes watched the copulating water striders. Not that I enjoyed it or anything, but I did remember an article on some of their bizarre mating habits from a Christmas edition of The Economist some years back - something about the male having the ability to remove his rival's sperm from his mate (I think). Curious little creatures, and so elegant in their effortless striding across the water (which is incidently a very difficult biophysics problem). But such pleasures could not last, and so I continued on my way.
Once more climbing onto the Heuchberg, I admired the view off towards Heilbronn: the side of the ridge was here covered with vineyards. Following the ridge around, I eventually made a small mistake which sent me down to the bottom of the valley. Without the inclination to climb back up, I kept on going, which brought me to the most remarkable part of the day - meeting a largish snake as I turned a corner. The snake slithered off pretty quickly into the undergrowth, and I withstood the temptation to dive in after it and wrestle it into submission. It was a decent sized beastie as well - anywhere between 60-90cm - and was probably a European grass snake, an entirely harmless species. Well, next time the snake won't get away so easily!
After this charming close encounter, it was a simple ride into Heilbronn, where I caught the train back to Stuttgart. But to finish on a very Spring note, I came across the wonderful flower display below, just in front of a tiny little church.
By a rare stroke of luck the train from Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof was a few minutes delayed, or else I wouldn't have made it. Within only a short time I found myself standing on the platform at Vaihingen, consulting my bike map as to the best route. I would initially head east towards the village of Sachsenheim, and then turn noth into the Naturpark Stromberg-Heuchberg. There are three Naturparks around Stuttgart - Stromberg-Heuchberg, Schwaebisch-Fraenkisher Wald, and Schoenbuch. Stromberg-Heuchberg is the least intact, with the forests confined to the ridges of the hills. You can get a good impression of this in the panorama below, looking north from Sachsenheim towards Hohenhaslach.
And it was such a beautiful Spring day! Look at the bright green of the new leaves on the trees! Look at the fields of rape, glowing bright yellow under the sun! White blossoms covered the apple trees, but a touch of ice was added to the day by the apparent absence of bees. I've read much about the so-called colony collapse disorder, which is apparently decimating bee numbers across the world - and I wonder if what I didn't see was a part of this silent disaster?
I continued north to Hohenhaslach and then turned west towards Ochsenbach. After a very steep climb, I found myself on the top of the Stromberg, a forested ridge running east-west through the Naturpark (the very same ridge you can see in the panorama above). Although the day wasn't hot, I was glad for the cool of the forest. Even so, I did not spend much time on the Stromberg, but instead coasted down the other side into the Zabertal. The Zaber is a minor tributary of the Neckar (joining at Lauffen - see my post from the end of last year), running through several small towns. At Frauenzimmern I started climbing out of the valley again, through rows of budding vines. It was here that I took the panoramic shot below, looking south towards the Stromberg.
I continued now along the other ridge which gives its name to the Naturpark - Heuchberg. After a short ride into the forest, I emerged into the vineyards above the small town of Neipperg, shown right. And yes, that is a castle standing above the middle of the village. I had hoped to find a shady park somewhere in Neipperg where I could eat my lunch, but alas I had no such luck. Instead, I cycled just a bit out of town where I discovered a small pond which seemed just perfect for a break.After eating my lunch I wandered down to the side of the pond and for several minutes watched the copulating water striders. Not that I enjoyed it or anything, but I did remember an article on some of their bizarre mating habits from a Christmas edition of The Economist some years back - something about the male having the ability to remove his rival's sperm from his mate (I think). Curious little creatures, and so elegant in their effortless striding across the water (which is incidently a very difficult biophysics problem). But such pleasures could not last, and so I continued on my way.
Once more climbing onto the Heuchberg, I admired the view off towards Heilbronn: the side of the ridge was here covered with vineyards. Following the ridge around, I eventually made a small mistake which sent me down to the bottom of the valley. Without the inclination to climb back up, I kept on going, which brought me to the most remarkable part of the day - meeting a largish snake as I turned a corner. The snake slithered off pretty quickly into the undergrowth, and I withstood the temptation to dive in after it and wrestle it into submission. It was a decent sized beastie as well - anywhere between 60-90cm - and was probably a European grass snake, an entirely harmless species. Well, next time the snake won't get away so easily!After this charming close encounter, it was a simple ride into Heilbronn, where I caught the train back to Stuttgart. But to finish on a very Spring note, I came across the wonderful flower display below, just in front of a tiny little church.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I'll always have Paris, part 2
Saturday 22nd
On Saturday I made the first of three trips to the Louvre, which for me combines art gallery and airport in the same word. The number of people coming under the famous pyramid every day is staggering, so much so that automatic ticket machines have been installed in an effort to reduce the massive queues. Even then, it can get pretty busy; provided one arrives close to opening time, however, the worst can be largely avoided.
The first point of call in my visit was the Islamic art section, which although one of the smallest in the Louvre, would still be enough to richly endow any more modest gallery. Not having been exposed to much Islamic art, I found myself first surprised that the oft-repeated claim that Islam forbids "graven images" is false - such prohibitions extend only to religious art. Because sacred art was so often the prime driver of the art world in pre-modern times, however, the most highly-developed aspects of Islamic art revolve around intricate geometric designs and calligraphy, for which the Arabic script is clearly very well suited.
After enjoying the relative peace and quiet of the Islamic arts section, I next headed off to have a look at the art of the ancient Mesopotamian civilisations which had been nicke..., ahem, removed for further study by enterpris..., sorry again, I mean enlightened French archaeologists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Judging by what they decided to bring back, they must have had a practically unlimited budget for shipping the enormous Assyrian bulls, walls of the most intricate friezes and monstrous column-caps. More seriously, and an art gallery is nothing if not a place for some serious contemplation, it is a necessary experience to get close to these relics and to remember that some long-dead and anonymous hand once chiseled those severe profiles into stone. Surely, that lies at the heart of all this effort in the first place? It's customary to say that they wanted to "leave something behind", but surely we mean to "leave something forwards", beyond the point where we cannot ourselves continue.
The afternoon was devoted entirely to a leisurely stroll through the Object d'Art section of the museum, which made such a deep impression on me last time I was here. The collection is the most heterogeneous of all in the gallery, and as such offers the greatest capacity to surprise. Especially delightful were the plates from Renaissance Italy, with their frequently lewd vignettes from classical antiquity. When one thinks about the Renaissance, one normally thinks only of the great painters or sculptors, but this cultural revolution ran deep, influencing all areas of design.
