I tried to think of a way to say goodbye.
To walk and write my farewell messages in the streets.
To leave on a poignant note.
But,
on waking up on this last day i realised that that was unnecessary.
Paris is not about the Hello's and Goodbye's, they are to frequent, the comings and goings.
It is about the time spent.
The is no no need for a dramatic end scene, a final embrace or to be dragged of screaming.
Paris is at a level of performance that these fancies have no place. everyday life is performed within such close proximity that you couldn't deliver such speeches without being interrupted by a scooter on the pavement or a sudden surge of pigeons.
I will say goodbye like i would to a friend
we will walk
nowhere particularly special or memorable
we will see the women in fur coats and the globes in the shop window
and then when it gets rainy, or busy, or cold, or dark, or time, or late, or boring, or sad we'll stop.
I did write a postcard, as a final extraction from Paris, a final sample to take to the lab, one more that the postman might read, one last poem for my collection....
I start my last documented meander by Anvers metro - on a bench is a woman wrapped in a blue and white patterned cloth, she turns to reveal a bright yellow headscarf and a black face, she is young and her legs her surrounded by suitcases.
Old women where fur coats and the papeterie sells globes of all sizes, they glow in the window next to the leather satchels.
I can see all the way to the tall towers, they rise up like shark fins in still waters.
In Franprix they have sprayed the corners of the windows to make them look frosty.
The faucet has been turned on and water spits up over the grid.
In the bakery there is one pear tart and one peach tart left.
Inside four people sit at separate computers, the room is warm and dark, and their faces are individually lit by desk lamps.
On the balcony they have blue pots with tall green plants.
i walk by the lampshade shop, with skeletons hung up high, and the photocopying shop, which i never noticed before.
In the laundrette a man and a woman with a dog on her lap are having a chat.
On rue des matryrs the man in the fish shop is scrubbing in the sink and three children stand on silver scooters. later they shoot past me, as this street goes down hill.
My maps all have beginnings and endings, these are moments of decision or intention - when the pen is on or off the paper. The real map of my time spent here is a swirling spaghetti junction.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Russian Influence (side projects)
At Jardin Luxembourg it says;
The Russian icebreaker kaptain khlebniov penetrates into an Antarctic ice shelf. Even when its 22000 HP, this powerful icebreaker only passes through the ice at a rate of 4 to 5 km per day.
Under the Russian city of khatanga, the liedniks are cellars dug directly into the permafrost. They are prime examples of the inhabitants amazing adaption to their environment. The temperature remains constant at more or less -18 c
The Russian icebreaker kaptain khlebniov penetrates into an Antarctic ice shelf. Even when its 22000 HP, this powerful icebreaker only passes through the ice at a rate of 4 to 5 km per day.
Under the Russian city of khatanga, the liedniks are cellars dug directly into the permafrost. They are prime examples of the inhabitants amazing adaption to their environment. The temperature remains constant at more or less -18 c
In Russian she is answering the question; Describe Paris as if it were a person..
i will not give you her answer, as the reason i filmed it in her mother tongue is i am interested in this area of not understanding language, in response to my own two months of not understanding french.
other answers on the other hand;
- she is a young woman whose appearance is chic, she wears a wide brim hat and a coat. she is impulsive and does things on a whim but in general her mood is good and she smiles a lot. she wears light make up to show her natural beauty
- he is a young man in a beige suit who smiles at who he chooses
- she is an old woman in a fur coat and stockings with many wrinkles on her face, she is bitter but drinks enough red wine so that she doesn't care
I found everyone (so far) had a different gender/age for Paris, but i understand the choices of each one even if it is not similar to my own. I asked this question i had noticed much of the literature i had read about Paris uses this personification heavily, usually she is a woman...i wanted to see what other people would say. It rose discussion into how Paris is incredibly easy to talk about as a person, it seems more difficult to describe Berlin, London or Moscow...but i haven't really tried
due to cutting of just above the elbows, i decided to pay a little attention to the other half of the body;
In my world of not understanding conversations when on the metro i often cut out the faces that chit chat and focus on hands and feet.
(these two videos are not staged)
Sunday, December 7, 2008
walking as narrative technique...and more maps
It has come to my attention that 'walking' is a well used writing tool in novels...the narrative of a walk for descriptive sections or to reveal a situation have occured various times in the novels i have recently been reading...
'I cautiously dressed and left to engage in one of my favorite pasttimes: night walking...just walking until i dropped. out on the street, dutch youths guzzled beer from big mugs. They had torn holes in garbage bags to make raincoats. Stout bars blocked the way to the grotto, but at intervals i saw the glow of hundreds of guttering candles. much later, my wandering brought me back to the street with souvenier stores. In the fourth window, an identical Mary had taken the place of ours.'
The diving bell and the butterfly, jean-dominique bauby, page 67
'He contined to walk. He passed small, dry fields, patterned in rising terraces. With the drought, the planting season had yet to begin, and the soil was turned up in hard, dry clods. The houses were raised at varying heights, their walls like those of the camp buildings, interlaced strips of bamboo woven to create geometrical patterns. The road was empty except some scattered bands of dusty children...it was hot, so hot that even the best soothsayers had failed to forecast that today would be the day that the rains would come again to the shan plateau. The men and women sat and talked in the shade and couldn't understand the Englishman who took walks under such a sun... They walked and followed a trail that rose over a small hill. They passed a house that Khin Myo said belonged to a old woman who had an evil eye, and she warned Edgar to be careful.'
The Piano Tuner, Daniel Mason, page 233
It is also possible that my current occupation of walking increases my awareness of these passages. like when you think of red balloons.
THE REALM OF WALKING;
PHILOSOPHERS
WRITERS/POETS
PILGRIMAGE
PROTEST
MEDITATION
EXCERCISE
TOURISM
ART/PERFORMANCE
to name a few
MORE MAPS;
inspired by situationist psychogeography maps
An experiment into how to map 'encounters' (specifically about travel and nationality) - made from maps, red tape and a photography book on architecture across the world;
In this map - Paris, Greece (Athens), Germany (Berlin), Russia (Saint Petersbourg), Spain and Brasil (Soa Paulo)
In this map - Egypt, mexico, Germany, France
'I cautiously dressed and left to engage in one of my favorite pasttimes: night walking...just walking until i dropped. out on the street, dutch youths guzzled beer from big mugs. They had torn holes in garbage bags to make raincoats. Stout bars blocked the way to the grotto, but at intervals i saw the glow of hundreds of guttering candles. much later, my wandering brought me back to the street with souvenier stores. In the fourth window, an identical Mary had taken the place of ours.'
