I don't tend to agree with Hemingway -- especially as a writer, most especially as a person -- but he does have words for character development that toll like a bell:
"When writing a novel, a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature."
I think the moment that I knew that I was a writer was when I was twelve. I created characters in my head to run alongside the characters in books (what the kids these days call "fan fiction"), and the characters suddenly developed minds of their own. I drew them in sketchbooks and thought about their hobbies and decided their birthdates.
Actual photo of Cam's characters she created when twelve.
As I grew with these people in my head, they housed themselves in the corridors of my cranium, cozied up next to a failing hippocampus, walked beside me through my college campus, and voiced themselves in various ways. One boy told me that he liked Brand New when I listened to an album on a walk back to my dorm, nostalgic for an old hook-up who introduced me to the band. One girl told me that she would study to be an art therapist when she was old enough for college on my way out of the grocery store. Another boy came to me in a dream and, while I was walking to the cafeteria for breakfast, stopped me dead in my tracks just so I could know that his favorite food was ham and grilled cheese.
Creating characters is an oddly intimate, delusional relationship with people who do not exist.
A month ago, I finished teaching my 7th graders how to create characters that are believable people. They had a series of fun (they better have found them fun, dammit) worksheets that helped with brainstorming their characters. One had them create Tweets that their protagonist would write in response to the stages of their Rising Actions. Another plastered a picture of the "What Do You Want?" scene from The Notebook and helped them develop their characters wants / goals. Another encouraged them to think of a flaw or error (a hamartia) to dissuade them from Mary Sue -like character. I've been trying to teach twelve-year-olds to create people in their heads, in their writing.
It's a strange request to expect of anyone: the ability to craft a human being out of thin air and arid imagination.
I remember the first time that I met non-writers who knew what I was talking about: actors. While I'd been involved in theatre in my high school, I solely appeared on stage for the sake of hanging lights and building platforms: the glamorous life of the techie. Such was the case in college, with barriers between techies and actors solidly cemented, until one day an actor friend explained that he carried around a notebook with him at all times in case a character spoke to him.
I couldn't believe it: someone else had characters in their heads that spoke to them at inopportune times? Someone else created music playlists to listen to, changed their interests / hobbies to fit their character, bought clothes that reminded them of their characters?
Here's the thing: if you want to create three-dimensional characters, you have to become a bit psychotic. More like a lot. You have to know the 90% oceanic icebergs of each of your people, even if your writing only reveals that 10% These people need to become your friends. Even your villains -- especially your villains. You need to be asking them those uncomfortable first Tinder date questions: where are you from? who's your celebrity crush? what do you do for work? what do you want? what do you need? who did you vote for? are you gluten free? what's your social security number?
You need to know their speech patterns, their fidgets, their relationships with others, their deep dark secrets...
But why?
Because if you don’t, it shows. If you don’t push yourself to think of your characters beyond their interactions with their environment and interactions with others, you leave them hollow men. You have to know backstories, personalities, wants, and needs in order to know character motivation, in order to know why and how your characters interact with others and their environment.
Let me close with one last example: currently, I’m working with an actress on a film project, and her character wears an excessive amount of bracelets that purchased while traveling. When I wrote this character in my film script, I thought that it would just be a weird quirk. Now, it’s so much more: my actress thinks that her character engaged briefly in self-harm and uses the bracelets to cover her arms, and my actress is coming up with a story for every single one of the bracelets. Will the audience ever know these details? No. But by knowing her character to this degree, my actress will personally feel the biting sting when a cute boy calling her bracelets “tacky”. She is bringing my flat depiction to life. She is making this character a living person.
Hello readers, writers, dabblers, artists, and web surfers!
I wish you all a happy, happy new year! However, for many of us, a happy 2017 seems nigh impossible given the political circumstances here in the USA. And that's partially what I want to talk to you about today: what you can expect of Floodmark in the coming years and where we stand, given the current political environment. Let's get that out of the way first, shall we? Then we can discuss the 2017 Reading Resolution Challenge, and exciting forthcoming projects.
