Impressed by the Wolf

So last night, on a whim, I decided to go see some folky singer-songwriter inspired by Stockhausen. At least that was what I had gathered from the press release. The fact that I chose to be in the back near the exit for a fast getaway speaks to my lack of confidence. When I saw the mini-guitar, the violin (or is it the viola?), the ukelele, the piano, AND the drums on the stage, I had expected something gimmicky along the lines of--aren't I so cool and multi-talented? And then two people show up on stage without shoes, one the drummer and the other who did everything else...and then my metaphorical socks were fucking rocked off by an incredible artist and performer by the name of Patrick Wolf.

Patrick Wolf is adept on all of the instruments (unlike certain who just randomly add random instruments to their repertoire) and his voice's range and power is as incredible as scary. He rocks out, but it's a slow build-up of quiet sounds, sometimes accentuated by a steady drumbeat. (Tonight's performance the drums were miked too much and overshadowed the piano/guitar/singing sometimes.) In some ways, his music reminds me of Bedhead's musical integrity--just let your music get to where they should be without force and suddenly they are there like a wave washing over you. I prefer him most on piano, as I was converted into fandom by his song "Empress" which started out with Stockhausen covered with Morissey-like lyrics and ended as just rocking out. His strings, while in the strain of non-classical new-music-ish usage, was creative, plucking out the better half of a song on pizzicato. I think this is the first non-intellectual interpretation of Stockhausen I have ever experienced, and that time with feeling instead of intellectual masturbation of aren't I clever.

Through the performance, I got a feel for who he is and what his music is, as though he was giving his audience a little slice of heart to taste. His biography, which I just looked up, makes him all the more tantalizing. I heart Patrick Wolf. And can somebody out there tell me where to find his "Empress" song? It's not on either of his albums; could I have heard the name wrong?

Public Service Announcement : My Breasts are Deaf and Dumb

Walking home from work today, I noticed a long paint-spattered mirror that I thought would look nice in my future apartment. This particular mirror was under the arm of a man. He noticed that I noticed, so he decided to strike up a conversation:

“Are you Japanese?” … “I’m a painter.” … “You have a beautiful smile; I’d like to paint you sometime and give you the portrait.” [nude? I wondered, as his eyes looked me up and down]… “Are you Chinese?”

As I continued walking without answering, he finally gave up, “Guess you must not like compliments, although I could make many about you.”

That made me smile, which was the crack into which he leapt to continue the conversation. While he was interrogating me on the art museums I’ve been to in Paris, he would not stop staring at my breasts. I felt like he was asking them, “Have you been to many art museums in Paris? Did you go to that Japanese exhibit at the Grand Palais?” This was an exhibition of erotic ukiyo-e prints, which was most likely the site of many a pick-up or the scene of many an Asian-fetish-motivated seduction.

As my breasts are mute, I answered for them: “Yeah, I did…”

He passed his eyes over my lips as I spoke, but then he asked the area under my neck: “What about the Musée Guimet?”

“Yeah, that too, but my interest is in contemporary art, not in Asian art,” thinking of the most recent exhibit I had seen, Africa Remix at the Centre Pompidou. I turned around, he wished me a good day, I wished him the same back, and we each continued on on way.

The key thing I have learned is that conversations in France are as easy to let go of as to pick up. So I no longer feel weird when men talk to my breasts, as I will never see them again after a turn around the next corner.

Recovering from my move in early June, I hardly went out at all. I stayed at home, sleeping and nesting. When EB called with an invite to the infamous boat parties on a private peniche docked on the Seine, I had been in bed for a few hours and had to regretfully decline. Even had I been able to get dressed, there was no way I could have danced with them until dawn. Apparently, the party ended with an illegal dip in the Seine.

So I've been missing out on a few parties. But this week made up for it in droves. Monday night E invited me to Antonio Segui's one-man show opening at the Centre Pompidou. She made a film about him, and so she got a personal invite to his show. He was nice but didn't have much to say to me. And I didn't have much to say to him either besides the usual compliments.

Wednesday night I went to a colloquium held in conjunction with Africa Remix, also at the Centre Pompidou. The conversation heated up after Professor Elvan Zabunyan at Rennes critiqued the exhibit's out-of-date geographical focus and logic. Two artists from the show who were not on the stage but in the audience wholeheartedly agreed with her. I wanted to make a comment but the moderators hardly allowed any audience member to speak, instead focusing a lot on Simon Niami, the curator of the show, who was put in the position to defend personally all the faults of the show: colonialist logic, lack of post-colonial consciousness in France, why the art world sucks. When the moderators tried to develop more range, asking Mai Adu El Dahab what she thought as an Egyptian curator, she threw the question right back at them, claiming that she knew that she was here to represent Egypt and not herself. So she wasn't even sure how to respond.

Afterwards, E and I met up with the artists she knew and went with some of the speakers to Cafe Beaubourg. I chatted a bit with Niami, when he told me that Zabunyan actually warned him of her critiques before the colloquium. He knew what was coming and didn't want to speak at all, but this is part of the 'game', as Ntone Edjabe put it. Ntone is a DJ and writer as well as publisher of the S African magazine Chimurenga, which translates to 'struggle'. With both of us being outsiders in France, we got a good talk going about why France has no colonial memory. Claire, a French metisse, finally explained to me why my friends of color in Paris refer to themselves 'black' and not 'noirs': France is so supposedly color-blind as a country that to hear color applied to people is shocking, practically unthinkable. 'Black' a la americain is even kinda cool, but 'noir', now that's not somewhere the French want to go. The conversation was good; we stayed there until the lights turned on.

Thursday I went back for even more fun. When I arrived, I couldn't find E. But I find Alexis, a classmate from my undergraduate years. She is here as her mentor Achille Mbembe is giving a talk. We first went up to the cafe in the museum but as they didn't serve drinks, we ended up at Cafe Beaubourg...again. When we arrived, the artists and curators were already esconced at the tables we were last night. I followed my curiosity and went with the academics to the outside terrace: besides Mbembe and Alexis, there were four other professors/PhD candidates in this party. Eventually, I went around to the artists' tables and scandalized the two artists I met that I hadbn't even seen their show yet! I told them that I was just here to have fun...

The night ended with an amazing talk with Orlando Britto, basically telling me that the art world is not ideal, that you suffer in it while you're young, don't think people are your friends just because you drink and party with them, don't take the shit, and always be positive. I feel like he is one wise, nice man.

So after Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday socializing around the Centre Pompidou, I need to give myself a rest. Nontheless, this past week just confirmed my desire to stay in the area.