The diving bell and the butterfly, jean-dominique bauby, page 67
'He contined to walk. He passed small, dry fields, patterned in rising terraces. With the drought, the planting season had yet to begin, and the soil was turned up in hard, dry clods. The houses were raised at varying heights, their walls like those of the camp buildings, interlaced strips of bamboo woven to create geometrical patterns. The road was empty except some scattered bands of dusty children...it was hot, so hot that even the best soothsayers had failed to forecast that today would be the day that the rains would come again to the shan plateau. The men and women sat and talked in the shade and couldn't understand the Englishman who took walks under such a sun... They walked and followed a trail that rose over a small hill. They passed a house that Khin Myo said belonged to a old woman who had an evil eye, and she warned Edgar to be careful.'
The Piano Tuner, Daniel Mason, page 233
It is also possible that my current occupation of walking increases my awareness of these passages. like when you think of red balloons.
THE REALM OF WALKING;
PHILOSOPHERS
WRITERS/POETS
PILGRIMAGE
PROTEST
MEDITATION
EXCERCISE
TOURISM
ART/PERFORMANCE
to name a few
MORE MAPS;
inspired by situationist psychogeography maps
An experiment into how to map 'encounters' (specifically about travel and nationality) - made from maps, red tape and a photography book on architecture across the world;
In this map - Paris, Greece (Athens), Germany (Berlin), Russia (Saint Petersbourg), Spain and Brasil (Soa Paulo)
In this map - Egypt, mexico, Germany, France
Monday, December 1, 2008
walking with the wrong map
A MAP OF KRAKOW, POLAND
i use the river and the cemetery as anchor points for the map in Paris, i use these to locate where my flat would be, i then walk from my flat in Krakow to the river in Krakow...
i use the river and the cemetery as anchor points for the map in Paris, i use these to locate where my flat would be, i then walk from my flat in Krakow to the river in Krakow...
On my road, Kopernika, the hospital opposite my door is full of sausages and prostitutes.
I take the second left down Btich, passing the church, though the archway i can see a cafe and the taxi's driving through.
I take a right into grzegorzecka and follow it over the railway bridge which goes from the sfr shop to optic 2000.
I continue down dielta which is overcrowded with people, shops and cafes - small tables obstruct the path.
On crossing stradomska the Christmas lights are bright and a homeless guy plays with his dog on the metro steps.
On the last stretch of dielta the opera is revealed, the bus stops and people hop off and step on.
looking down sukienicza the tower is illuminated, on top is a statue of a man in shadow.
I continue on the most grunwaldki, the bridge that crosses the wisla (the river). There are postcards on a stand and truffles for 21 euros. I dont hear the river but i can see a large sailed boat approaching the bridge, behind which stands the eifel tower. This image rolls away to show a bottle of Vodka.
A MAP OF THE TOKYO SUBWAY, JAPAN
we walk with restriction and rules. the metro stops are port holes, points of change and decision, we change lines, we flip underground for overground, she becomes a filter, i am the navigator and she is my creative eye.
on finding a guide to tokyoA MAP OF SAN FRANCISCO, USA
(anchor point - china town/porte de choisy)
If i were in San Francisco i would be walking up hill, and later down hill and smell the sea. My feet would most probably be dry and the streets busy and narrow next to a road of cars and picturesque trams. It is easy for me to imagine here as my surroundings are bland box flats that have been striped of all life by the rain - i was told that Parisians are even more miserable when it rains. China town is less of a town and more a gathering of restaurants, the streets are thick with the smell of sweet Chinese sauces, that i picture slipping off chunks of pork. It is Sunday - an empty day. I have been reading a book about monsoons in Burma, so this drizzle is irritating, it is no theatrical show of deafening noise where water pours of leaves like out of a jug, it rests silently on the pavement creeping into my boots. Using this map means i travel in straight lines, following is grid format, i am drawn down boulevards as i trust there straightness more than the side streets that can turn you around without you even knowing. When absorbed in a new map the rest of Paris disappears, i can separate this street, like a toddler i force together one jigsaw piece with a piece from a different jigsaw. It fits if you push hard enough. After becoming familiar with this city, i have a sense of direction, i have built a mental map in my head...these maps allow me to escape this mental map, by dislocating myself, by putting myself in the wrong place. It allows the right frame of mind for drifting as it frees me from decision if i stick to the rules of my new map. this allows chance and surprise. due to the visual obstruction of my umbrella i mostly see just wet pavement, but i do remember how the leaves were pasted to the floor, and a football landing in my path and me letting it roll by, i remember a small boy play fighting with a bigger boy like a puppy, and the sounds of the bells on the buses like the sound of San Francisco trams. This walk was an uncomfortable overlapping of two places, maybe uncomfortable as for the first time i would have rather been walking in San Fransisco with a Paris map, than here with this map.
Gare Du Nord - Train Station Art
A 5 HOUR STATIC DRIFT IN GARE DU NORD (1PM TILL 6PM FRIDAY 28TH NOVEMBER)
The Postcard;
The Postcard;
The Gare du Nord is a beautiful structure, it folds out to a delicate archway of thin black lines forming geometrical patterns, reaching back with arms of semi-circle windows and pillar of pale green that branch out like outstretched hands on the roof. It is any lover of symmetries dream. The shell of architectural wonder is filled with all the necessities of modern travel. small yellow machines to validate you ticket..machines in rows of three or four..islands of cafes that support areas of silver chairs..the heaters - pillars of mesh protecting a red light that the travelers huddle by to keep warm. The station is incredibly cold. The homeless who base themselves outside come and hover by the heaters to warm up in short bursts. The travelers wait, looking up, over time the crowds gather, attaching themselves to a heater, flies on a stick of honey. From above it reveals a battle scene, crowds facing each other, separated by the old fashioned departures board, it kicks into action. The small number and letter plates flick over until the right digit is found, it sounds like a hysterical typist has finally cracked - the sound holds the station still until the platform number is released and everyone quickly disperses, marching together. Above this ongoing slow gathering and quick release stands a statue celebrating the opening of the tunnel, and below sits a boy tending to his newly bought train set, he sits on an empty platform once everyone has boarded the train.