Floodmark was founded on the idea of inclusivity, and now more than ever we are committed to it. We believe that creative writing serves everyone and should represent everyone. That means this site is a safe space for all, and we have zero tolerance for hate speech or anything that makes other readers feel unsafe. Our commitment to that is unwavering. This is a space for people from all backgrounds, ethnicities, races, genders, sexual orientations, religions, beliefs, and (of course!) writing skill levels. We welcome you to our space on the internet, and hope you will find inspiration, support, and perhaps a smile while you're here. If you ever find yourself triggered by anything on this blog, please speak out! Nobody is perfect, and we expect to make mistakes. You will find a very receptive and responsive team of editors ready to learn, make amends, correct the mistake, and be better editors and people moving forward. You can find our Contact Information here.
While we're on the subject of contact information -- if you ever have anything to talk to us about, we're around. If you want to ask "What's up?", we'll tell you what's up. If you want a book recommendation, we've got you. If you're looking for guidance or want to see something on the blog or need a friend to talk shop with, we're here. When we say "creative community", we're not just saying it. That's always been the beauty of Floodmark: we are writers, just like you, and we're on the other side of the computer. Not hiding, but waiting, writing, thinking, laughing, crying, binge-watching Netflix, eating too much sugar, and generally doing all the same things you're probably doing. So get in touch! We'd love to hear from you.
While we continue our commitment to inclusivity, we want to do more than open up our space. We intend to get more involved. (If you've got an idea for a partnership, contact us!) We started to do this in 2016, if you recall Floodmark getting into the classroom to lead creative writing workshops at Loyola University's Q-Summit and our visit to the Center on Halsted in Chicago. (You can read all about it here!) We want to do more of that. And this brings us to the 2017 Reading Resolution Challenge. We'll be seeking out the many brilliant writers who have been historically marginalized in the USA -- Native American, Black, Latinx, Asian American, Arab American, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Atheist, Women, LGBTQIAP+, and immigrant writers. Every month, we'll publish a round-up of writers that we've had the pleasure of reading. Share it. Send the poems to family, friends, whoever. Let these writers be heard. True, it's a small act. But when we actively seek to read outside our own experiences, or focus on finding writers who aren't being heard, we make a tiny difference. We build a bridge, brick by brick, poem by story by essay. We should celebrate our differences as well as our similarities. Diversity is what makes humanity -- and thus literature -- so beautiful. Sometimes people forget that. Let's remember it in 2017.
We challenge you to not just read these writers, but to give them your time, attention, and make room in your life for their voices. Perhaps you will disagree with some of them. All we ask is that you know why you disagree -- respectfully. The art of respectful disagreement is one that all writers and readers should be studying closely in an age where disagreements escalate so easily to violence and "otherness". And while we're on the topic: we reject the "other" in 2017. We (and you) can and will be better than this. We owe it to ourselves and everyone we share this world with not to make "others" out of people who are different from ourselves. We are all writers here. Live by the golden rule and treat each other how you'd like to be treated. We encourage you to comment on social media and/or the blog posts, send us an email, whatever is easiest. Tell us what you think.
What else can you expect in 2017? Lots of excitement and inspiration! We've got a couple projects under construction that we hope to launch by mid-year. The most exciting project we've been working is our soon-to-be self-paced, online open course called "Poetry 101". Don't be fooled by the name; poetry veterans will find things to take away from this course, too! We'll be providing video lectures, reading lists, and prompts in each module. There will be 10 modules in total, each covering what we see as the foundation of good poetry. Learn the ropes with us, or hone your craft. You can submit your poems for feedback from each other and us throughout the course. Pretty neat, right? We're hoping to launch the course in the Spring.
The Editors will also continue our monthly reading series on SoundCloud, which you can find here. Each month, we'll all select pieces (poetry, non-fiction, fiction, etc.) that fit a seasonal theme. (For example, January's theme is Winter.) We'll record ourselves reading, and pow! Story time for you. Now you can get your daily dose of poems/stories/essays while you're driving, mowing the lawn, or doing something else equally boring.
There are more things under construction, but this should give you a good idea of where Floodmark is headed in 2017. By the end of the year, we hope we'll have made an impact, and helped you get some good writing done. Stay tuned!
I don't know how many times, in the last several weeks, I've scrolled through my Facebook feed to see a post bemoaning our President Elect's language. I'm not talking about racial slurs and grabbing pussies. I'm simply talking about his command of basic English ("bigly" and "bad hombres," anyone?).