On my way home to my hotel room I noticed that the Eiffel tower was wonderfully lit up by wonderful orange floodlights, and so I decided to go for a short walk to get a better look. The tower at night is truly
spectacular, soaring like some exotic glowing crystal into the pitch-black sky. But there was a surprise in store - at the hour, thousands of little flash lights broke out into some frenzy across the tower, producing a dazzling effect of a shimmering diamond which is only very imperfectly captured by the photo on the right.
Sunday 23rd
Not wanting to over-do it on the Louvre, on Sunday I decided to head off to see the Pompidou centre and its collection of modern art. This audacious inside-out building stands in stark but not entirely discordant contrast to the surrounding 19th century apartments. As you can imagine from the cloudless skies, it was terribly cold this morning, as you can also see in the completely frozen-over pond in the photo on the right. The pond itself contains bizarre mechanical water fountains, which weren't functioning when I was there, although one multi-coloured lump was aimlessly twisting about.
Modern art is a rather strange beast. More has changed in European art in the last 100 years than in the last 500, and it's an entirely valid question to ask how much of what was inside the Pompidou centre will still be hailed as art in 100 years time, although one could equally well respond that it is irrelevant. But I couldn't shake the feeling that much of what was inside (especially the work from after WWII) were just more-or-less clever intellectual jokes or merely visual puzzles. Should art be anything more than that? Certainly it was a challenging experience which provoked some rather intense responses from me. I happily admit that much of it I found incomprehensible, and quite a bit of it was rather too close to just being "cute". Other works were spectacular, products of great imagination; some were moving; others still even made me angry.
The most interesting part of the museum deals with the artistic revolution of the early 20th century, which must have truly been an exciting time for all involved. It's not everyday that you drive a stake through hundreds of years of tradition, and when cast adrift in such a way from the past, it's only natural to expect a proliferation of countless different styles and movements. Trying to make sense of this all is a daunting task, but one thing I liked about this part of the exhibition was how they interspersed displays of the original manifestos and magazines of the movements in between the galleries.
In the evening I drifted over to the Eglise St Eustache, an interesting late-gothic church without a steeple not too far from the Pompidou centre (the photo at the right shows the church in the early morning light). There was a short organ concert scheduled 
before the evening mass, and again I was struck by the very large numbers of worshippers. Exiting the church just as the mass got underway, I decided not to immediately head home but rather to go for a wander down to the Seine, passing through the hordes of last-minute Christmas shoppers. At left you see a photo of the river at night (looking east on the Pont d'Arcole) and below, of course, Notre Dame itself.
Monday 24th
On Christmas Eve I was back at the Louvre, this time to spend a day with the paintings. My first stop was the Grande Gallery, with the masterworks of the Italian Renaissance. I had found this very enjoyable before, but I was in for a somewhat bittersweet surprise.
The "direction of the exhibition" had changed somewhat since the last time I was here (admittedly 1998), but not necessarily for the better. In order to get to the jewel in the crown of the collection, the Mona Lisa, one now has to walk through the Grande Gallery to the Mona Lisa's own room; previously, such a circuitous route was not required, and it could be accessed directly from the 19th Century "large format" French paintings (think "The Raft of the Medusa", "Liberty leading the People", etc). What this meant was that previously the Grande gallery was relatively calm compared to the scrum of tourists surrounding the poor old Mona. Today, however, the result of shepherding us through the long-way-round is that the Grande Gallery is really *packed*.
Now, of course I'm coming over all snobby - "How dare the proles spoil *my* morning with the Italian Renaissance masters!" - and although I would prefer to enjoy this in solitude and without the noisy crowds (who wouldn't?), the thing that really got to me was something else entirely - digital photography. I was really shocked by how this has changed the gallery experience. People seem to no longer look at the paintings except through the LCD screen of their digital camera or telephone. But why bother? There are, after all, reproductions in the gift shop. The shallow pointlessness of this all really left me rather depressed. The signs which gently implore people not to use their cameras might as well be asking the waves at the beach to stop rolling in.
Although I'm not making the experience out to be attractive in any way, it is fascinating to walk through the first half of the Grande Gallery to track the development of modern perspective and techniques - played out over 100 years or so, this revolution in the idea of painting was as great as anything in the Pompidou centre. When you think of it, perspective shouldn't be a big deal - so why did it take so long to stumble upon? The impression I got from this section is that during this time the aim of painting shifted from being mainly symbolic to also being realistic. When you think about it, this would have undoubtedly required a major and non-trivial shift in the visual imagination of not only the artist but also society.
After lunch I took a leisurely stroll through the collection of French paintings, tracking the development of French art over 300 years. This was particularly fascinating for showing the progression as something like an organic evolution - each new movement and its inevitable reaction returned and drew so clearly on the foundations below for both thematic and stylistic inspiration, sometimes from the same source, and yet did something new and unanticipated with them. My favourites in this section nevertheless had to be the still lifes by Chardin, which one could argue as verging on the impressionistic, as well as the large collection of small Corot landscapes, which by and large stood outside of the great movements.
After returning home for dinner, I took the Metro to the Trocadero Palace to see the Eiffel tower from Friday's vantage point. I was a bit concerned that this place could be creepy at night (not very well lit) but although the garish glow-in-the-dark miniature towers were a bit gauche, there were plenty of other tourists around to keep me company. Walking down towards the base of the tower itself, I stopped to have some fun with long-time exposure of the cars speeding by. 
Really, I was just killing time until the late-night concert at the very distinctive Eglise de la Madeleine. Starting at 10pm, I was treated to a selection of traditional carols, folk tunes and also organ music. This segued rather seamlessly into the Midnight Mass, which I stuck around for until communion. As all churches do a this time of year, there was a creche, but this had somewhat bizarrely a Japanese theme, with a black-haired white-faced Mary in a luxurious kimono and what looked like a samurai Joseph! Quite unusual, and an uncommon example of a failure of taste in France.