Train Station Art (made with found objects, my own sketches and the stations facilities);
An exploration into how to spend time, how to document the spending of time, how to use a place, and the telling of tales of unfamiliar places.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
leaving a mark - a small act of rebellion
After a conversation about the power of quotes, and thoughts about my relationship with the city - i walked and left these marks (look for the red tape);
I mapped my walk as i walked. marking places that i felt needed it. the length of red tape in response to the space. leaving messages for passers by. Being pleased with my fleeting existence, and the fragility of the red tape. curious of who would read it, and what they would think. being anonymous, but not invisible. adding to the image of the city, my bit of red tape.
'in the south of Russia it is a an old tradition to leave a piece of red tape of cloth around a tree as a sign that you will once return there'
A second walk continued this exploration of leaving a trace of my walk, this time i had researched into the Graffiti of May 1968 and the revolution being directly influenced by the Situationists, i felt a political spin on my walk - walking as a small act of rebellion. i put my messages in a place where they would be seen (postboxes) and wrote them in french.
(Poetry is in the streets - a direct quote from May '68 Graffiti)
(Take a long a walk without a map)
(I like a stroll)
(You could be anywhere)
These walks pose a new exchange between me and the city - leaving rather than taking.
My walk lingers longer than my presence - lingering until the writing has been washed away or the red tape ripped off.
I mapped my walk as i walked. marking places that i felt needed it. the length of red tape in response to the space. leaving messages for passers by. Being pleased with my fleeting existence, and the fragility of the red tape. curious of who would read it, and what they would think. being anonymous, but not invisible. adding to the image of the city, my bit of red tape.
'in the south of Russia it is a an old tradition to leave a piece of red tape of cloth around a tree as a sign that you will once return there'
A second walk continued this exploration of leaving a trace of my walk, this time i had researched into the Graffiti of May 1968 and the revolution being directly influenced by the Situationists, i felt a political spin on my walk - walking as a small act of rebellion. i put my messages in a place where they would be seen (postboxes) and wrote them in french.
(Poetry is in the streets - a direct quote from May '68 Graffiti)
(Take a long a walk without a map)
(I like a stroll)
(You could be anywhere)
These walks pose a new exchange between me and the city - leaving rather than taking.
My walk lingers longer than my presence - lingering until the writing has been washed away or the red tape ripped off.
problems
I feel my walking is beginning to suffer because of these three reasons;
1. It's incredibly cold
2. The holes in my boots
3. A new love for reading on the metro
1. It's incredibly cold
2. The holes in my boots
3. A new love for reading on the metro
Thursday, November 27, 2008
HOW I USE MY CAMCORDER...
to collect;
to save;
to pry;
to catch the end;
to show;
to have;
to experiment;
can i make my camera walk?...
Since being in Paris i have built a library of video. This library goes under the title 'Paris Postcard'. Since i have been in Paris my mum has been keeping all my postcards in an envelope, probably on the mantle piece, or above the microwave in the kitchen..or possibly in her bedroom as she said she has been practicing reading them.
On return to England i intend to join these moving images and written words to create 'Paris Postcard', a sort of documentary, of my videos and my mothers recorded voice (reading the postcards). This is inspired by Chris Marker's 'sans soleil'.
Experimenting with the combination of moving images and narrating text. like a postcard; a choice of image, a choice of words, to communicate a place. does the text have to be about the image? what happens when you hear about one place whilst looking at another...?...
i am collecting, gathering, waiting..
i treat video like i treat my walks.
i am collaborating with chance.
i walk out of the door/i press record.
i create a frame. the street/the route/the lens.
i allow the city to act, for people to pass, to capture/witness what occurs, within this frame.
by being there, by witnessing, by recording, the everyday events/objects/sounds of a particular place at a particular time become precious, archived in my cameras memory....buried into my own memory to gradually become lost, deteriorate and fade away.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
decisions and faith
WALK 36
I decide that just walking home is enough. Today i do not need a big adventure - that decision opens enough doors. i have confidence in this cities talents.
They hang like monkeys from the buildings, pulling strips of tape from the walls that coil from their hands like viscous snakes.
A market is celebrated with bunting and balloons.
In a quite street under the balconies oak leaves have been carved into the stone - forever in fall.
She bends over her crutches, her dry grey hair covering her face, she prays to her small brown yogurt pot.
On crossing roads the streets open up, the metro track rolls away, like great rivers cutting through mountains, gleaming slug slime, scooping a pathway out of the city.
Yellow post boxes stand back to back, ready for the countdown, ready for shoot out. here the clock strikes twelve. dong...dong...dong...dong..dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong
Trocodero jingles.
the world 'SALAD' is engraved in a tree.
In the the patisserie are two blue roosters.
Two business men leave a Chinese restaurant they walk under scaffolding with their hands in their pockets.
The gates to parc morceau are black with gold frills, the faces of lions stare down at the passing cyclists.
i pass spider webbed Christmas trees that are guarded by a lady in a green bandanna and a has a lip piercing.
i find a rare pedestrianised street that makes me change direction, round the corner is a fish tank of blue and yellow neon fish, they blow kisses at me through purple smoke.
children stand aproned around the table, their hands a grey.
at place de clichy the background is bright blue where the white fluffy trail of a plane disappears behind the statues stern face. his out stretched arm holds her back from tearing though avenue de clichy.
It is a matter of direction, time and faith.
walking restores me faith.
The city performs.
I decide that just walking home is enough. Today i do not need a big adventure - that decision opens enough doors. i have confidence in this cities talents.
They hang like monkeys from the buildings, pulling strips of tape from the walls that coil from their hands like viscous snakes.
A market is celebrated with bunting and balloons.
In a quite street under the balconies oak leaves have been carved into the stone - forever in fall.
She bends over her crutches, her dry grey hair covering her face, she prays to her small brown yogurt pot.
On crossing roads the streets open up, the metro track rolls away, like great rivers cutting through mountains, gleaming slug slime, scooping a pathway out of the city.
Yellow post boxes stand back to back, ready for the countdown, ready for shoot out. here the clock strikes twelve. dong...dong...dong...dong..dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong...dong
Trocodero jingles.
the world 'SALAD' is engraved in a tree.
In the the patisserie are two blue roosters.
Two business men leave a Chinese restaurant they walk under scaffolding with their hands in their pockets.
The gates to parc morceau are black with gold frills, the faces of lions stare down at the passing cyclists.
i pass spider webbed Christmas trees that are guarded by a lady in a green bandanna and a has a lip piercing.
i find a rare pedestrianised street that makes me change direction, round the corner is a fish tank of blue and yellow neon fish, they blow kisses at me through purple smoke.
children stand aproned around the table, their hands a grey.
at place de clichy the background is bright blue where the white fluffy trail of a plane disappears behind the statues stern face. his out stretched arm holds her back from tearing though avenue de clichy.