I teach a composition course to first-years in college, and I find myself needing to explain why my class is more than just a gen-ed for them to suffer through before they can move on to other, more important things. The point that I land on, and one I believe is true, is that we interact with more text in our day-to-day lives now than ever before. You're reading this on the interwebs where, earlier, you might have heard it as a radio segment or seen it on TV. If you find it particularly interesting, you might text someone about it, or post it on someone's wall. All of those are text-based communications.
The thing is, most of the text we consume nowadays is functional. It's written to convey meaning as quickly and efficiently as possible, without regard for "art" or "sounding good." Frankly, that's what I teach my students–how to structure their texts and sentences so that they make sense. I give extra points for style, but we only get to style when everything else is taken care of.
What will it mean when we only write to convey meaning, when our vocabularies don'e need to include both "jump" and "leap" because doesn't "leap" just mean "jump with more effort" (for the record, Google definies jump as "push oneself off a surface and into the air by using the muscles in one's legs and feet" and leap as "jump or spring a long way, to a great height, or with great force")?
Do we really lose anything when we aggressively categorize childrens' books according to "reading level," and so remove words that are "too difficult?" When I reread the books I read as a child of 6 and 7, I'm astounded that I was reading words like astounded without having to run to a dictionary of ask my parents what they meant. I guess I just learned, early on, how to read using context clues. No one taught me how to do that. It wasn't a skill I had to learn in school. I just did it.
And, while "Just do it" doesn't work for people who don't have access to a certain quality of education, or a home environment where reading is encouraged, or books, or a whole host of other things, it's only by challenging ourselves that we figure out what we need to learn. It's only by reading things we hate or disagree with that we truly realize what we believe in terms of style and subject. It's only by using "leap" when we mean "leap" and "jump" when we mean "jump" that we'll learn how to handle shades of meaning.
So, while our President Elect's vocabulary (or lack thereof) should be number 9357 on the list of Things That Worry You About Him, it should still be on there. When shades of meaning are crushed under accusations of political correctness, we do have to worry about the future of debate, disagreement and discourse.
So, I was rereading our illustrious editor-in-chief's post on Amsterdam the other day, and this paragraph made me stop:
"I understand the desire to hold on to the physical manifestations of artists and writers: their pens, their grocery lists, their dog-eared books. Proof that they existed, that the history books didn't make them up. A reminder to us that the man existed before the museum. That he breathed on this artwork just like we're doing now even though we're not supposed to be so close."
Alexandria's post reminded me just how important it is to remember that writers are human beings, not mystical concentrations of essence that spew forth words on command. I, of all people, should understand this. I mean, I call myself a writer, and so, I'm aware that when I sit down at my computer, I've often just finished cleaning the toilet or vacuuming my rug or declogging the bathtub. There are many things I do that have nothing to do with writing, and yet influence it deeply.
However, throughout my college education, I learned relatively little about the writers I studied in literature classes across two departments (English and French). Only in one class–Women Writers and Feminist Theory–did my professor start each book with a discussion about the author's life story. In that class, I learned that Virginia Woolf had a supportive husband and female lovers, saw pictures of the Bronte sisters' house and the moors that show up so frequently in their work and learned other details about Toni Morrison, Jeanette Winterson and others that are preserved in some notebook in a drawer. Perhaps it's not surprising that I learned the importance of writers' lives in a Gender Studies class. After all, certain branches of feminism suggest that we reclaim the importance of the domestic (traditionally a feminized, and therefore inferior, realm).
As I continued to read more widely–writers of color, queer writers, female writers–learning about writers' lives became par for the course. And yet, I've noticed that we spend the most time on a writer's life when they are not straight, not white, not male or all three. Otherness makes a life interesting and relevant, apparently. Privilege does not. For the purposes of this discussion, let's define privilege as some quality (which you may or may not control) that gives you an advantage over people who do not have that quality. This can be your economic situation, your gender identity, your sexuality, your skin, your level of education and a lot of other things. A lot of us aren't even conscious of privilege (ours and others'), and that's part of the problem.
If it sounds like I'm arguing that we need to learn more about the lives of privileged writers, I am (and I've made a similar argument on this very site before). Before you throw your hands up and start shouting me down, let me add a very important caveat. This learning must not come at the expense of learning about the lives of writers who aren't. Let me explain.