Tuesday 25th
You can tell how big a city really is by how it responds to a holiday like Christmas. In Stuttgart, I would expect to be able to see tumbleweed blowing down the streets. Paris is of course another matter, and as I walked to the metro station I passed several open bakeries and cafes. I was off to enjoy my own Christmas present - an exhibition of the works of Arcimboldo at the Musee de Luxembourg.
You'll no doubt be familiar with Arcimboldo's works even if you don't at first recognize his name. He was a technically rather mediocre painter from Italy at the strange court of Rudolf II of Austria, who neverthless had a first-rate imagination. This was manifested in his incredible compositions of human faces by arrangements of mainly fruits and vegetables, although books and flowers also figured prominently. The exhibition attempted to put him in some kind of broader context, which I'm not sure it really managed as he seems to have been really something of an anomaly, without drawing any obvious inspiration from predecessors and having no lasting impact on European art. In this sense, he cuts something of a tragi-comic figure. Despite the wonderful paintings, the exhibition was rather disappointingly small, and I agree with the Pariscope guide which gave it only two out of three stars. Ironically, it was this much more positive review in the International Herald Tribune which initially gave me the idea to come to Paris.
After my morning with Arcimboldo, I took a walk into the Luxembourg gardens to have my lunch. There were quite a few people about, including young children enjoying their first hours with their new toys, proudly riding their tricycles or bicycles up and down the central avenue. The weather was slightly overcast, but I enjoyed my short stroll through the gardens, especially the optical illusion of the pond of Catherine de Medici which you can see opposite: the sides of the pond slope slightly upwards, giving the impression that the pond itself slopes slightly downwards.
After enjoying a little time in the Luxembourg gardens, I walked down towards the Seine. I had my second baguette in the little garden just below the statue of Henri II on the Ille de Paris, before continuing down towards the Louvre, 
and the 1st Arrondisement. My goal was again the Eglise de la Madeleine, where there was a Christmas-day organ concert at 4pm. The concert was really quite well attended, and for the most part very pleasant, but then the organist insistd on playing one of his own compositions. Although technically clearly very gifted, and probably doing all the right things in terms of contrapunctual and fugal devices, it was not very pleasant to listen to and dragged on much too long. Thankfully, his encore was much better.
Wednesday 26th
On my last full day in Paris I returned once again to the Louvre - I find the place endlessly exciting, and I would travel to Paris simply to see the Louvre and Chartres. One probably needs four days to properly see the entire gallery, and in this trip I would largely miss the artifacts from classical civilization. First up today, however, was the temporary exhibition of Iranian art, "Au chant du monde" (song of the world). Like any pleasure which is unexpected, this made a very deep impression on me, and was clearly worth every one of the three stars given by the Paris guide. The exhibition centred around the art of the Iranian illuminated manuscript from 1550-1750, in particular the illustrating "minatures". Typically illustrating a books of epic poetry or accounts of the elaborate wine ceremonies of the court, these "minatures" (actually, they were usually about A3 size) were exquisitely detailed, with every petal of every flower lovingly rendered. The works also displayed a strong influence from China, with dramatic bulging mountains figuring prominently in the background and the serene expressions of the humans. Nevertheless, the colours and the strange jellyfish-like clouds seemed to be purely Iranian innovations. I spent the entire morning with those treasures. It was sad to note that many of these were now in European possession and only a few (and the least impressive) coming from Iranian collections. Although with the ancient Mesopotamian art I think that this displacement can be justified as the modern-day cultures in these places bear no connection to the ancient civilizations, in this case I think that the continuity of Iranian artistic civilization makes such a justification impossible. Of course, the precedent of returning some number of the manuscripts would be impossible, and I think it will never happen.
The afternoon was spent with a leisurely stroll through the northern European paintings, mostly the heritage we have from the Dutch miracle of the 17th century. Since most of the works were painted for wealthy merchants as little more than wall decoration, there is a lot of stuff here which is not really very spectacular. Nevertheless, this makes the acheivements of a Vermeer or a Rembrandt all the more stunning. Of course, one could argue that by definition most art is mediocre, but it is clear that the work of a Vermeer or a Rembrandt cannot really be compared to the others, and the few example of their art more than compensated for the endless genre paintings.
In the last hours of my time in the Louvre, I took a walk through the enclosed courts holding the monumental French sculpture. I could not help but reflect on the nine years that separated my two visits to this place, and how so many things had changed out of recognition in that time. Tomorrow I would return to Stuttgart, and throw myself back into my work - and I eagerly awaited the new year of travels ahead.
On Saturday I made the first of three trips to the Louvre, which for me combines art gallery and airport in the same word. The number of people coming under the famous pyramid every day is staggering, so much so that automatic ticket machines have been installed in an effort to reduce the massive queues. Even then, it can get pretty busy; provided one arrives close to opening time, however, the worst can be largely avoided.
The first point of call in my visit was the Islamic art section, which although one of the smallest in the Louvre, would still be enough to richly endow any more modest gallery. Not having been exposed to much Islamic art, I found myself first surprised that the oft-repeated claim that Islam forbids "graven images" is false - such prohibitions extend only to religious art. Because sacred art was so often the prime driver of the art world in pre-modern times, however, the most highly-developed aspects of Islamic art revolve around intricate geometric designs and calligraphy, for which the Arabic script is clearly very well suited.
After enjoying the relative peace and quiet of the Islamic arts section, I next headed off to have a look at the art of the ancient Mesopotamian civilisations which had been nicke..., ahem, removed for further study by enterpris..., sorry again, I mean enlightened French archaeologists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Judging by what they decided to bring back, they must have had a practically unlimited budget for shipping the enormous Assyrian bulls, walls of the most intricate friezes and monstrous column-caps. More seriously, and an art gallery is nothing if not a place for some serious contemplation, it is a necessary experience to get close to these relics and to remember that some long-dead and anonymous hand once chiseled those severe profiles into stone. Surely, that lies at the heart of all this effort in the first place? It's customary to say that they wanted to "leave something behind", but surely we mean to "leave something forwards", beyond the point where we cannot ourselves continue.
The afternoon was devoted entirely to a leisurely stroll through the Object d'Art section of the museum, which made such a deep impression on me last time I was here. The collection is the most heterogeneous of all in the gallery, and as such offers the greatest capacity to surprise. Especially delightful were the plates from Renaissance Italy, with their frequently lewd vignettes from classical antiquity. When one thinks about the Renaissance, one normally thinks only of the great painters or sculptors, but this cultural revolution ran deep, influencing all areas of design.
