Space Invader

The 2010 documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop tells the story of a goofy Frenchman called Thierry Guetta and his absurd journey from obscurity to street art stardom.  Through his cousin, the Parisian street artist Invader, Thierry is introduced to the international street art scene, along the way befriending Shepard Fairey and, eventually, Banksy, the acclaimed English artist known for his cheeky anti-establishment commentary and closely guarded anonymity.  Shepard Fairey is best known for his red and blue “HOPE” portrait of Barack Obama, which graced the cover of Time Magazine’s Man of the Year issue in 2008.  Exit is directed by Banksy and arrives at its surreal climax when Thierry reinvents himself (with the half-hearted support of both Fairey and Banksy) as Mr. Brainwash, a Los Angeles-based street artist of questionable talent and authenticity.  If this all seems rather weird, trust your instincts.  

I enjoyed Exit Through the Gift Shop, just as I’ve enjoyed getting acquainted with the street art of Paris.  Once content to glimpse graffiti through the window of a speeding subway car, more recently I’ve been seeking it out, along with the murals, mosaics, and stencils that show up in all corners of the city.  With my focus adjusted I am seeing things that have been here all along, and like an elaborate canvas Paris reveals more detail the longer I stare at her.

The street artist Invader makes small mosaics, mostly inspired by American video games from the 1980s including Pac-Man and, surprise surprise, Space Invaders.   As trite as this may seem, the little designs are fun to look for and, because of the mosaic, seem more substantial than both graffiti and the common stenciled figures that stare out at passers-by from their two-dimensional world.  I don’t know how many of Invader’s mosaics are in Paris, but if you have the wherewithal to walk around for several hours looking up at the sides of buildings you are sure to see a few.  There are websites with tell-all maps and links to Invader’s “invasion” of numerous other countries, but I prefer to see his work at random, which seems more in keeping with the vibe. 

Most of the street art I’ve seen in Paris does not evoke masterful talent and it doesn’t have to.  In the city of the Louvre I like the idea of artists simply drawing on the walls.  The murals and graffiti do not draw crowds, but they are there, coloring the urban landscape for all to see.  In the halls of the Louvre, by comparison, the thronging tourists seem intent on finding the handful of works they’ve been told are important, shuffling quickly past the thousands of pieces of art that didn’t make their guidebook’s index.  They stand ten deep before the Mona Lisa with cameras and smart phones held aloft, all the while with their backs to The Wedding Feast at Cana, the remarkable 16th century painting by Paolo Veronese that completely covers the 20ft x 30ft wall. 

les Halles

Champs de Mars

Notice the Invader on top right

Two Invaders and a hipster on the Place de la République

rue Mouffetard

Place du Carrousel

Montmartre

Cultural Diversity

When I hear these words I count to ten.  It is my self-help technique for dealing with frustration.  Innocuous enough individually, the two words have been welded together by an American media intent on self-loathing as a path to absolution for its own crimes against humanity.  Hearing the phrase “cultural diversity” is akin to hearing Suzanne Somers' laugh: Annoying with a promise of vapid blather to come. 

In spite of my bristling at all things politically correct I recently delivered a short discourse on cultural diversity (la diversité culturelle) to my class at the Ecole de Guerre in Paris.  In my section of the 46-person class we are ten: Two Americans, a Cambodian, an Egyptian, a Singaporean, a Nigerian, a Netherlander, a Serb, an Argentine, and a Chinese.  Pretty diverse.  We have three things in common: We each wear a uniform to work (with a degree of flair ranging from business casual to Third World dictator), we all speak a little bad French, and we are all happy as hell to be living and studying in France.  We’ve been in class together for two weeks, and my little talk was an effort to express what I think we’ve all been thinking: Man, is this great.  I thanked my classmates for their insight into situations I was theretofore quite ignorant of, such as the violent border dispute between Cambodia and Thailand, the nature of the Mubarak autocracy, and the mealtime protocol of the Chinese.  

The French have been a pleasant surprise as well.  They are delightful.  Delightfully quirkly, delightfully animated, delightfully French.  They seem committed to their own unique dysfunctionality, which requires that everyone smoke and take a two-hour lunch.  I’ve avoided the cigarettes (for the most part), but the lunches are quite agreeable.  In the world I come from, which is by no means one of restraint, wine and ice cream are consumed either after dark or on the weekend.  The café lifestyle of Paris is not hamstrung by such Puritan sensibility.  I have not tried it, but I suspect one could order un verre de rouge et trois boules de chocolat for breakfast and suffer only a raised eyebrow from the waiter and perhaps indigestion.   

Re-reading this, I realize I haven’t justified my harsh treatment of “cultural diversity” from the first paragraph. I suppose i’m just being cantankerous or showing my libertarian leanings.  Cultural diversity, literally by the grace of God, is all around us, and I prefer not to have it imposed upon me or explained to me as if I were a two-year-old.  

des Parisiens permanents