It is a matter of direction, time and faith.
walking restores me faith.
The city performs.
Monday, November 24, 2008
sunrise.roads.study.laws.sunset
Paris is nicely contained within a Periphery road that cuts out the suburbs. Chatelet metro is supposedly a bad place to go because it's where 'they get in'..the metro lines from the suburbs meet here. This road is 32 km long and it marks the limits of Paris, it is punctuated by doors into the city. Paris is protected by this road, made to feel intentionally small its citizens can enjoy it.
in the eye of the storm.
A law was passed last year that no building could be built taller than 37m - mostly in reaction to Montparnasse tower, which is considered by many Parisians as a 'monstrosity'. Ultimately new developments in Paris are few - i cant help but think that this stunt on new architecture has an affect on the mentality of Paris. Is it the reason that Berlin is the currently the hub of contemporary art because its buildings scream modernity. This is part of my take on Psychogeography, that yes how a city in planned affects out physical behaviour, the route we decide to take, but also our mental state. new environments encourage new thinking. Paris saves itself, preserved and fragile (this is definitely part of its beauty) but all that can come of that is a slow and painful decay...?
'i went to Paris because Paris is where you go to think, i wanted to hide out and think, and maybe learn. Paris is the university of the west, and anybody who doesn't understand that doesn't need to go. i went to Paris because i was ignorant; i went as a matriculator, not a pilgrim.'
Paris is full of students. 'Satie studied at my school'. the past is so easily available here, that study and research is of top quality. 'if you want to study that, you have to study it in Paris'. Young students who idolise writers, composers, painters who worked and lived here, it makes perfect sense - it is a place to look back and learn rather than look forward and succeed..?
In Paris i am studying...i know that the flaneur was here, that Baudelaire walked here, that so many people i have read about sat in that cafe...but there is a tension in my project, where theoretically i am firmly based in this past, whereas practically walking is still clinging on to edge of 'contemporary' art/theatre, as it can be considered in many different ways - as performance, as drawing, as exploring, as narrative, as writing, as reading, as exploring, as alternative tourism....this sometimes on explanation makes it hard to grasp and interesting as it is so closely linked to everyday life. Paris has been painted, written about, photographed... i am playing with how i treat Paris, sometimes with a lighter touch of just strolling with no intention of disturbing it, others i cut a straight line through its flesh, others i take and save, sometimes i leave things for passers by.
'what was i looking for when i came to Paris? i don't know. i was chasing some romantic illusion, looking for something genuine, but the feeling got lost among the crowded souvenir shops in front of the Notre Dame' (i say just don't go to there!)
WALK 33
My walking and mapping is also a take on Richard Long's a 'line made by walking'....here the body is a tool for drawing, a tool for measuring space and time, and walking is not only an action, it is also become a sign that is superimposed on paper.
in the eye of the storm.
A law was passed last year that no building could be built taller than 37m - mostly in reaction to Montparnasse tower, which is considered by many Parisians as a 'monstrosity'. Ultimately new developments in Paris are few - i cant help but think that this stunt on new architecture has an affect on the mentality of Paris. Is it the reason that Berlin is the currently the hub of contemporary art because its buildings scream modernity. This is part of my take on Psychogeography, that yes how a city in planned affects out physical behaviour, the route we decide to take, but also our mental state. new environments encourage new thinking. Paris saves itself, preserved and fragile (this is definitely part of its beauty) but all that can come of that is a slow and painful decay...?
'i went to Paris because Paris is where you go to think, i wanted to hide out and think, and maybe learn. Paris is the university of the west, and anybody who doesn't understand that doesn't need to go. i went to Paris because i was ignorant; i went as a matriculator, not a pilgrim.'
Paris is full of students. 'Satie studied at my school'. the past is so easily available here, that study and research is of top quality. 'if you want to study that, you have to study it in Paris'. Young students who idolise writers, composers, painters who worked and lived here, it makes perfect sense - it is a place to look back and learn rather than look forward and succeed..?
In Paris i am studying...i know that the flaneur was here, that Baudelaire walked here, that so many people i have read about sat in that cafe...but there is a tension in my project, where theoretically i am firmly based in this past, whereas practically walking is still clinging on to edge of 'contemporary' art/theatre, as it can be considered in many different ways - as performance, as drawing, as exploring, as narrative, as writing, as reading, as exploring, as alternative tourism....this sometimes on explanation makes it hard to grasp and interesting as it is so closely linked to everyday life. Paris has been painted, written about, photographed... i am playing with how i treat Paris, sometimes with a lighter touch of just strolling with no intention of disturbing it, others i cut a straight line through its flesh, others i take and save, sometimes i leave things for passers by.
'what was i looking for when i came to Paris? i don't know. i was chasing some romantic illusion, looking for something genuine, but the feeling got lost among the crowded souvenir shops in front of the Notre Dame' (i say just don't go to there!)
WALK 33
I walked along the part of the Periphery, aware that this line would be drawn on my map, showing i had touched the edge, i had crossed it, it felt the same. the bridges reminded me of other bigger bridges - Brooklyn bridge, golden gate bridge. the road disappeared beneath them, underground, under trees and lakes. this is a strange place i thought where a main road turns so suddenly into a forest - Bois de Boulogne.
This walk was inspired by Tony Smith's walk on the New Jersey Turnpike, he was considered one of the fathers on 'minimal art' and this event is seen as the 'end of art' as he wonders on this walk; 'The road and much of the landscape was artificial but it couldn't be called a work of art.'
My walking and mapping is also a take on Richard Long's a 'line made by walking'....here the body is a tool for drawing, a tool for measuring space and time, and walking is not only an action, it is also become a sign that is superimposed on paper.
WALK 34
22nd November. sunrise at 8.08 at the Sacre Coeur. a 9 hour and 5 minute walk. sunset at 17.11 at Montparnasse tower.
This walk was inspired by;
'The average duration of a derive is one day'
Friday, November 21, 2008
the tale of a space crossed
Today i walk on recommendations...i form a fragmented map... i have destinations i only have titles for...i get on the metro like lifting the pen from the paper...i can chose the places that exists on my blank sheet of paper that is today.