If we learn, again and again, the stories of writers who were born into money, whose parents had fabulous connections and who are now editing major newspapers, magazines or journals, we will be able to see how their privilege functions. If we compare the volume of those stories with those of writers who aren't privileged, cannot spend all day writing and succeed or fail, we will be able to see how their experiences differ because of a lack of privilege. We will also be able to see, from a simple calculation, how many privileged writers there really are.
After the results of this US election, it is especially important to learn about the lives of writers (and people in general) who differ from us politically (it is equally important to read the things that they write, even if it's not autobiographical, as this excellent article suggests). For those people in positions of power, those to whom the new administration will cater, it is important to learn about the lives of the people who may not have the same privileges they do and how politics has and will impact those lives. For those of us who are outside certain positions of power, it is important to learn (if we do not know already) how the other half really lives. Only then can we take action, through writing and other methods, to make this country and this world a better place for all people.
Once, when I was falling in love and desperately trying not to fall in love, the object of my affection gifted me with two books: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera and The Double Flame by Octavio Paz. And I, in one bitter week apart from her, I finished both.
In my lovesick throes, the two books offered two much needed views of love, desire, and their role in art. Now, as we consider the history of the artist-muse relationship we began here, these two works allow us to see the Muse in a more positive light. I object to the romanticization of the artist-muse relationship as a faΓ§ade, obscuring an unstable power dynamic in which a (typically) male artist draws “inspiration” from a (typically) female muse, and, in doing so, marginalizes her identity in any context other than in support of his work. While Paz does not address this issue directly, his work does lead us to an alternate perspective.
In the essay collection The Double Flame, Octavio Paz examines, not the role of the muse, but the role of eroticism in the development both of art and human relationships. Paz argues that the roots of art lie deeply in the realm of sex and human sexuality. “Eroticism,” he writes, “is a poetry of the body and [poetry] an eroticism of language. They are in complimentary opposition.”1 This is to say that both the human body and human language are crude instruments, and in seeking beauty, we eroticize both. In eroticism, we take the crude and make it beautiful.
Paz goes on to emphasize that eroticism alone does not suffice. He writes, “Sex is the root, eroticism is the stem, and love is the flower. And the fruit? The fruits of love are intangible. And this is one of love’s mysteries.”2 Therefore any quest for inspiration or beauty must be built on loving relationships, not the sort of exploitative one-sided relationships I object to above. Such relationships must be built on a foundation of love, Paz explains in an interview, meaning a relationship built on a pure reciprocity of feeling, in which the object of love becomes a subject that loves. “This has nothing to do with sexuality,” Paz says, “This doesn’t happen in eroticism. We only find it in love. But like all important things, it happens little.”3
In Paz’s view, a loving relationship is characterized by reciprocity and therefore an artist-muse dynamic, as long as it exists in the context of love, cannot be an exploitative or unbalanced relationship. But many of us would likely agree with Paz that true love is rare, so what do we make of relationships that do not claim to be built on true love? Is an artist-muse relationship built on anything less necessarily still exploitative? Czech novelist Milan Kundera might argue that it is not.
If we consider The Unbearable Lightness of Being with our current context, Kundera offers an explanation for why we fall in love, fall out of love, commit infidelities, remain in unhappy relationships, find meaning in casual flings, and construct identities as lovers all the while posing an implicit question, “what are lovers for?” In answering this question, Kundera expands the model of an artist-muse relationship in which the artist takes inspiration from his muse and marginalizes her by implying that this is what happens in all relationships. We all do this, artist or otherwise, Kundera suggests, in order to complete what he calls the “musical compositions” of our lives. And since any two lovers will do this, relationships can be seen as bidirectional flows of inspiration.