On my way home to my hotel room I noticed that the Eiffel tower was wonderfully lit up by wonderful orange floodlights, and so I decided to go for a short walk to get a better look. The tower at night is truly
spectacular, soaring like some exotic glowing crystal into the pitch-black sky. But there was a surprise in store - at the hour, thousands of little flash lights broke out into some frenzy across the tower, producing a dazzling effect of a shimmering diamond which is only very imperfectly captured by the photo on the right.Sunday 23rd
Not wanting to over-do it on the Louvre, on Sunday I decided to head off to see the Pompidou centre and its collection of modern art. This audacious inside-out building stands in stark but not entirely discordant contrast to the surrounding 19th century apartments. As you can imagine from the cloudless skies, it was terribly cold this morning, as you can also see in the completely frozen-over pond in the photo on the right. The pond itself contains bizarre mechanical water fountains, which weren't functioning when I was there, although one multi-coloured lump was aimlessly twisting about.
Modern art is a rather strange beast. More has changed in European art in the last 100 years than in the last 500, and it's an entirely valid question to ask how much of what was inside the Pompidou centre will still be hailed as art in 100 years time, although one could equally well respond that it is irrelevant. But I couldn't shake the feeling that much of what was inside (especially the work from after WWII) were just more-or-less clever intellectual jokes or merely visual puzzles. Should art be anything more than that? Certainly it was a challenging experience which provoked some rather intense responses from me. I happily admit that much of it I found incomprehensible, and quite a bit of it was rather too close to just being "cute". Other works were spectacular, products of great imagination; some were moving; others still even made me angry.
The most interesting part of the museum deals with the artistic revolution of the early 20th century, which must have truly been an exciting time for all involved. It's not everyday that you drive a stake through hundreds of years of tradition, and when cast adrift in such a way from the past, it's only natural to expect a proliferation of countless different styles and movements. Trying to make sense of this all is a daunting task, but one thing I liked about this part of the exhibition was how they interspersed displays of the original manifestos and magazines of the movements in between the galleries.
In the evening I drifted over to the Eglise St Eustache, an interesting late-gothic church without a steeple not too far from the Pompidou centre (the photo at the right shows the church in the early morning light). There was a short organ concert scheduled 
before the evening mass, and again I was struck by the very large numbers of worshippers. Exiting the church just as the mass got underway, I decided not to immediately head home but rather to go for a wander down to the Seine, passing through the hordes of last-minute Christmas shoppers. At left you see a photo of the river at night (looking east on the Pont d'Arcole) and below, of course, Notre Dame itself.
Monday 24thOn Christmas Eve I was back at the Louvre, this time to spend a day with the paintings. My first stop was the Grande Gallery, with the masterworks of the Italian Renaissance. I had found this very enjoyable before, but I was in for a somewhat bittersweet surprise.
The "direction of the exhibition" had changed somewhat since the last time I was here (admittedly 1998), but not necessarily for the better. In order to get to the jewel in the crown of the collection, the Mona Lisa, one now has to walk through the Grande Gallery to the Mona Lisa's own room; previously, such a circuitous route was not required, and it could be accessed directly from the 19th Century "large format" French paintings (think "The Raft of the Medusa", "Liberty leading the People", etc). What this meant was that previously the Grande gallery was relatively calm compared to the scrum of tourists surrounding the poor old Mona. Today, however, the result of shepherding us through the long-way-round is that the Grande Gallery is really *packed*.
Now, of course I'm coming over all snobby - "How dare the proles spoil *my* morning with the Italian Renaissance masters!" - and although I would prefer to enjoy this in solitude and without the noisy crowds (who wouldn't?), the thing that really got to me was something else entirely - digital photography. I was really shocked by how this has changed the gallery experience. People seem to no longer look at the paintings except through the LCD screen of their digital camera or telephone. But why bother? There are, after all, reproductions in the gift shop. The shallow pointlessness of this all really left me rather depressed. The signs which gently implore people not to use their cameras might as well be asking the waves at the beach to stop rolling in.
Although I'm not making the experience out to be attractive in any way, it is fascinating to walk through the first half of the Grande Gallery to track the development of modern perspective and techniques - played out over 100 years or so, this revolution in the idea of painting was as great as anything in the Pompidou centre. When you think of it, perspective shouldn't be a big deal - so why did it take so long to stumble upon? The impression I got from this section is that during this time the aim of painting shifted from being mainly symbolic to also being realistic. When you think about it, this would have undoubtedly required a major and non-trivial shift in the visual imagination of not only the artist but also society.
After lunch I took a leisurely stroll through the collection of French paintings, tracking the development of French art over 300 years. This was particularly fascinating for showing the progression as something like an organic evolution - each new movement and its inevitable reaction returned and drew so clearly on the foundations below for both thematic and stylistic inspiration, sometimes from the same source, and yet did something new and unanticipated with them. My favourites in this section nevertheless had to be the still lifes by Chardin, which one could argue as verging on the impressionistic, as well as the large collection of small Corot landscapes, which by and large stood outside of the great movements.
After returning home for dinner, I took the Metro to the Trocadero Palace to see the Eiffel tower from Friday's vantage point. I was a bit concerned that this place could be creepy at night (not very well lit) but although the garish glow-in-the-dark miniature towers were a bit gauche, there were plenty of other tourists around to keep me company. Walking down towards the base of the tower itself, I stopped to have some fun with long-time exposure of the cars speeding by. 
Really, I was just killing time until the late-night concert at the very distinctive Eglise de la Madeleine. Starting at 10pm, I was treated to a selection of traditional carols, folk tunes and also organ music. This segued rather seamlessly into the Midnight Mass, which I stuck around for until communion. As all churches do a this time of year, there was a creche, but this had somewhat bizarrely a Japanese theme, with a black-haired white-faced Mary in a luxurious kimono and what looked like a samurai Joseph! Quite unusual, and an uncommon example of a failure of taste in France.Tuesday 25th
You can tell how big a city really is by how it responds to a holiday like Christmas. In Stuttgart, I would expect to be able to see tumbleweed blowing down the streets. Paris is of course another matter, and as I walked to the metro station I passed several open bakeries and cafes. I was off to enjoy my own Christmas present - an exhibition of the works of Arcimboldo at the Musee de Luxembourg.
