Une Connerie Extraordinaire!

The most politically questionable sculptural installation project in Europe in the last decade has to be that of the completion of the Fountain du Soleil and the Sept Scultures Illuminées de Sept Continents. This monument to something not yet clear to me, now defines the Place Massena, which is in my opinion …the heart and Soul of the City of Nice.

Had I considered myself pudique I hardly would have settled in France…particularly Nice... but this most recent project has tested the limits of my comprehension.

At the centre of the Fontaine du Soleil… standing haughty and very, very, white (marble) in all of his “butt naked glory” at the entrance to the Old Town of Nice is Apollo!

photos by dwelch-tyson

All of you know him, I’m sure: the God…Greek God, I emphasize…of light and the sun, truth and prophecy, enlightenment medicine, healing, plague, music, poetry, arts, archery…everything… and I suppose our very existence as well.

He is the son of Zeus and Leto and twin brother of the “chaste “(ah…hem, look, I didn’t write this stuff. I wasn’t even born yet) huntress Artemis. Surrounding Him are five bronze statues of fabulously buffed naked men and a voluptuous broad or two...one toting a baby... accompanied by their animals. Allegedly, these Greco-Roman mythological folks represent the planets, Earth, Mars, Mercury and Saturn.

Yeah, right!

The inauguration took place on June 20th of this year (I happened to be in New York at the time and missed out on the “festivities”). Apollo is now back at his old location at the Place Massena after almost 40 years of censure.

It was rumoured that he was banned  back in the 70s for being “overly well endowed”. This I find hard to believe because, in my opinion ( based on, of course, quite limited experience in these matters), he appears to me to be in completely perfect proportion throughout…if you get my drift.

But then what do I know? I’ve never been with a Greek!

So, back then,  after considerable controversy, Apollo was exiled to North Nice to the Sports Stadium, Parc des Sport Charles Ehrmann.

To my way of thinking, a sports stadium seemed to be a far more appropriate place to reside, outside of perhaps as a centrepiece for a Gay Disco, for this particular Deity.

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This Apollo now complements the contemporary art installation commissioned from the Catalan artist Jaume Plensa which frame the tracks of the Tramway.

Plensa’s towering seven white resin sculptures, which punctuate the square, are of naked men. These men are sitting on 10 meter high poles. Each man lights up the night with a play of light which bounces from one statue to the other signifying communications between the seven continents. 
This interplay of light flashing reduces the Tramway to a dubious image of an ominous phallic image snaking its way though core of Nissa La Bella.

I have been informed that the work is called “Conversations in Nice.”

Yeah, right!


It’s not the Apollo statue itself which perturbs me, it is the cumulative message of the entire centre city installation!

When a friend, appealing to my own personal sense of swagger bragged to me, years ago, how her Niçois population was rather “butch” I had no idea that this was what they were referring to.

Considering the sorry state of Greece today, it hardly seems fitting to have that kind of karma dominating the downtown area of a major French city!

Running Late!

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View from Windows on the World Restaurant

  I realize that this is October 11th…an entire month after most expats have posted their remembrance of 9/11. Finally here is mine.

So sorry about running late!

We had already been living in France, in Villefranche Sur Mer, for over two years on that fateful day when we were running late for an appointment in Nice.

My husband called me into our Den, pointed to the TV screen and said, “Look at this! What do you think of this?”

We both stared… horrified… at the image of a blazing tower of the World Trade Center. The news announcer had said that a plane had flown into the building.

Realizing that, as native New Yorkers, many of our friends and relatives were still living in the New York City Metropolitan area and that it appeared that they were now under attack, we looked at one another…speechless…and frightened in a manner we had never experienced in our entire adult life.

"Perhaps those N.Y.U. film students are up to their old shenanigans again…seizing the TV stations...or something...,” I quipped, in a misguided attempt at adding levity to our state of confusion..

What one earth was going on?



Should we call home?



We did. All the lines were busy.



We were running late for our appointment in Nice.



We turned off the TV got in our car and immediately turned on the news on Riviera Radio, just in time too hear the announcer state quite flatly that ‘the Twin Towers were no more!”

Impossible!



That massive structure… the Titanic of Manhattan (I had prophetically called it for years), could not possibly be gone! Transforming from a flaming inferno of death and destruction... to now toxic rubble. After all, we had just had dinner with friends at its restaurant, Windows on the World, a couple of years earlier for my birthday!

Impossible! Ridiculous!

Those film school students should be flogged, I thought again, just not wanting to believe.

We went though the rest of the day, after our appointment, running errands and buying newspapers. Not a single person we encountered in our local French Riviera towns seemed to us to have heard or read anything, despite the screaming headlines. Not one person broached the subject. Not a twit or tweet…so to speak.

Anyway when we finally got through to various friends and relatives in New York City, over the next few days, this is what we heard:

“I was running late…looked out my window and saw a plane flying into one of the towers…”

Another:

“I was running late, I turned on the TV to see that a second plane had already flown into the World Trade Center building. I realized I would not be going to work!”