Kundera’s key character in this imagining is, herself, an artist. Sabina pursues casual relationships two men – the recently married lothario Tomas, and a bookish long-married Franz. Sabina and Tomas cultivate an aesthetic quality to their relationship, as if they are performing or creating art. “I want to make love to you in my studio,” she says to him, “It will be like a stage surrounded by people. The audience won't be allowed up close, but they won't be able to take their eyes off us.”4 Subsequently, Tomas and Sabina’s intercourse adopts a performative quality, and as they participate in the shared performance of their relationship, they lift and borrow aspects of one another with which they compose the symphonies of their own lives. In Sabina’s studio, Tomas finds a bowler hat that belonged to her father and grandfather. Kundera writes:
The bowler hat was a motif in the musical composition that was Sabina's life. It returned again and again, each time with a different meaning, and all the meanings flowed through the bowler hat like water through a riverbed…each time the same object would give rise to a new meaning, though all former meanings would resonate (like an echo, like a parade of echoes) together with the new one. Each new experience would resound, each time enriching the harmony.5
Kundera suggests that a meaningful relationship is one in which lovers mutually exchange motifs, one in which the performance of a relationship enriches the symphonies of the lives involved. A poor relationship, on the other hand, is one in which the exchange of motifs is hampered, one-sided, or nonexistent. Such is Sabina’s relationship with Franz. Unlike Tomas, Franz is uninterested in the symbolic value of Sabina’s hat, and is therefore uninterested in the motifs she has to offer him. He “listened eagerly to the story of her life and she was equally eager to hear the story of his, but although they had a clear understanding of the logical meaning of the words they exchanged, they failed to hear the semantic susurrus of the river flowing through them.”6 Franz and Sabina’s affair ultimately fails, and Franz finds another, younger mistress who is more receptive to the motifs he has to offer, as “the musical composition of her life had scarcely been outlined.”7
Because all lovers are artists creating the musical compositions of their own lives, and because meaningful relationships involve lovers taking motifs from one another and incorporating them into their own lives, an ideal relationship can be seen as two-way artist-muse relationships. A life of love can therefore be a collaborative masterwork. If you are not at artist, this perspective encourages you to construct your love life like a poem, an eroticism and elevation of crude existence. And if you are the kind of artist who finds the artist-muse relationship aesthetically alluring, consider if your idealized relationship is based on idealizing your muse or in engaging creatively with another autonomous individual.
4: The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984) by Milan Kundera, 9.
5: Kundera, 44.
6: Kundera, 44.
7: Kundera, 66.
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This summer, I had the great fortune to embark on a trip to Europe. I thought I'd share some of my photos and anecdotes with you as inspiration -- either for your writing or your next big trip or maybe just a little escape from the everyday scenery. Today I'll talk my time in Paris, but you can check out my post about Amsterdam for Part 1 of my adventure! (Psst! If you're interested, you can also check out my trip to New Orleans or my trip to Amelia Island this year. We also have a Travel tag on the blog if you want to stay tuned to our editors' adventures around the world!)
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Ah, Paris. City of Lights and chocolate mousse and Shakespeare and Co. bookstore and thousands of other lovely little things. This is my second time visiting Paris, and I'd say that I got closer to the heart of my experience this time around. Have you seen the movie "Midnight in Paris"? It's the movie that really sparked my interest in Old Paris -- Paris of the Lost Generation. Since, I've read Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, and become obsessed with the Fitzgeralds, and all around fallen in love with the history of this extraordinary city. So, naturally the theme song for "Midnight in Paris" is playing now, as it was playing in my head during my trip. Youtube video below so that you might put yourself in the proper frame of mind.
Good. Now we're ready. As of this moment, you and I are going to wander down the streets of Paris in my memory. We'll visit my Top 10 favorite things I saw.
1. It's a lovely night for a stroll. Let's go see the Eiffel Tower, shall we?
I'd seen the Eiffel Tower before, but never like this -- at night. It's a completely different experience and one that I'd demand you have if you visit Paris. It's like all the stars descended on this tower for a little while. You know it's just fancy lights but it's also goddamn magic. I will add some reality to the situation and say that the walk to and from the tower to our Air BnB was acute and intense misery. The scars I have from those blisters will be with me for awhile. But I remember the blisters less than the Eiffel Tower so I suppose I can forgive me father for forcing me to trudge the miles in terrible walking shoes without warning.
2. Notre Dame Cathedral
The morning after seeing the Eiffel Tower, finding the Air BnB apartment hidden away in a little courtyard, and settling into the unbelievably creaky but very, very French living space, I woke up (I think understandably) grumpy. I nursed my substantial blisters and resentment through a cold fend-for-yourself breakfast of cheese (from Amsterdam), chocolate (Amsterdam again), and a baguette (Obviously French). With rain in the forecast, we headed out to see Notre Dame.
