Whjat is worth Knowing 3 (newsletter from the Hotel Architecture
Last week at this time I had taken a trip in the metro to see Perrault's library, the Francois Mitterand National Library, in Bercy, Paris. It was pouring with rain and the elegant black pack-a-mac from Muji was doing its job; preventing serious saturation. The wet decking looked spectacular as the four huge glass and steel structures cornered the site within which lay a deep, artificial forest. It was a stage set that the French seem to do so well in order to convince everyone else (not themsleves) of the need to be uncompromisingly modern.
I entered, took off the by-now sweating Muji overall and sought out the exhibition on Jean Paul Sartre. The library had presence, held itself well, the red carpet gleamed; there was a sense of hush about a place that appeared so holy as to be ordinary. The merchandising was
in full swing, the security men in place, and I picked up books by Michel Onfray (Esthetique du pole Nord) and Daniel Arasse, 'On n'y voit rien'. I do this often; the French language being one of those that can drown you pleasurably in your own ignorance.
The Sartre exhibition was suitably National Library aesthetic, glass cases, sample documents and scripts, chronology, film and the essential blow-up, computerised sequences and cubiccles with extracts from Sartre's theatrical oeuvre. In sum, when I was asked later, I realised what I didn't realise walking around: despite the mass of information, there was a lack of vibrancy. Despite Che, Fidel, Danny the Red, the Algerian war, the Hungarian invasion, despite les deux magots, the myth and micro-histories of the Paris left bank and St. Germain-des-Pres
the appeal of all sorts of reason and un-reason, there was an emtpiness, a void which was not filled in.
Perhaps this is what happens. History must empty itself to be re-written. Without re-writings we are lost. I left wanting to start Sartre all over again and the one book of his that made such an impression on me at 17, Nausea (originally entitled Melancholia).
Outside the rain had ceased, the decking had dried somewhat and the most appropriate thing to do was to take the ramped escalator and set the Sony Cybershot camera to film clip and record the passing of the joints in the wrapped stainless steel and the blurring of life and architecture as I reached the deck level, and breathed earth, wind and fire again.
Paris!
We were to rendez-vous at 4'o clock. It was just past 1. It's love, you see, love always makes you wait until the arms open again and architecture enters just to deflect you once more.
I will be with you next week, probably April 6th. Please have your narratives finished and a
board game' idea to begin the second part of the I Am Architecture seminar.
Until then, be careful of the sweating black plastic.
I entered, took off the by-now sweating Muji overall and sought out the exhibition on Jean Paul Sartre. The library had presence, held itself well, the red carpet gleamed; there was a sense of hush about a place that appeared so holy as to be ordinary. The merchandising was
in full swing, the security men in place, and I picked up books by Michel Onfray (Esthetique du pole Nord) and Daniel Arasse, 'On n'y voit rien'. I do this often; the French language being one of those that can drown you pleasurably in your own ignorance.
The Sartre exhibition was suitably National Library aesthetic, glass cases, sample documents and scripts, chronology, film and the essential blow-up, computerised sequences and cubiccles with extracts from Sartre's theatrical oeuvre. In sum, when I was asked later, I realised what I didn't realise walking around: despite the mass of information, there was a lack of vibrancy. Despite Che, Fidel, Danny the Red, the Algerian war, the Hungarian invasion, despite les deux magots, the myth and micro-histories of the Paris left bank and St. Germain-des-Pres
the appeal of all sorts of reason and un-reason, there was an emtpiness, a void which was not filled in.
Perhaps this is what happens. History must empty itself to be re-written. Without re-writings we are lost. I left wanting to start Sartre all over again and the one book of his that made such an impression on me at 17, Nausea (originally entitled Melancholia).
Outside the rain had ceased, the decking had dried somewhat and the most appropriate thing to do was to take the ramped escalator and set the Sony Cybershot camera to film clip and record the passing of the joints in the wrapped stainless steel and the blurring of life and architecture as I reached the deck level, and breathed earth, wind and fire again.
Paris!
We were to rendez-vous at 4'o clock. It was just past 1. It's love, you see, love always makes you wait until the arms open again and architecture enters just to deflect you once more.
I will be with you next week, probably April 6th. Please have your narratives finished and a
board game' idea to begin the second part of the I Am Architecture seminar.
Until then, be careful of the sweating black plastic.
posted by frank heron at 6:16 AM
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