Parisian Spaces
I know, I know, it’s been a long time. I’ve been busy! Trust me, the less I post, the more productive/fun my life is.
This was originally going to be my first commentary on Parisian life, but I never got around to writing it. I also wondered if I was crazy. But last night, a friend confirmed that he in fact had the same perception of … Parisian space.
Parisian space is strange – not in the MC Escher sense – but strange for Americans and Brits, at least. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that so much of the city dates from the 19th century – and much of it, like parts of the Marais, to far longer ago than that. Perhaps it has to do with the necessity of spatial economy, as my friend suggested. Basically, it is possible to walk down an anonymous seeming street one day, a street marked by no particularly interesting shops or signs of life, and see no one. Pass at a different hour the next day, and the streets will be swarmed with smoking teenagers in tight cliques, or groups of white-overalled plumbers and painters. You’ll realize, suddenly, that concealed behind that non-descript gray wall, with nothing but a small bronze plaque by the door, is a large high school. Or a hotel particulier that is being restored.
There are the great bustling boulevards, of course, and streets jammed with tourists, and grand cathedrals, and dingy college buildings. But for much of the city, the space can be astonishingly private – turtling deeply into its own life.
In the summer, the voices coming from behind the walls reach the outside and give a comforting sense of that inner life, being lived away from prying eyes. Sometimes you’ll see someone cooking or watching The Simpsons as you look through the white lace curtain of their ground floor apartment. But in the winter, the anonymity of those side streets sometimes gives me a chill.