The river catches the movement of living lights
The taxi boat is loading up, on this end the path is broken stones and worn grass, it starts to rain and a cyclist shelters under an arch to change into his water proofs
This is currently one of my major concerns, on return, how will i tell the stories of my walks.
go to la defense he said it is the city in the air
go to cafe cheri she says its so cute
you should walk the river she said
la defense:
after a month of low skylines and noisy streets, la defense is a real shock. the space. the silence and the buildings made of windows that cut they sky like shards of glass. i was comfortable in the past, here i am confronted with the present which feels to much like the future. these free standing buildings make no sense to me, i look in on meetings and computer screens. Beneath the ground i walk on in a network of roads, car parks and shopping malls. who knows where the real ground starts. it is so quiet. There are cities working within these icicles, that reflect my woolen hat. i know they grew like trees from the ground, but they feel more like they landed like meteorites, crashing and flickering with strange new energies. A woman pours a bottle of beer into a glass. suited people stand still on red carpet. i am handed a free microwavable meal in a plastic bag. it is so quiet.
cafe cheri:
Under the metro track from jaures homeless people has made a sitting room out of sofas and coffee tables, they left their dinner over one of the grids that lets heat out of the metro to keep it warm. Miniature football pitches, skate parks and basketball courts are squeezed under the shadow of the metro line. In an archway he scribbled poetry on to the pavement with chalk. The men playing bowls have hung their satchels on hooks on a lamppost. i walk through the bones of a market, its skeletal archways. a black man jogs by with a cd player in his had he shouts 'fuck the pigs, fuck the white man, fuck him again'. cafe cheri appears, it is a small white block on the corner of the street, a string of red neon lights crawls out of the top window. i can see its mirrored pillar and collection of school desks for tables. The chandeliers have red bulbs and a cafe creme is 3 euros. i am inside the cherry, consumed in its sickly redness, its sticks to me skin making it an odd shade of pink - i nest in my sticky sweet corner.
La seine;
The river catches the movement of living lights
The taxi boat is loading up, on this end the path is broken stones and worn grass, it starts to rain and a cyclist shelters under an arch to change into his water proofs
i pass a police scene and church bells ring, i am bothered by my misbehaving umbrella. i enter this time warp of wet cobbled stones where it is easy to imagine couples in appropriate period costume.
The river widens after the islands and the louvre, the walkways are punctuated by spotlights over benches.
i catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower and know that the river will begin to bend towards it. i am accompanied by a small white dog, we walk across the bridge.
i catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower and know that the river will begin to bend towards it. i am accompanied by a small white dog, we walk across the bridge.
a healthy community of house boats soften the edges with their creaking and plant pots. i pass a monster of rubbish in a corner of the river, that is so thick it forms an island for large rat to crawl over
it is true that Paris looks good under a grey sky. It seems as though the stars saw the lights of Paris and just gave up.
i pass lady Di's memorial, a golden flame frozen in a south westerly breeze. me and an old couple witness the leaves being blown from their branches, we come to a place where white birds are evenly spaced.
i think about walking on the sea bed. about the depth of the seine. the sea bed is an accumulation of debris that has been thrown in, passed through and caught, grown. this is the ground we walk on.
i think about walking on the sea bed. about the depth of the seine. the sea bed is an accumulation of debris that has been thrown in, passed through and caught, grown. this is the ground we walk on.
whilst walking the seine i became aware that i was walking a line that had already been drawn, and once mapping that line the map would be more recognisable as Paris - the first things people draw when drawing a map of Paris would be the river and the periphery. i am interested in the walking as drawing lines in the city, drawing lines on the city and attempting to walk them and walking lines that have already been drawn. The river was hear before the city (the city is here because of the river), but the periphery road was drawn on to it, someone must have drawn that line before it was built, and building it was drawing too. i decided to walk the periphery. when you have a line, you can walk on it, around it, across it, on either side of it, it was like this with the periphery, which made it altogether a good adventure.
what do i remember?
i remember the roar under the bridge and the orange glow
i remember being scared in abandoned places that lead to the railway track
i remember a van that felt lived in
i remember a boy lifting a girl over a climbing wall
i remember the road disappearing beneath me as i stood on the bridge that reminded me of Brooklyn bridge
i remember the point when i didn't know if i was inside or outside
i remember carrying a broken mirror
i remember being lost in the woods and coming across a campsite
i remember being the only woman in crowds of men, so many bowls games
i remember a race
i remember her standing with a buggy by the car
i remember the lake
i remember puppets and yellow trees
i remember them listening to the radio on steps
i remember his gut
i remember the journey
i remember the road like a tunnel or a well.
Walking has real potential for story telling, as a journey is the ultimate story. tales of travelers arriving and discovering. The narrative quality of a journey can be found in every walk.
This is currently one of my major concerns, on return, how will i tell the stories of my walks.
through words, through conversation, through pictures, through video, through maps.
i could lie...well, exagerate?
Sunday, November 16, 2008
sketches, maps and plans
SKETCHES:
there are two types of line; threads and traces. threads can be entangled, suspended between two points, threads have surfaces. traces can be an extra layer or scratched, etched and engraved.
MAPS:
there are two types of line; threads and traces. threads can be entangled, suspended between two points, threads have surfaces. traces can be an extra layer or scratched, etched and engraved.
MAPS:
'maps bear witness to walks'
'the map, although static, implies a narrative idea'
PLANS:
by the string of metro tickets it says; for everytime i didn't walk
www.couchsurfing.com
www.couchsurfing.com
A project that is bigger than me.
A way to infiltrate the city.
To create and build exchange.
A shared umbrella of ‘alternative tourism’, throwing away the guide book, experiencing a place for what it is, through the filter of a person – a host, but not a guide, a friend.
I walk with the people I meet to fill the streets with conversation.
To aid memory – fixing words to places.
To encourage pondering thoughts.
To allow silence.
I have made Conversation maps. The spoken lines linger around places, floating just of a street name.
Strangers in a strange city. Another blank canvas – a new relationship.
For fresh eyes
New stories, histories, lies, answers, questions
So you are writing a book? What are you looking for?
She said this and he said that they are both wrong he says it’s like this.
Different backgrounds. Time periods. Circumstances.
“So you are gathering samples? Yes?”
In the evening, at lunch, in a museum, a cafe, a street, usually a metro stop…reaching the top of the elevator transforming a photograph into 3D…bald head beard bald head beard bald head bead brown eyes.