Another:

“I was running late. My view from Jersey faces lower Manhattan. When I looked out my window, I saw smoke. I put on my binoculars to see what was happening. There was no way I was going to work that day!”

Another:

“My husband and I were running late on the Long Island Railroad. When we arrived at Grand Central there was pandemonium. Everyone screaming about a terrorist attack in lower Manhattan. I realized, then that I had no physical courage.”

And another:

“I was running late. When I arrived at the lobby of my apartment building, my Doorman said that there had been an attack on the World Trade building. Obviously I wasn’t exacting going to go to work. All I know is that I better get paid this month!”

And finally…

"I was running late to my job at the World Trade Center.. If I had arrived minutes earlier, I would not be here talking to you at this very moment because I would have been in the building's elevator when the first plane hit the building!”

My conclusion is that, as my Mom would say, I am "truly blessed” to have had tardy friends and relatives!

For the record though, despite surviving the worst catastrophe in North American history committed on North American soil, the general fall- out resulted in a certain amount of alienation from friends Stateside.. An alienation which generally grows between those who have physically survived a holocaust and those who only experienced one in theory or by distance.


Those survivors in New York had to continue to work and breath in contaminated air. All had to work, in various ways, through posttraumatic stress disorders and a lingering and haunting fear that there had not yet been closure in the assault.

Nevertheless we all still live…except one friend who I lost three years ago to the long-term effects of having to continue to work at her office near Ground Zero.


She had been running late that day as well.

Graffiti in Monte Carlo? Yo Man....That's ***Whack!!!

L'Art du Graffiti, Monaco

***Whack: an event, action, or thing which makes no sense or is contrary to a logical course of action; something entirely disagreable or undesirable; A non-sequitor;

ie: "That's whack! "

 No way.  It's not whack, people...actually it's ***dope!

***dope: adj. cool, nice, awesome

Okay...enough.  Since I'm closer to the Woodstock Generation than the Hip Hop, allow me to step into someone else's generational lingo and tell you about my relationship with Grafitti.

Let me tell you that back in the early eighties, Graffiti saved my bacon!

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Three weeks before the inauguration of my gallery..the first to specialize in the artwork created by children... two of my artists got "cold feet" and cancelled. There was major press coverage planned, a vernissage (gallery opening party), the invitations (fortunately) were still sitting on my desk and I was faced with  20' X 20'  of blank wall space!

A real ***"bummer"...right?

***Bummer: A situation in which no desirable result can occur.

No way.  Wrong, again!

The phone rings and a teacher from a prestigious arts high school was asking me if I would consider one of their students for a future show at my gallery.

Hmmm...

The next morning, in walks a cute dark-eyed Hispanic kid,  clad in ***Girbauds and ***Reeboks, accompanied by his ***homie.

***Girbauds: Jeans that anybody can wear but mostly black people. (Girbaud has straps on it that says M+FG. M+FG is a name that stands for Marthé et François. Most of the girbauds r sold in the city. "The best f_cking pants or shorts you can have. Also apparently the most expensive too. The real ones have straps on both legs: 1 on each side for shorts and 2 on each side for pants. On the straps, the real ones, it says M+FGIRBAUD and it keeps saying that. If your sh_t says Girbaud in cursive your sh_t is fake. They can come in different colors for the pants and straps. And some stupid ass ni_gas be spelling them all wrong and sh_t cuz it's that's French sh_t." )

***Reeboks: Gangster shoes to wear with your girbauds.

***Homie: Shortened version of homeboy, homeboy being your close friend. 

ie: Friends ask you to write down your number. Homies have you on speed dial

The artist sat down and with dramatic flourish placed a small ***Black Book on my desk. I looked from my vacant 20' X 20' wall to the relatively teensy tiny black book and silently freaked out! You see, I had no idea of the significance of this small black book, having not yet been introduced to what had come to be called the ***Hip Hop Cutlure.

***Black Book: grafitti book used for sketching plans for large urban mural projects.

***Hip Hop: name for the 4 elements of the late 70's New York City renaissance which includes break dancing, emceeing, (rapping) graffiti, and turntablism.

The three of of stared at one another in silence.  A real....long... transgenerational moment...let me tell you.

Ramellzee et Basquiat

Realizing that yours truly was absoultely clueless as I looked through the intriguing extra-terrestrial-looking sketches, the author of the black book and his homie gave me a history lesson on the Graffiti movement and the urban Hip Hop Culture.

Until that day, the only impression I had of graffiti was an often vaguely annoying presence of various ***tag names on subway cars passing by in ever increasing frequency.

Tag: a personal signature, usually vandalism with spraypaint, but can be any graffitti.

This was different. Reminiscent of ***Diego Rivera and Expressionism!

Diego Rivera: (December 8, 1886 – November 24, 1957)a prominent Mexican painter and muralist.