You'll no doubt be familiar with Arcimboldo's works even if you don't at first recognize his name. He was a technically rather mediocre painter from Italy at the strange court of Rudolf II of Austria, who neverthless had a first-rate imagination. This was manifested in his incredible compositions of human faces by arrangements of mainly fruits and vegetables, although books and flowers also figured prominently. The exhibition attempted to put him in some kind of broader context, which I'm not sure it really managed as he seems to have been really something of an anomaly, without drawing any obvious inspiration from predecessors and having no lasting impact on European art. In this sense, he cuts something of a tragi-comic figure. Despite the wonderful paintings, the exhibition was rather disappointingly small, and I agree with the Pariscope guide which gave it only two out of three stars. Ironically, it was this much more positive review in the International Herald Tribune which initially gave me the idea to come to Paris.
After my morning with Arcimboldo, I took a walk into the Luxembourg gardens to have my lunch. There were quite a few people about, including young children enjoying their first hours with their new toys, proudly riding their tricycles or bicycles up and down the central avenue. The weather was slightly overcast, but I enjoyed my short stroll through the gardens, especially the optical illusion of the pond of Catherine de Medici which you can see opposite: the sides of the pond slope slightly upwards, giving the impression that the pond itself slopes slightly downwards.
After enjoying a little time in the Luxembourg gardens, I walked down towards the Seine. I had my second baguette in the little garden just below the statue of Henri II on the Ille de Paris, before continuing down towards the Louvre, 
and the 1st Arrondisement. My goal was again the Eglise de la Madeleine, where there was a Christmas-day organ concert at 4pm. The concert was really quite well attended, and for the most part very pleasant, but then the organist insistd on playing one of his own compositions. Although technically clearly very gifted, and probably doing all the right things in terms of contrapunctual and fugal devices, it was not very pleasant to listen to and dragged on much too long. Thankfully, his encore was much better.Wednesday 26th
On my last full day in Paris I returned once again to the Louvre - I find the place endlessly exciting, and I would travel to Paris simply to see the Louvre and Chartres. One probably needs four days to properly see the entire gallery, and in this trip I would largely miss the artifacts from classical civilization. First up today, however, was the temporary exhibition of Iranian art, "Au chant du monde" (song of the world). Like any pleasure which is unexpected, this made a very deep impression on me, and was clearly worth every one of the three stars given by the Paris guide. The exhibition centred around the art of the Iranian illuminated manuscript from 1550-1750, in particular the illustrating "minatures". Typically illustrating a books of epic poetry or accounts of the elaborate wine ceremonies of the court, these "minatures" (actually, they were usually about A3 size) were exquisitely detailed, with every petal of every flower lovingly rendered. The works also displayed a strong influence from China, with dramatic bulging mountains figuring prominently in the background and the serene expressions of the humans. Nevertheless, the colours and the strange jellyfish-like clouds seemed to be purely Iranian innovations. I spent the entire morning with those treasures. It was sad to note that many of these were now in European possession and only a few (and the least impressive) coming from Iranian collections. Although with the ancient Mesopotamian art I think that this displacement can be justified as the modern-day cultures in these places bear no connection to the ancient civilizations, in this case I think that the continuity of Iranian artistic civilization makes such a justification impossible. Of course, the precedent of returning some number of the manuscripts would be impossible, and I think it will never happen.
The afternoon was spent with a leisurely stroll through the northern European paintings, mostly the heritage we have from the Dutch miracle of the 17th century. Since most of the works were painted for wealthy merchants as little more than wall decoration, there is a lot of stuff here which is not really very spectacular. Nevertheless, this makes the acheivements of a Vermeer or a Rembrandt all the more stunning. Of course, one could argue that by definition most art is mediocre, but it is clear that the work of a Vermeer or a Rembrandt cannot really be compared to the others, and the few example of their art more than compensated for the endless genre paintings.
In the last hours of my time in the Louvre, I took a walk through the enclosed courts holding the monumental French sculpture. I could not help but reflect on the nine years that separated my two visits to this place, and how so many things had changed out of recognition in that time. Tomorrow I would return to Stuttgart, and throw myself back into my work - and I eagerly awaited the new year of travels ahead.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I'll always have Paris, part 1
It's now over a week from my return from my Christmas holidays, and already I'm back hard at work, writing reports, running programs, etc. What's new? But for one and a half weeks, I was able to completely disconnect from my life here in Stuttgart, and just enjoyed my own company in Paris.
Tuesday 18th
I arrived at Stuttgart Hbf just in time for a quick breakfast of bretzel and coffee before boarding the TGV at
8:50am. The service between Stuttgart and Paris has been running for about half a year now, and the TGVs sometimes travel all the way to Munich. Although the TGV has a very deserved reputation for being fast, it's worth remembering that it can only pick up the real speed on special tracks which lie within France. Thus, we didn't really get flying until after passing through Strasbourg - but when we finally did get to the top speed, you could certainly tell it by the way the countryside was smeared into a blur. Almost twice as fast as the express trains in Germany! Inside, the TGV has a rather unusual decor - asymmetric headrests with the sharp curves of 50s retro style, and dark magenta and orange tones (it works because the French did it, need I say more?). That being said, I think the German ICE has a fraction more leg room...
Because of a delay just out of Strasbourg, we only arrived in Paris Gare l'Est at 13:30. I 
immediately made my way down to the metro and travelled across the city to my hotel in the 15th Arrondisement. The hotel I stayed in was a fantastic bargain - only EUR 32.80 per night, with cooking facilities. I
had a small single room, which looked for all the world like a converted garden shed from the outside (photo right) but was actually rather cosy on the inside (photo left). The street in which the hotel is situated is not much to write home about (west-looking photo at right) but who cares? It's close to supermarkets, bakeries (very important) and three metro stations, so it was an excellent "base".
After getting settled in and doing some shopping, I had just over an hour before dusk. So off I went to the Eiffel tower, only a 10 minute walk away from my hotel. There's something surprisingly elegant and delicate about Gustave Eiffel's creation - perhaps it is the
subtle lacework of its lower curves, or the prismatic geometry of its form, warping our sense of perspective when we look up from beneath it. Whatever it is, it is certainly one of the most remarkable buildings on the 19th century.