Odeon at 2pm
Hotel de Ville at 1pm
Abbesses at 10pm
Academically speaking, I am investigating conversation as research and walking as a research tool.
A project that is bigger than me.
A way to infiltrate the city.
To create and build exchange.
A shared umbrella of ‘alternative tourism’, throwing away the guide book, experiencing a place for what it is, through the filter of a person – a host, but not a guide, a friend.
I walk with the people I meet to fill the streets with conversation.
To aid memory – fixing words to places.
To encourage pondering thoughts.
To allow silence.
I have made Conversation maps. The spoken lines linger around places, floating just of a street name.
Strangers in a strange city. Another blank canvas – a new relationship.
For fresh eyes
New stories, histories, lies, answers, questions
So you are writing a book? What are you looking for?
She said this and he said that they are both wrong he says it’s like this.
Different backgrounds. Time periods. Circumstances.
“So you are gathering samples? Yes?”
In the evening, at lunch, in a museum, a cafe, a street, usually a metro stop…reaching the top of the elevator transforming a photograph into 3D…bald head beard bald head beard bald head bead brown eyes.
Odeon at 2pm
Hotel de Ville at 1pm
Abbesses at 10pm
Academically speaking, I am investigating conversation as research and walking as a research tool.
standing still, car crashes and 7am
i caught the metro to nation in the 12th and walked with the rule of filming myself standing still where there was a surface for my camera. when i had filmed i left a strip of red tape where the camera sat. i filmed until my battery ran out, which was quite soon..
after this walk i began to follow people (based on the work of sophie calle and vito acconci - i follow until i lose them or they enter a private space), i do this when i feel lost...it is a way to escape decision, to change direction, to change pace, to have a focus, to be loosely attached to someone else...i don't want to know where they are going or where they came from, i am interested in the information i receive in the moments when we are attached. i purposefully join our paths.
an old lady leaves the tabac with a lotto ticket in her hand. she is in a blue coat and has a grey bob that is tucked behind her ears. we both witness a car crash. the silver car hit the parked blue van. it is stuck in the middle of the cross roads and is steaming...she stays to watch the scene pan out - she gossips with the gathering and stays long enough to tell the late comers what has happened. the driver is obviously drunk and there are two young children in the back. he tries to restart the car but is taken out by a policeman and helpful civilians...the policeman leaves and so does the old lady. i attach myself to a black coated lady who moves to fast for me to keep her...she runs her hands along railings and pushes her fingertips together when she walks. i lose her around a corner. i cross the lady with a lady who has a see-through bag...she enters the dry cleaners and i wait. she leaves and enters the pharmacy. i wait. green brooms sweep the small yellow leaves, that rest on the ground like fallen confetti - the scene after a wedding - after it all fell...i lose sight of her. i left the car crash rehearsing how i would tell its story... a man with crooked legs and a cigar - he is easy to follow as his cigar stink lingers far behind him. i am a sniffer dog with a path to follow. we return to the street of the crash and the car is being towed away, soon it will be like nothing happened in this quiet area of the city...i look up from writing and he has gone...i am left with high pitched drills, a group photo being taken outside restaurant lupin and a man trying to balance his bike laden with bags.
TODAY I WALKED WITH WILL IN TOKYO...(instruction: film whilst walking)
prewalk (7am) - i wake at this ungodly hour. i watch the street i will enter, it looks unprepared for my arrival. he is in the midst of his day and i have just been woken from a dream. i am excited about seeing sunrise. i have thoughts of a wartime wife - she wakes up when he does just to feel joined to him - so they can at least keep breakfast time together. i wait cloaked and backpacked for the clock to strike 7 and i will enter that familiar smell of morning, i will witness the beginning.
post walk (10am) - the early morning belongs to the homeless, deep in dreams in cardboard boxes, makeshift cocoons, or rising out of tunnels woken by the first ruptures of city traffic...i can walk in the middle of the road...i watch the sky change colour from black, to navy, to grey. i watch it change with the rooftops. a man was being sick and a woman unconscious. people checked in to hotels, tall and being tailed with wheeled belongings...i cross the river alone..i walk through the vast space which is usually so populated...jogger jogs towards me jogger jogs away from me..it closes in on 9 o clock and i find my self muttering 'i just want a croissant' but Paris is in no hurry to open. this time is for dog walking and jogging - no hurry at all. i have ventured west and so am in a rich area. grand flats where arguments leak out but cannot be pinpointed...on passing a large red oriental building that jumps me straight to Tokyo. its corners flick out like an 80s hairdo...the park is beautiful, with a ring road of determined joggers and two women with suitcases who look lost...the streets are wet but not from rain. he kneels on the curb - the early bird.
Friday, November 14, 2008
walking just to hear the sound of my new boots
place d'estienne (trinite square)
The church is encased by a half shell of cafes and wedding dress shops. In front is a small park of low hedges and green benches which i have never seen fully occupied. There is a small boutique with fancy hats and a chocolatier with a curtain to stop the sun melting its goods. The churches archways shelter the homeless, who curl up in the corners. directly opposite is royal trinite cafe, whose sign is in capitals and red neon, but i am in la rotonde which is always busy. inside are purple chairs with a round seat and purple and gold striped backs. The waiters and alert, fast and efficient. at one point you can see a slither of the kitchen, where the plates are put on silver shelves and taken on the palm of a waiter. its cool because the door is open but the concentration of people means it doesn't matter. i hear the coffee machine and the cling clang of spoons. the round tables are floating islands of conversations, the waiters bounce between them like dodgem cars of steam boats. The glass panes look out on to the metro where people disappear down the escalator. The floor is tiled with beige stones and the lights are striped orange and red. i have been sitting here so long that the waiter must have passed the thought of me leaving anytime soon. the round table is dark brown, almost black. i am saving this cafe. here is the only time i have thought about returning to Paris. i am listing the places i feel the urge to write about...buttes chaumont, the 19th, opera, gare du nord, montmatre cemetery, st Georges....i am suddenly intrigued as to my feelings of this city on return. i am a foreigner and so apparently their are secrets in this city that i am apparently denied. but i have secrets too. i share them with the city. and on return, i Will walk and retrace and smile..and no1 will know what i am smiling about. small bubbles rise from a shapely glass of kronenburg. two men in moss green coats rest on the bar. outside i can see the clock that is square with cut off corners, they appear on all useful lampposts. in the park are bright pictures and the church is lit up, not grandly, but just enough.
after this i walk for two hours in the company of my fairly new shoes that sound so good. I ponder on buying silver buttons. I decide what to do tomorrow. I discover how much i like rue du marche saint honore, as by day the glass walkway is filled with business people in black but by this time it is occupied by silent BMX riders, practicing, gliding and plugged in to their ipods.