"Don't look scared, Ms. T" he said, laughing as my eyes again looked again from the teensy tiny black book to the naked wall space.  "These are just sketches of what I have in my studio."

Then the author promised to deliver to my gallery the following day 3 of his huge, powerful grafitti pieces on strteched linen canvases!

Lee

He delivered the pieces and I sent out the newly designed invitations.

To make a long story short...as they say...I opened this inaugural show which featured this 17-year old Grafitti artist from the Bronx. Not only was it a major media event but this artist received a large commission to paint a mural in Queens.

I and many others agreed that the show was ***Fresh!

***Fresh: Of great quality; new; original 

Intrigued by the popularity of this art form, I exhibited a number of other Graffiti artists. During this period, due to the success of the gallery and the influence of the Hip Hop culture, I ironically discovered the South of France, and eventually moved here.

And as they say... the rest is history.

Walking through this exhibit in Monaco remindend me that Graffiti not only saved my bacon, it actually, in its own way, altered the course of my life.

Homage to Ramellzee

NOW FOR ANOTHER KIND OF ZEN ACROSS THE WAY:

The Japanese Gardens, Monaco



   

déjeuner

BLIND CRITICISM

J’en ai marre !!!!!

The tourist season has officially begun here on the French Riviera. What always arrives with the hordes is the inevitable and harsh criticism of French driving habits.


I’d like to intercept a bit with this blog before the Anglophones really start getting flagrant down here!

Everyone knows that anyone’s life can be irrevocably destroyed by an intoxicated or mentally disturbed driver on the road in any country by a driver of any nationality. My question is why have the French, in particular, been given such a bad rap as drivers?

I have been recipient many times of French driving hospitality. What I have found is that my French friends and acquaintances have displayed skill and grace at ever turn…so to speak. It’s no wonder, I later learned, considering what they have to go though in order to earn the privilege to drive in their country.

How may of you who have criticized the French actually studied for the French Permis de Conduire?


Too scared, right?


And I’m willing to bet…too broke!



Then, that means you don’t know bupkis about anything French.

Want to know how I came to this conclusion? Because it is expensive, difficult and studying for it would actually result in an evolution of thinking that would cause you to realise that you had no prior knowledge of what it takes to understand of the Gallic approach to manoeuvring safely through life in France. My philosophy is in order to criticize the French you should have been educated in France and taught by the French. How else can one understand the cultural nuances of a country which has the power to seduce millions of people through its doors, whether they be rich or poor, yellow green or blue, to a place which is probably the most complicated in all of Europe? Even people from rich and powerful countries are willing to test their fate in a country which for years will render them functional illiterates!


Years ago I took the driving school plunge…so I know of what I write.


I can’t overstate the fact that the pursuit of the French Permis de Conduire is an expensive, lengthy but profoundly informative study of the psychology of the French population. Believe me, studying this will enhance one’s relationships with the French people you encounter, do business with or with whom one becomes intimately involved. It will even enable one to distinguish a foreign driver from a French one.


Imagine that!


Case in point:

One sunny afternoon, a fellow student, who is also an American, and I left another gruelling session of La Code de la Route to stop at a corner café. As we approached the curb, a car came screeching towards us in a completely misguided attempt to park in a no parking zone.

Mr. America, hisses, ., “Look at that. After they get their permits, all rules fly out the window. How typically French!


My response was, “What makes you think the driver is French?”


He pointed to the French License plate on the Italian Fiat, and said, “Look… 06 (the code for the Alpes Maritimes)!”

As if on cue, two men emerge from the car, sharing a typically boisterous conversation in Italian!

Typically French, right?

So, this is the advice from yours truly…the Expat Curmudgeon Writer on the Côte d’Azur…to American drivers in France. Stop criticizing…stay alert and either take your bigotry and pack it in your little back packs and go back home… or just get off the road and take the friggin’n bus!

Writing Tips

mixed media 12" x 36" by Delorys Welch-Tyson

"If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing."
~ Kingsley Amis

Domestic Quarrels



July 21, 1926- April 13, 2001
Josephine Premice 






"Never let a man tell you 'You look so beautiful stiring the soup' "
~Josephine Premice

Bad Manners

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(Subtitle) Bad Manners and Repugnant Behavior According to Whoopie Goldberg


So, yesterday I finished reading Whoopie Goldberg’s book, Is It Just Me? Or Is It Nuts Out There?

This, to me, was a hilarious book which basically implied that the United States has become a nation of arrogant and smug Philistines!

I would like to share with you a joke from her chapter: "Buddy is the new Nigger:"


A little black cherub is up in heaven and is kind of cruising around, and God comes walking by, and the cherub flies over and says, " Hi, God !"

God says, “Hey how are you doing?”

The cherub says, “Fine, God. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” says God.


“Am I an angel?”

God says, “No, nigger, you a bat!”



Do you find this funny?


Is it me…or is this simply a sly reference to the American majority population’s opinion of President Obama?