As the sun continued to dip towards the horizon, I walked along the Quai Branly, until I came to the Pont de Bir-Harkeim. The view below shows the sun setting over the Seine.
Wednesday 19th
It might seem strange, but on my first full day in Paris I took a train from Montparnasse to a small town an hour south of the city - Chartres. Of course, there is only one reason to go there, and that is the cathedral. Built upon a small rise above the Eure river, it is rightly regarded as one of (if not the most) beautiful examples of medieval Gothic art and architecture - but above all for its wonderful collection of 13th century stained glass.
Walking up from the train station, the first view you have of Notre Dame de Chartres is across a plain square, and it is breathtaking, as the cathedral seems to almost float above the old medieval town. Proceeding a little through the old town, you come to the cathedral square itself, and are confronted by the western end of the church, with the twin steeples looming above you.
Unfortunately, a great disappointment awaited me upon entrance to the cathedral. Today was the "day of reconciliation", when the good folk of Chartres come to the cathedral to confess their sins and reconcile with the Church (I think). I had never heard of it before, and I was told that this is a new innovation in the Catholic world. The upshot of this, however, was that I was barred from the region between the entrance and the transept - alas, the region where the most beautiful stained glass is to be found. I was thus also unable to 
see the central rose window, due to the large choir obscuring the view. Since the southern rose window was under restoration and consequently blacked out, that left the northern rose window and the chapel windows at the east end - still a rich collection. The northern rose, in its subdued blues, transfixed me for hours, while in each chapel I stood trying to read the stories written in the light. As I was barred from admiring the stained glass in most of the cathedral, I had to content myself to reading the stories carved in stone on the outside. In addition to the stained glass, the sculpture which adorns the three entrances to the cathedral are masterpieces in their own right, and exerted enormous stylistic influence in medieval art. I show some black-and-white close-ups here.
The religious ceremony occurring during my visit served as a useful reminder that this church is primarily not a work of art, but a place of worship, and I was at best a tolerated intruder. This prompted me to meditate upon the fact that while for me Chartres is a majestic thing of beauty, for the original builders it was central to their worldview, a concrete testament to their faith, as I imagine also for the modern worshippers. Perhaps I idealize the past - we know that cathedrals were often treated as the town market in the 
middle ages - but this simply reinforces my point, which is that in that time there was no concept of the secular and the spiritual. The two were indivisible, and everything revolved around religion. For example, the astrological symbols on the west portal, and the subject of a particularly beautiful window, symbolized the order of the seasons, which was itself a manifestation of God's order. The modern mind no longer so readily sees a reflection of the divine in such things.
I decided to have a wander through the old town of Chartres, which slopes down to the river Euse from the cathedral. Although the town was really quite charming and a refreshing change from the typical German old towns I have seen, the day was bitterly cold, with the sun providing almost no warmth. In the afternoon, as much to seek refuge as out of interest, I visited the stained glass museum in the city. Chartres is still apparently a centre of stained glass art, and the museum itself is housed in a remarkable medieval storehouse. All the work in the museum is in a very modern style, and while I admire the craft work involved, most of these abstract designs really did fail to move me.
It was by now the late afternoon and I wandered back up to the cathedral square to watch the sun turn the light grey stonework from orange to mauve.
Thursday 20th
Lying in bed on Wednesday night, still a little disappointed by my poor luck, I asked myself what would Orson Welles do? Apart from heading down to the supermarket to pick up a couple of cheap bottles of red in which to drown his sorrows, he would undoubtedly return to Chartres to see the place properly. I remembered seeing some portion of his 1974 film "F for Fake", and how moved I was by this scene. For those who can't see a youtube movie, I post below his thoughts on Chartres (unfortunately you don't get a sense of his superb delivery):
"Now this has been standing here for centuries. The premier work of man perhaps in the whole western world and it's without a signature. Chartres. A celebration to God’s glory and to the dignity of man. All that’s left, most artists seem to feel these days, is man. Naked, poor, forked radish. There aren’t any celebrations.
Ours, the scientists keep telling us, is a universe which is disposable. You know it might be just this one anonymous glory of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose when all our cities are dust; to stand intact, to mark where we have been, to testify to what we had it in us to accomplish. Our works in stone, in paint, in print are spared, some of them for a few decades, or a millennium or two, but everything must fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash: the triumphs and the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life... we're going to die. 'Be of good heart,' cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced - but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much."
Ah, I would give my right arm for a voice like Orson's, but alas it wouldn't be enough - I'd also have to give my liver. But to have such thoughts as these - what power and clarity in his poetry! So, with that, my mind was made up, and so on Thursday I found myself once more on the 9:20 train from Montparnasse.
Although again it was bitterly cold, the sun was still shining and the day was perfect for admiring the stained glass windows, especially the western rose window with the famous tree of Jesse. Standing just before the altar and looking around the nave, each window seems to form a lustrous tapestry of the most subtle colours, primarily aquamarine (Chartres blue!) but also greens, yellows and purples, with the detailed stories somehow rearranging themselves into abstract geometrical patterns or the entwining motifs of an oriental carpet. By late afternoon, the light streaming in the western rose window dappled the thick stone columns with reds and oranges.
Friday 21st
Friday was my first full day in Paris. As the sun was still shining, 
I decided to walk to the Eiffel tower and admire this again in the morning light. Although I toyed with the idea of ascending the tower, I figured that the winter haze would cut down visibility to such an extent that it wouldn't be worth it. I therefore contented myself to walking to the Trocadero palace where the sun behind the Eiffel tower created a spectacular view.
By about 11am the square under the tower was becoming rather packed, and so I decided to start walking towards the Ile de la Cite. Cutting through the 7th arrondisement to the Hotel des Invalides, where I took the photo on the left of
the sunlight through the leafless trees. Walking down towards the Place de la Concorde, I crossed the Seine and then into the Jardin de Tuileries, which apart from a few dog-walkers was deserted. After warming myself in the low winter sun, I wandered back to the dark shadows of the left bank.
