Well you're dirty and sweet...Look back...And I love you...Dir-ty!

Each Thursday evening for the past few weeks, I have been walking to a squat located in my neighborhood. It's a place where people without other places to go sleep. It's a place where singing groups and aspiring artists and dance groups can practice their respective arts in relative comfort. It's a place where a group called Radis Rose comes together to sing rock and pop songs from the 50s-80s (after partaking in a convivial hour of wine-drinking, naturellement).

I have a friend who is in the group, and after attending one of their concerts at a bar, I decided that this would be a fantastic way to practice my French, to exercise my constant desire to sing and dance, and to meet people. And so I've been doing all of the above.

It's a group that welcomes everyone. It's not about elitism. It's about the fun. It's about the art. It's about learning. This is not to say that the members are not serious about what they do, but just to say that with them, being in a choir is about joy and not about stiffness, as I know many choirs are.

And so I've been brushing up on my Four Tops, my Irving Berlin, my Wilson Pickett, and my Beatles and learning anew Joe Dassin, Adriano Celentano, and Gérard Blanchard. And I've been surprised by French versions of "I'm so excited" ("Je suis excitée" doesn't carry quite the same meaning here) and "Bye Bye" (the French version of "My Guy," whose meaning is completely opposite to that of the original). And my pronunciation of Franglais is really getting better too!

So, with no further ado, get "radis" 'cause here they come:

Radis Rose- Get It On
Radis Rose- Rock Amadour

(These are rehearsal versions.)

My heart will beat after I'm dead.

One of my recent out-and-aboutings was going to see Christian Boltanski's Monumenta 2010 exhibit at the Grand Palais. He's one of France's most famous contemporary artists, and with the sheer size of "Personnes," the installation he created for Monumenta, I can understand why. The Grand Palais is a gigantic nave lined with rod iron and floored with concrete. Even without the exhibit, it would have been a haunting space. But the installation consists of hundreds of rectangles laid out on the floor, filled with empty coats and sweaters. Directly opposite the entrance, there is a giant pyramid of clothing, several stories high, with a crane claw that keeps dipping in, lifting, and dropping the clothes in a brief flutter back to the top of the pile. It's a never-ending process of lifting and dropping. Hold and flutter.

And the space is filled with sound. The sound of heartbeats. Each rectangle has a set of localized speakers, blaring two different heartbeats. Together, the grand, grey space of the Palais is filled with the muffled, beating, white noise of hearts, certainly not in unison. Boltanski has said that the exhibit is meant to toe the line between being and not-being, and he has certainly succeeded. There is so much life and so much emptiness all in one massive space.

But perhaps my favorite bit of the installation is the "Archives de coeur," a space where you take a number, and wait for a doctor to call you back to a room so that you can have your heartbeat recorded. The heartbeats will be stored away and will become part of an exhibit (designed for long-term (and I mean long-term)) display, where the 15,000 heartbeats will beat on Teshima Island in Japan at the Naoshima Fukutake Art Museum Foundation, with the theory that the hearts will continue beating long after their owners have died. It's strange to think that in 80 years, some little kid in Japan will be able listen to my heartbeat (which, thanks to a small murmur, was irregular enough to make the woman recording it look at me with shock and a bit of concern). "C'est bizarre," I told her. "Non, special," she replied.

I happened to forget my camera that day, but here are some official photos.

For anyone considering going to grad school.

This article is very depressing, but in my experience, it's very true.

http://chronicle.com/article/The-Big-Lie-About-the-Life-of/63937/

Culture Shock

Parents visiting for Christmas. Dinner at my favorite local restaurant, Les Artistes, which if you'll remember is run by one man. A very sarcastic man.

My dad, after eating his first course: Care, how do you say, 'I liked it a lot?'

Me: Well, literally, you would say, 'Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.' [Writers' note: Actually, I think it may be better in the imperfect, 'Je l'aimais beaucoup.']

Dad, wonderful Texan accent in full force: Je l'ai aimé beaucoup. Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.
Man comes to table.

Dad: Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.

Man (in French, but translated here): Oh, you like me? You LIKE me? That's great! Oh...wait...you liked IT. Oh, how sad. I thought you liked me.

Dad, red: Care, did you tell me to say the wrong thing? I think you sabotaged me!

Me, protesting.

Man returns to table with the main course, which for Dad happens to be lentils and Toulousian sausage.

Man: Now, be careful when you tell a Frenchman that you like his sausage. He may get the wrong idea.

Me, translating. Tyson, laughing.

Dad, red.



(I love you Dad! And I swear, I didn't sabotage you!)