The church is encased by a half shell of cafes and wedding dress shops. In front is a small park of low hedges and green benches which i have never seen fully occupied. There is a small boutique with fancy hats and a chocolatier with a curtain to stop the sun melting its goods. The churches archways shelter the homeless, who curl up in the corners. directly opposite is royal trinite cafe, whose sign is in capitals and red neon, but i am in la rotonde which is always busy. inside are purple chairs with a round seat and purple and gold striped backs. The waiters and alert, fast and efficient. at one point you can see a slither of the kitchen, where the plates are put on silver shelves and taken on the palm of a waiter. its cool because the door is open but the concentration of people means it doesn't matter. i hear the coffee machine and the cling clang of spoons. the round tables are floating islands of conversations, the waiters bounce between them like dodgem cars of steam boats. The glass panes look out on to the metro where people disappear down the escalator. The floor is tiled with beige stones and the lights are striped orange and red. i have been sitting here so long that the waiter must have passed the thought of me leaving anytime soon. the round table is dark brown, almost black. i am saving this cafe. here is the only time i have thought about returning to Paris. i am listing the places i feel the urge to write about...buttes chaumont, the 19th, opera, gare du nord, montmatre cemetery, st Georges....i am suddenly intrigued as to my feelings of this city on return. i am a foreigner and so apparently their are secrets in this city that i am apparently denied. but i have secrets too. i share them with the city. and on return, i Will walk and retrace and smile..and no1 will know what i am smiling about. small bubbles rise from a shapely glass of kronenburg. two men in moss green coats rest on the bar. outside i can see the clock that is square with cut off corners, they appear on all useful lampposts. in the park are bright pictures and the church is lit up, not grandly, but just enough.
after this i walk for two hours in the company of my fairly new shoes that sound so good. I ponder on buying silver buttons. I decide what to do tomorrow. I discover how much i like rue du marche saint honore, as by day the glass walkway is filled with business people in black but by this time it is occupied by silent BMX riders, practicing, gliding and plugged in to their ipods.
i like your scooter (updated)
i walked with Jack in New York..it was strange as sometimes when i walked i knew exactly what it would feel like if he was walking beside me..i know what jack's presence feels like. i imagined him on the left side of me when i was in the park. i also suddenly heard many American voices..
'you go ahead I've got the ticket'...'have we been this way'...'sure honey whatever you want'...
i was very central so a prime area for tourists, but maybe my New York connection was bringing them to my attention more than usual. i managed to wonder into Musee d'orsay on this walk, my wandering mentality meant i breezed pass security without a problem, i was invisible to them, i strolled past huge oil paintings and stone statues of women with arched backs and young men with tambourines. I know what New York looks like, so i became aware of the differences, the sky line is much lower here, the tops of buildings are not straight and the corners are curved. the shop fronts are smaller but then seem to swell outwards once you are in. many of the shops are empty, their windows are like islands of lights drawing towards them the moths of the street, but nobody goes in. i wrote Jack a postcard with no intention of sending it. I have done many of these walks with my friends in many places. I like that i am crossing places over, overlapping journeys...and just through the simple action it brings to light the connections and overlapping of people all over the world. when you see someone walking in the street they have a world of connections, pathways, places and people trailing off behind them...but we cannot see this, we can only imagine when we try. but it is impossible to do this for every walker in the street, its similar to feeling empathy for every person you see, its a nice idea but ultimately it will drive you crazy. so i stick to this simple action of walking, knowing that i am walking, and so is someone else, and that everything i see on my walk is being balanced out, merged, compared to everything he sees on his walk. i am moving tectonic plates, defying gravity, forming a new map. i can cut out new york city with my scissors and place it over Paris with some glue.
text from postcard:
i bought this card for jack - it cost one euro
in the tuleries the sun is low, i hear American voices.
people are wrapped up around the pond. They play bowls. They walk arm in arm.
The Gravel crunches under scooters. SOUPE DE LEGUMES 8,50
"and then one day..many things...fools and kings..the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." *trombone solo*
By the Seine the grass has been worn down.
In Musee d'orsay the ceiling is curved - the lights hang like droplets.
a girl draws a sketch of this statue (sketch of statue)
I find out that the original la danse statue from de l'opera is here - the one at l'opera is a copy.
SPOTTED DRESS AND WELLINGTON BOOTS.
a piece of red tape..next to a yellow post box.
It grows darker and the show windows begin to light up patches of the street.
here the cars are the dominant sound. black poles with round tops punctuate the street and the antique shops walls are painted scarlet red.
chickens turn in the oven and Nike trainers walk in front of me.
UNDER ST.RITA's STATUE ARE FOLDED NOTES OF VARIOUS SIZES.
in the church the chairs are in rows but empty. wooden and wicker. CREPE SUCRE 2 euros
He holds a white paper cup quietly and they eat sandwiches on the steps. The fence is decorated with pieces of sellotape from previous posters.
i have become aware of how my style of writinghas developed, being descriptive, i am constantly writing for someone who isn't there. postcard writing. how can you create the image of a place, a walk, a scene, a city...just by the words you chose..the lines you make. this is echoed in my drawings, thin squiggly lines, trying to capture a place to be shown to someone later..or just as a memory, lines that will trigger the real image in my mind. my words just as my drawings, are not the complete picture, they require filling in the gaps. i think about theatre and how can we take the audience somewhere they have never been just by the lines we create - spoken, written, performed, drawn...
Paris feels particular to this topic, feeling satisfied by the city whilst frustrated by not finding the write words to describe such a place..i have constantly been asking people about paris..'that is paris' 'paris is this' 'paris is that' they say, all with different opinions but equally as sure.
