Moments that come. . .

Today I went to Le Centre Georges-Pompidou, France's national modern art museum. This just might be my second favorite museum ever -- second after Le Rodin, of course. The architecture of the building is really something to behold, and it has what I think is the best view of Paris in Paris. Their reigning temporary exhibit is one of Gerhard Ritcher's works -- a fascinating artist (I've included a picture of his painting "September" below -- the subject is the attack on the Twin Towers). Next to each stage of his exhibit, there were quotes by him about his work or art in general, and one that caught my attention, which of course I did not think to write down in the moment, was something to the effect of letting art be a reflection of "what comes" and not something that is forcibly "created." This struck a chord with me, for I feel so keenly that forced creativity is quite obvious: perhaps, and unfortunately so, not always to the artist, but certainly to the audience. This is something I fear in all of my own creative ventures. For example, I can feel the moments on stage when I'm actively "acting" versus the ones when I'm truly present in my circumstances as a character. The ones when I'm conscious of acting are the devastating moments in my life on  a stage. How can I expect an audience to believe me if I am aware that what I'm portraying is an "act?" I cannot. Yet, I think most things in life are true to this sentiment. Whenever we say something we don't really mean, but rather, forcibly create in order to obey convention or propriety or to hide our own insecurity of not knowing what to say, the forcedness of the comment is seemingly always evident. I thought today that the world might be a very different place if humanity consistently created based on what naturally came to us, through our unique experiences, versus creating what we want or what we know others expect of us.

Over the past three days, I've had some amazing moments. Moments that I very much hope I will let something "come" out of, even if it is a merely a memory that doesn't fade as quickly as the rest.

Instants à se rappeler (Moments to remember)

- saying a quiet "thank you" and placing a flower on the graves and memorials of Oscar Wilde, Maria Callas, Gertrude Stein, Molière, Chopin, and Edith Piaf (at Cimitière Perè LaChaise)

-staring at Dalì sculptures - ones I'd never seen nor knew existed

-eating apricots on the lawn in front of Sacre Coeur

-having my portrait sketched on the streets of Montmartre . . . Story: I knew it was a scam when he said "a mee-lee-on booocks" when I asked how much it cost. Of course he had already began sketching and I thought, Why the hell not? So, yes the price was ridiculous, but I received a very lovely sketch (an investment, he said - ha) and two fabulous compliments from him. The first was in French -- he said I had a "bouche sensuelle" ( which he made sure to clarify as "non sexuelle, sensuelle"  -- I assured him I took it as a compliment). The second came after I had talked him down to half his asking price in which he told me, in English, that I was a "good beezness wooman." And his name was Robert.

- writing in a couple cafès and feeling good about what I was able to put down on paper

- being fully aware in the moment that I just might be eating the best pastry I will ever place in my mouth (it is called a Paris Brest and the chic shop from whence it came had won the prize for making the best of these)

- savoring the last dregs of a St. Bernardus (Belgian brew) on the Rue de l'Odéon

-walking down a cobbled sidewalk by an old man and his old dog, recalling the words to "Autumn Leaves" as he played it on his old clarinet:

The falling leaves drift by the window,
The autumn leaves of red and gold.
I see your lips, the summer kisses,
The sun-burned hands I used to hold.
Since you went away the days grow long,
And soon I'll hear old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.

"September" by Gerhard Ritcher