On the previous days I had taken a packed lunch of cheese and tomato baguette-sandwiches, which had proved a winning (and budget-saving) combination. Today however, I decided to splash out and buy lunch somewhere in town. I found a rather untouristy little corner cafe near Place St-Michel (quite an acheivement in itself) which even
had a rather tasteless vegetarian soup on offer. I then discovered the reason why I had not yet seen (and indeed never did see) a fat Frenchman or Frenchwoman - food is just too expensive for this to be possible. For the pitiful bowl of soup I could buy a heavy spaetzle dish (German macaroni) here in Stuttgart. Also during my lunch I was "treated" to one of the last displays of a very French tradition - smoking in a cafe. I didn't suspect it at the time, but since the 1st of January smoking has been banned in all indoor areas.
Having been fortified by some coffee, I headed off to wander around the Ile de la Cite and the Ile St Louis, before popping in to see Sainte Chapelle. Although you have to run the guantlet of beefy French security guys (Sainte Chapelle is located within the Ministry of Justice compound), it is well worth the indignity of an x-ray. Sainte Chapelle is a magnificent little sanctuary built by Louis IX to hold the holy relics of the Passion. As Sainte Chapelle was built a century after Chartres, improvements in building techniques allowed much of a wall to be opened up for stained glass, producing an effect as if standing in some fantastic hall of gems. I spent an hour here, craning my neck to try to see the very tops of the windows, for which binoculars are almost required.
As dusk was fast approaching, I walked down along the Rue de Rivoli until I again came to the Jardin de Tuileries. At the very end of the garden, facing onto the Place de la Concorde, I lingered to watch the sun set with the view below.
I made my way back to my hotel room via a second cafe where I indulged myself a tasty French beer while reading the Herald Tribune. Although slightly light-headed, I had the presence of mind to inquire at the hotel about an events program for the week, and was given a copy of Le Figaro's Pariscope (gedit?). A quick review of the concerts suggested there was an interesting baroque concert at La Madeline, which although pricey seemed like a nice end to the day. But for some reason (was it the beer?) at the last moment I changed my mind and went off to see a concert of Mendelssohn piano works. The concert turned out to be just as memorable for the location as it was for the music, which was lovely and relaxing. I found the venue on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, in a small cinema/concert hall called l'Archipel. The place was tiny but absolutely charming, with an intimate concert space and at the end of the room a bar for the necessary interval beer and cigarette. I left humming the opening of the piano trio, happy for my fortunate choice.
Tuesday 18th
I arrived at Stuttgart Hbf just in time for a quick breakfast of bretzel and coffee before boarding the TGV at
8:50am. The service between Stuttgart and Paris has been running for about half a year now, and the TGVs sometimes travel all the way to Munich. Although the TGV has a very deserved reputation for being fast, it's worth remembering that it can only pick up the real speed on special tracks which lie within France. Thus, we didn't really get flying until after passing through Strasbourg - but when we finally did get to the top speed, you could certainly tell it by the way the countryside was smeared into a blur. Almost twice as fast as the express trains in Germany! Inside, the TGV has a rather unusual decor - asymmetric headrests with the sharp curves of 50s retro style, and dark magenta and orange tones (it works because the French did it, need I say more?). That being said, I think the German ICE has a fraction more leg room...
Because of a delay just out of Strasbourg, we only arrived in Paris Gare l'Est at 13:30. I 
immediately made my way down to the metro and travelled across the city to my hotel in the 15th Arrondisement. The hotel I stayed in was a fantastic bargain - only EUR 32.80 per night, with cooking facilities. I
had a small single room, which looked for all the world like a converted garden shed from the outside (photo right) but was actually rather cosy on the inside (photo left). The street in which the hotel is situated is not much to write home about (west-looking photo at right) but who cares? It's close to supermarkets, bakeries (very important) and three metro stations, so it was an excellent "base".
After getting settled in and doing some shopping, I had just over an hour before dusk. So off I went to the Eiffel tower, only a 10 minute walk away from my hotel. There's something surprisingly elegant and delicate about Gustave Eiffel's creation - perhaps it is the
subtle lacework of its lower curves, or the prismatic geometry of its form, warping our sense of perspective when we look up from beneath it. Whatever it is, it is certainly one of the most remarkable buildings on the 19th century.As the sun continued to dip towards the horizon, I walked along the Quai Branly, until I came to the Pont de Bir-Harkeim. The view below shows the sun setting over the Seine.
Wednesday 19th
It might seem strange, but on my first full day in Paris I took a train from Montparnasse to a small town an hour south of the city - Chartres. Of course, there is only one reason to go there, and that is the cathedral. Built upon a small rise above the Eure river, it is rightly regarded as one of (if not the most) beautiful examples of medieval Gothic art and architecture - but above all for its wonderful collection of 13th century stained glass.
Walking up from the train station, the first view you have of Notre Dame de Chartres is across a plain square, and it is breathtaking, as the cathedral seems to almost float above the old medieval town. Proceeding a little through the old town, you come to the cathedral square itself, and are confronted by the western end of the church, with the twin steeples looming above you.
Unfortunately, a great disappointment awaited me upon entrance to the cathedral. Today was the "day of reconciliation", when the good folk of Chartres come to the cathedral to confess their sins and reconcile with the Church (I think). I had never heard of it before, and I was told that this is a new innovation in the Catholic world. The upshot of this, however, was that I was barred from the region between the entrance and the transept - alas, the region where the most beautiful stained glass is to be found. I was thus also unable to 
see the central rose window, due to the large choir obscuring the view. Since the southern rose window was under restoration and consequently blacked out, that left the northern rose window and the chapel windows at the east end - still a rich collection. The northern rose, in its subdued blues, transfixed me for hours, while in each chapel I stood trying to read the stories written in the light. As I was barred from admiring the stained glass in most of the cathedral, I had to content myself to reading the stories carved in stone on the outside. In addition to the stained glass, the sculpture which adorns the three entrances to the cathedral are masterpieces in their own right, and exerted enormous stylistic influence in medieval art. I show some black-and-white close-ups here.