'everything in this city has a quality that defies analysis but enables you to say without hesitation: 'That is Paris' - even if it is a milk can dangling from a door knob, or one of those coarse brooms sweeping up the leaves at the pavements edge in October with a sound like the sea, or an array of tired-looking volumes in a booksellers box on the embankment between pont neuf and pont royal. Why this should be so i do no know, Paris sets it seal on everything that belongs to it.' Julian Green
i went on a night walk with some friends i used this as an opportunity to make a video. i like using walks as a way of seeking out shots for the camera. having a simple action (jumping) and letting it be the place that defines it. i like how the camera is a type of selection. a cutting and pasting. i form a new map with this film, i rearrange shots...and therefore places. in the construction of this video i formed a simple narrative. the joining and meeting of people...and then the separation. i chose jumping as i am interested in peoples physical behaviour in space. how jumping in one place can be completely acceptable but taking it out of context, and into another space, the act of jumping is viewed differently (and the space) as being about effort, trying to lift off, failing, weight, humour. making this at night was also interesting in terms of light, i have noticed in Paris how some streets appear lime green or orange depending on the light...and then you have the Eiffel tower which glows blue. ultimately this video was fun to make, impulsive and part of (and the documentation of) a good long walk..
i filmed this on a my small digital camera so the quality is poor and also i couldn't rotate the shots. this isn't a complaint this is just how it is.
'you go ahead I've got the ticket'...'have we been this way'...'sure honey whatever you want'...
i was very central so a prime area for tourists, but maybe my New York connection was bringing them to my attention more than usual. i managed to wonder into Musee d'orsay on this walk, my wandering mentality meant i breezed pass security without a problem, i was invisible to them, i strolled past huge oil paintings and stone statues of women with arched backs and young men with tambourines. I know what New York looks like, so i became aware of the differences, the sky line is much lower here, the tops of buildings are not straight and the corners are curved. the shop fronts are smaller but then seem to swell outwards once you are in. many of the shops are empty, their windows are like islands of lights drawing towards them the moths of the street, but nobody goes in. i wrote Jack a postcard with no intention of sending it. I have done many of these walks with my friends in many places. I like that i am crossing places over, overlapping journeys...and just through the simple action it brings to light the connections and overlapping of people all over the world. when you see someone walking in the street they have a world of connections, pathways, places and people trailing off behind them...but we cannot see this, we can only imagine when we try. but it is impossible to do this for every walker in the street, its similar to feeling empathy for every person you see, its a nice idea but ultimately it will drive you crazy. so i stick to this simple action of walking, knowing that i am walking, and so is someone else, and that everything i see on my walk is being balanced out, merged, compared to everything he sees on his walk. i am moving tectonic plates, defying gravity, forming a new map. i can cut out new york city with my scissors and place it over Paris with some glue.
text from postcard:
i bought this card for jack - it cost one euro
in the tuleries the sun is low, i hear American voices.
people are wrapped up around the pond. They play bowls. They walk arm in arm.
The Gravel crunches under scooters. SOUPE DE LEGUMES 8,50
"and then one day..many things...fools and kings..the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." *trombone solo*
By the Seine the grass has been worn down.
In Musee d'orsay the ceiling is curved - the lights hang like droplets.
a girl draws a sketch of this statue (sketch of statue)
I find out that the original la danse statue from de l'opera is here - the one at l'opera is a copy.
SPOTTED DRESS AND WELLINGTON BOOTS.
a piece of red tape..next to a yellow post box.
It grows darker and the show windows begin to light up patches of the street.
here the cars are the dominant sound. black poles with round tops punctuate the street and the antique shops walls are painted scarlet red.
chickens turn in the oven and Nike trainers walk in front of me.
UNDER ST.RITA's STATUE ARE FOLDED NOTES OF VARIOUS SIZES.
in the church the chairs are in rows but empty. wooden and wicker. CREPE SUCRE 2 euros
He holds a white paper cup quietly and they eat sandwiches on the steps. The fence is decorated with pieces of sellotape from previous posters.
i have become aware of how my style of writinghas developed, being descriptive, i am constantly writing for someone who isn't there. postcard writing. how can you create the image of a place, a walk, a scene, a city...just by the words you chose..the lines you make. this is echoed in my drawings, thin squiggly lines, trying to capture a place to be shown to someone later..or just as a memory, lines that will trigger the real image in my mind. my words just as my drawings, are not the complete picture, they require filling in the gaps. i think about theatre and how can we take the audience somewhere they have never been just by the lines we create - spoken, written, performed, drawn...
Paris feels particular to this topic, feeling satisfied by the city whilst frustrated by not finding the write words to describe such a place..i have constantly been asking people about paris..'that is paris' 'paris is this' 'paris is that' they say, all with different opinions but equally as sure.
'everything in this city has a quality that defies analysis but enables you to say without hesitation: 'That is Paris' - even if it is a milk can dangling from a door knob, or one of those coarse brooms sweeping up the leaves at the pavements edge in October with a sound like the sea, or an array of tired-looking volumes in a booksellers box on the embankment between pont neuf and pont royal. Why this should be so i do no know, Paris sets it seal on everything that belongs to it.' Julian Green
i went on a night walk with some friends i used this as an opportunity to make a video. i like using walks as a way of seeking out shots for the camera. having a simple action (jumping) and letting it be the place that defines it. i like how the camera is a type of selection. a cutting and pasting. i form a new map with this film, i rearrange shots...and therefore places. in the construction of this video i formed a simple narrative. the joining and meeting of people...and then the separation. i chose jumping as i am interested in peoples physical behaviour in space. how jumping in one place can be completely acceptable but taking it out of context, and into another space, the act of jumping is viewed differently (and the space) as being about effort, trying to lift off, failing, weight, humour. making this at night was also interesting in terms of light, i have noticed in Paris how some streets appear lime green or orange depending on the light...and then you have the Eiffel tower which glows blue. ultimately this video was fun to make, impulsive and part of (and the documentation of) a good long walk..
i filmed this on a my small digital camera so the quality is poor and also i couldn't rotate the shots. this isn't a complaint this is just how it is.
since i came to Paris i have been filming scooters. it started as just filming red things, red scooters are very popular. but then i discovered yellow scooters, blue scooters, pink scooters and orange scooters..i filmed them all and have formed a healthy collection. after one walk i began to think about my relationship with the city, my presence in the city. so i decided to leave bits of red tape where i went - adding to the aesthetic of the city. this then developed into leaving red bits of tape on the scooters i film. these bits of red tape are attached to a note simply saying... j'aime votre scooter...for this is true, i just like the scooter.
message to anyone who got a note on their scooter:
hello, i like your scooter. I am walking in Paris, filming and writing about what i see on my walks. i like to walk with people..i also have a dream to ride on a scooter whilst i am here...contact me h.sullivan@dartington.ac.uk. alternatively, if you didn't appreciate my note, sorry, have a nice day.
i am bored of being silent in the city. i feel Paris has made such a big impression on me that i somehow need to lean back on it or i will just fall over.
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