Paris vs. London 2022

© Bing McGilvray

The following dispatch by COSMOS contributor Bing McGilvray provides a firsthand account of his recent trip which originated at the Normandy estate of long-time friend and artist David Hockney. This is Part One of a continental journey that next headed to London, while McGilvray dealt with deterioration of a hip joint. The true journalist files his story, nonetheless. —CM

David Hockney in his Normandy studio. © David Hockney. Photo credit: Jonathan Wilkinson.

April 20: Hockney in Normandy

Spent a magical few days visiting David and his indispensable partner JP at their secluded, farm-country home nestled in a small pocket of Normandy. In the brief three years since moving in, throughout the global pandemic, JP has transformed the property into an unparalleled artist’s paradise.

An old barn was converted into a state-of-the-art studio practically overnight. Herein David produced an astonishing body of hundreds of landscapes, mostly created on his iPad, including the 295 foot long My Year in Normandy inspired by the Bayeux Tapestry. From these works have sprung multiple books and exhibitions and even a midnight show on every screen in Times Square (and worldwide) called Remember you cannot look at the sun or death for too long. Watching David, a true master, scholar, and prestidigitator, who conjures visual delights seemingly at ease, is always thrilling.

Alas, too soon, it was time to leave.

April 25: Paris in the Springtime

The train from Caen to Paris was an overcrowded comedy straight out of a Jacques Tati movie. Equally Tati was the tiny hotel we booked near the Folies Bergère. The location was ideal, however. I am happy to report that Paris is Alive once again and bursting with la joie de vivre. The cafes are full with very chic people, young and old, spilling onto the bustling sidewalks, ashtrays on every table as they have been for centuries. True, the cigarette packs are now uniformly plastered with absurd photos of diseases that look more like leftover food, actors (often children) portraying various stages of a death spiral, and dire warnings designed to ignite fear. But the French do not seem to care as they merrily puff away … everywhere.

Unfortunately, I was beginning to suffer from a different ailment, my right hip was deteriorating daily. I’ll need a replacement just like with the left hip over a decade ago. Sure did put a crimp in this flaneur’s style. My travel companion Doug Roberts, an old buddy from LA, was very understanding and attentive to my condition. We did what we could do and that was quite a bit. Seeing the sites included a mandatory stop at the Eiffel Tower, visiting galleries, eating fabulous meals, including the best Boeuf Bourguignon of my life. The rigorous regimen of pounding the pavement (literally), navigating the Metro, and climbing stairs was taking its toll though. The downside of Cafes is every toilette is up a narrow flight. I tried to be an intrepid stoic. Our attempt to enter the Centre Pompidou put an end to that approach.

The Pompidou has hosted continuously spectacular shows since opening its bizarre building in 1977, including a huge Hockney retrospective in 2017. Designed by the famous dance team of Renzo & Rogers, to the unsuspecting eye (scaffolding still in place?) the place looks unfinished, and indeed it is always under repair. A lot of ridiculous buildings were put up in the postmodern, ‘urban renewable’ hysteria of the 60s and 70s. What is erected can be razed, however. It’s just architectural karma.

The most absurd accoutrement by far was the massive tube attached to the outside of the Pompidou, containing six enormous escalators, another craze back in the day. The hamster tubes felt like 95*f inside. This being April, I cannot imagine the heat during August. We got tickets online, but the website never sent the email confirmation. Our local expert assured us not to worry (that’s when I worry) and that we would have no problem getting in, especially since the show we wanted to see was of LA artist Charles Ray, not well known in France.

The museum lobby resembled a shopping mall atrium, but we found our way to the tube and halfway up - the escalator was broken We at last reached the top and the marvelous expansive view of Paris. But for the first time there was nowhere to sit, and we continued to the exhibit.

Sure enough, at the Charles Ray exhibit entrance, not a soul was waiting to get in. But the two clueless guards were adamant that we could not enter without a ticket, no matter how much we explained that we booked two. They really wanted us to go down to the lobby and come back up? Exasperated, I asked to see their boss. Inspector Clouseau soon appeared, and I last-resorted to getting David on FaceTime. He saw The Maestro Hockney on screen, and he ushered us inside quickly, with no apology. If a Parisian came to the Cape Ann Museum, I doubt they would receive the same rude treatment.

All illness is somehow psychosomatic, I believe, and now my hip was no longer having it. Charles Ray is an impressive sculptor; provocative and unique, but pain was preventing me from deeply appreciating the many remarkable works. We took the elevator express to the ground and got the hell out.

Aside from that fiasco, Paris was extraordinary. It felt very free and beautiful as ever. Spotlessly clean, especially compared to any American big city. I’m unsure how they deal with vandalism and the homeless dilemma but there was little evidence of either, at least in the city center where we were wandering.

Macron defeated Le Pen on Sunday, by a margin that in the US would be considered a landslide. No one seemed to be celebrating any more than usual.

Time came to bid adieu. Vive La France! We bought two Eurostar tickets. Next stop: London.

Foreign Correspondent Part 1

Foreign correspondent Part 2

Not Fade Away