The religious ceremony occurring during my visit served as a useful reminder that this church is primarily not a work of art, but a place of worship, and I was at best a tolerated intruder. This prompted me to meditate upon the fact that while for me Chartres is a majestic thing of beauty, for the original builders it was central to their worldview, a concrete testament to their faith, as I imagine also for the modern worshippers. Perhaps I idealize the past - we know that cathedrals were often treated as the town market in the 
middle ages - but this simply reinforces my point, which is that in that time there was no concept of the secular and the spiritual. The two were indivisible, and everything revolved around religion. For example, the astrological symbols on the west portal, and the subject of a particularly beautiful window, symbolized the order of the seasons, which was itself a manifestation of God's order. The modern mind no longer so readily sees a reflection of the divine in such things.
I decided to have a wander through the old town of Chartres, which slopes down to the river Euse from the cathedral. Although the town was really quite charming and a refreshing change from the typical German old towns I have seen, the day was bitterly cold, with the sun providing almost no warmth. In the afternoon, as much to seek refuge as out of interest, I visited the stained glass museum in the city. Chartres is still apparently a centre of stained glass art, and the museum itself is housed in a remarkable medieval storehouse. All the work in the museum is in a very modern style, and while I admire the craft work involved, most of these abstract designs really did fail to move me.
It was by now the late afternoon and I wandered back up to the cathedral square to watch the sun turn the light grey stonework from orange to mauve.
Thursday 20th
Lying in bed on Wednesday night, still a little disappointed by my poor luck, I asked myself what would Orson Welles do? Apart from heading down to the supermarket to pick up a couple of cheap bottles of red in which to drown his sorrows, he would undoubtedly return to Chartres to see the place properly. I remembered seeing some portion of his 1974 film "F for Fake", and how moved I was by this scene. For those who can't see a youtube movie, I post below his thoughts on Chartres (unfortunately you don't get a sense of his superb delivery):
"Now this has been standing here for centuries. The premier work of man perhaps in the whole western world and it's without a signature. Chartres. A celebration to God’s glory and to the dignity of man. All that’s left, most artists seem to feel these days, is man. Naked, poor, forked radish. There aren’t any celebrations.
Ours, the scientists keep telling us, is a universe which is disposable. You know it might be just this one anonymous glory of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose when all our cities are dust; to stand intact, to mark where we have been, to testify to what we had it in us to accomplish. Our works in stone, in paint, in print are spared, some of them for a few decades, or a millennium or two, but everything must fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash: the triumphs and the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life... we're going to die. 'Be of good heart,' cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced - but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much."Ah, I would give my right arm for a voice like Orson's, but alas it wouldn't be enough - I'd also have to give my liver. But to have such thoughts as these - what power and clarity in his poetry! So, with that, my mind was made up, and so on Thursday I found myself once more on the 9:20 train from Montparnasse.
Although again it was bitterly cold, the sun was still shining and the day was perfect for admiring the stained glass windows, especially the western rose window with the famous tree of Jesse. Standing just before the altar and looking around the nave, each window seems to form a lustrous tapestry of the most subtle colours, primarily aquamarine (Chartres blue!) but also greens, yellows and purples, with the detailed stories somehow rearranging themselves into abstract geometrical patterns or the entwining motifs of an oriental carpet. By late afternoon, the light streaming in the western rose window dappled the thick stone columns with reds and oranges.
Friday 21st
Friday was my first full day in Paris. As the sun was still shining, 
I decided to walk to the Eiffel tower and admire this again in the morning light. Although I toyed with the idea of ascending the tower, I figured that the winter haze would cut down visibility to such an extent that it wouldn't be worth it. I therefore contented myself to walking to the Trocadero palace where the sun behind the Eiffel tower created a spectacular view.
By about 11am the square under the tower was becoming rather packed, and so I decided to start walking towards the Ile de la Cite. Cutting through the 7th arrondisement to the Hotel des Invalides, where I took the photo on the left of
the sunlight through the leafless trees. Walking down towards the Place de la Concorde, I crossed the Seine and then into the Jardin de Tuileries, which apart from a few dog-walkers was deserted. After warming myself in the low winter sun, I wandered back to the dark shadows of the left bank.On the previous days I had taken a packed lunch of cheese and tomato baguette-sandwiches, which had proved a winning (and budget-saving) combination. Today however, I decided to splash out and buy lunch somewhere in town. I found a rather untouristy little corner cafe near Place St-Michel (quite an acheivement in itself) which even
had a rather tasteless vegetarian soup on offer. I then discovered the reason why I had not yet seen (and indeed never did see) a fat Frenchman or Frenchwoman - food is just too expensive for this to be possible. For the pitiful bowl of soup I could buy a heavy spaetzle dish (German macaroni) here in Stuttgart. Also during my lunch I was "treated" to one of the last displays of a very French tradition - smoking in a cafe. I didn't suspect it at the time, but since the 1st of January smoking has been banned in all indoor areas.Having been fortified by some coffee, I headed off to wander around the Ile de la Cite and the Ile St Louis, before popping in to see Sainte Chapelle. Although you have to run the guantlet of beefy French security guys (Sainte Chapelle is located within the Ministry of Justice compound), it is well worth the indignity of an x-ray. Sainte Chapelle is a magnificent little sanctuary built by Louis IX to hold the holy relics of the Passion. As Sainte Chapelle was built a century after Chartres, improvements in building techniques allowed much of a wall to be opened up for stained glass, producing an effect as if standing in some fantastic hall of gems. I spent an hour here, craning my neck to try to see the very tops of the windows, for which binoculars are almost required.
As dusk was fast approaching, I walked down along the Rue de Rivoli until I again came to the Jardin de Tuileries. At the very end of the garden, facing onto the Place de la Concorde, I lingered to watch the sun set with the view below.
I made my way back to my hotel room via a second cafe where I indulged myself a tasty French beer while reading the Herald Tribune. Although slightly light-headed, I had the presence of mind to inquire at the hotel about an events program for the week, and was given a copy of Le Figaro's Pariscope (gedit?). A quick review of the concerts suggested there was an interesting baroque concert at La Madeline, which although pricey seemed like a nice end to the day. But for some reason (was it the beer?) at the last moment I changed my mind and went off to see a concert of Mendelssohn piano works. The concert turned out to be just as memorable for the location as it was for the music, which was lovely and relaxing. I found the venue on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, in a small cinema/concert hall called l'Archipel. The place was tiny but absolutely charming, with an intimate concert space and at the end of the room a bar for the necessary interval beer and cigarette. I left humming the opening of the piano trio, happy for my fortunate choice.
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