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Sunrise: An Impression (5 nights in the City of Light)

The year is 2006. A serene, meditative and chilly Paris november awaits......

Bonjour!

I write to you all again from a humble apartment in the centre of France where i have just arrived- nestled in the regional, mountainous town of Grenoble, winter is descending but snow is still a few weeks away.  As the title of this email suggests, here follows a reflection on what was barely enough time in the 'worldwide centre of artistic and intellectual Avant Garde'- yes, Paris (or pqrs! as this obtuse keyboard would have me type):  A city where drinking wine can be cheaper than water and the only other reasonably priced consumable is probably and comparatively bananas* Note: too many chocolate/banana crepes is never a good thing.

But yet, (obligatory pastries/crepes overindulgance aside) also a fitting destination to continue my exploration into European and French art history, alluded to in my first email- from it's Classical beginnings, Neo-Classical and then Romantic movements to the start of my journey at the Renaissance masterpieces in the Musee du Louvre (Mona Lisa: check). A passing visit through the Egyptian, Greek and Roman Antiquites, Oceanic, African and American Arts had me categorising ancient relics in the basement of the Grande Louvre dating back to the dawn of civilisation.  I soon had to narrow my focus, deciding that absorbing the history of the entire world was perhaps a little too ambitious to achieve within a week.  I thus continued though the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist era viewing works at the Musee d'Orsay and the boutique Musee Marmottan Monet.  These galleries of olde, juxtaposed against the modern day urban backdrop and Art Nouveau* of contemporary Paris with its bustling bistros and metros. (*evidenced by climbing Eiffel Tower and taking thousands of photos: check).

A day trip to Montmartre lead to the discovery of this bohemian village hub, where artists and intellectuals flocked at the turn of the Twentieth century and the likes of Picasso and Renoir once set up their easels.  Past the house of Van Gogh and to the gallery of the eccentric Paris-based Spanish sculptor, Salvadore Dali, where my artistic venture moved towards the increasingly bizarre genres of 'surrealism' and 'dadaism'.  Perched atop 'Buttre Montmartre' (the highest point in Paris) a glorious sunshine day afforded sprawling views across the city and a visit to the famed Sacre Coeur (Basilica of the Sacred Heart).  In similar architectural styles, the imposing gothic Cathedral Notre Dame seemed more at home against a dark and grey Parisian sky- probably rendering my new-found obsession with capturing gargoyles from various black&white photographic angles completely unneccessary.

In stark contrast, the ostentatious Baroque architecture seen at Chateau de Versailles was a worthy and fitting day trip to see the summer house and gardens of the 'Sun King' Louis the 14th, again, in unseasonal November sunshine.  The highly anticipated Hall of Mirrors, while under construction (like most of Paris including any Metro station you plan to stop at), once served as confirmation of economic and political supremacy representing incomparable wealth- or so the audioguide informs me.  So whilst superficially extending my (and now your?!) dinner party conversation repertoire, i am also unwittingly beginning to establish far-fetched but no doubt firm links with the 'Guille' ancestral lineage. Besides! interesting dinner party conversation currently necessitates actually speaking the language. History tells us that it was here at Versailles in 1789 that King Louis the 16th and his extravagant Queen Marie Antoinette faced the uprising of the people, fleeing the rioters who were rebelling against the Royal excesses of the time.  They eventually met their fate at the hands of my forefathers and La Madame Guillotine (along with 17000 others) signalling the end of the French Monarchy and the start of the Empirical age.

Perhaps not my families' fondest memory, but it is from these bloody beginnings that i start to cement my rightful place in the history of France.  This is further confirmed through the second half of the Twentieth Century when, no doubt an indirect family relation (and likely forgotten if not so), Armand Guillaumin, formed part of the French Impressionist movement.  The lesser known to Monet, Manet, Renoir and Degas to name a few; A group of painters who were inspired by the outdoors and fleeting effects of light.  Their works defied the Academy and traditional press, overturning established conceptions of art in the second half of the Nineteenth Century. (Monet's Japanese Bridge, Hay Stacks and Nympheas Water lillies: check)

And so an epic adventure continues and if by some self-fulfilling prophecy, a momentous historical discovery in the origins of my first name, 'Sarah'; The alleged and only daughter of Mary Magdalene and Jesus and sole continuation of the blood-line of Christ. So it is with misguided notions of historical significance (derived solely from conspiracy theories fuelled by the Davinci Code Audiotour of the Louvre and watching half the movie on the plane) that i sign off as an amateur art historian, religious symbologist and one of the children of the revolution.  If French-based movies are the education of our time, then i did achieve token visit to Moulin Rouge but was left wanting- eagerly awaiting the high drama and fast action of the Bourne Identity or was it Supremacy?- not quite matched by the leisurely boat cruise on the Seine and one tiny witnessed car explosion... okay just a small fire. Cest la vie!

Au Revoir

Sarah xoxox

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