Through my grumpiness and exhaustion, I did appreciate Notre Dame. How could I not? It's truly a masterpiece, and historically fascinating. But I wanted to appreciate it alone and without commentary, which made me a terrible traveling companion. Hey, vacation isn't all perfect Instagrams and immaculate outfits. (Though I admittedly put much effort into both of those things.)
I love the interior of the Cathedral the best simply because the quality of light is so unexpected after the stoney exterior. Stained glass never looks as remarkable from a distance. It's one of the art forms you need to be inside of to marvel at. I'm not terribly religious, but stained glasses feel like prayer to me. I understand why the cathedral is holy.
In particular, Notre Dame is visually full of surprises. Everywhere you look, and every time you encounter it, there is something new. The back is so different from the front is so different from the inside. I think it has something to do with the nature of the architecture of ornate detailing.
And of course, how I can I forget the flowers? Huge, pillowy roses hung heavy all around the back of the cathedral. I haven't seen live roses like that before. They're really something.
3. Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
Oh, be still my heart. I stumbled into a little piece of heaven after we finished viewing Notre Dame and the Archeological Crypt underneath. I walked around like in a dream. It was so perfect, so much the bookstore of my imagination, that it was an entirely surreal experience. Throw in the fact that I was walking up staircases that Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Joyce frequented, and I was catatonic. Literally incapable of speaking to anyone. I had just come from a cathedral and understood why it was considered holy, but this was my religious experience.
Praise be to Sylvia Beach for creating this magical place. Books everywhere, from floor to ceiling. All kinds of books, used and new. The shop was deeper than it looked and both narrow and wide depending on where you were. And all the walls were books. Who even needs walls anymore, seriously?! Shouldn't all walls just be bookcases?! I spotted a staircase with a sign that said "poetry" and drifted toward it.
And here, before we go any farther, I have to make a confession. The store asks you not to take photos so as to not disturb your fellow shoppers. (Not everyone wants to star in your Instagram posts, right? It's a small space, so nearly impossible not to accidentally get someone in there if you're trying to capture the full effect.) Here's my confession: I took a few photos. I know, I know. Terrible. I have so much respect for this store, but it was so beautiful that I needed to remember the little details and I was sleepwalking at this point and couldn't count on myself. Anyway, if any employee reads this post, I am so, so sorry to be "that tourist".
Okay, on to the staircase. I started walking up, but then I noticed the stairs had words on them. Of course the stairs had words on them. I backed up and actually teared up. Seriously, the fact that this place exists is comforting to me. Can you have faith in a bookstore? Because I do. I really do.
The really wonderful thing about Shakespeare & Co. is that it hosts book-loving travelers among the shelves. Seriously, there are little cushioned areas amid the books where people can crash overnight. And everywhere that isn't covered with books is covered with mementos from visitors paying homage or saying thank you for the place to sleep. If I had the chance to sleep in this store, I would not sleep because I would be up all night trying to memorize every dazzling detail of this place.
Anyway, even if you're not staying overnight, there are plenty of nooks for writers to stash themselves away and get to work. There's a little booth-like nook in particularly that I spent some time in. There was a typewriter and the entire space was covered in notes, poems, pictures, drawings, stories, messages, inspiration, doodles, shopping lists, old candy wrappers, etc. No one could see me in there and I might have shed a tear or two because my brain was broken and unable to accept the unfairness of only having an hour or two to spend in this place.
Aside from all this, I do have to mention one room in particular. Then we'll move on, promise. The room that preserved much of Sylvia Beach's original collection. The windows were open and the breeze was fresh after the rain. There was an incredibly beautiful young writer at work typing at a desk and there were so many old, old books. I tried to touch as many as possible with the knowledge that a writer that I idolize had likely held the same book in his/her hands or at least bumped their fingers against it reaching for another.
As a writer, there's this sense of being an intellectual descendant of other writers. For me, the Lost Generation is a huge influence. And being in this space was like reaching back in time to them. In fact, time was completely suspended for me. It's truly somewhere timeless. There are deeper roots than heritage and blood.
And that's all I'll say. I'm still sorting through the rest.
But of course I bought books.
4. Montmartre
I stumbled outside to find my family waiting for me. I don't actually know how I long I was in there, but coming outside was like waking up. One quick ride on the subway later, and we were ascending a very steep staircase up to Montmartre. In fact, the stairs were much steeper than I remembered them. But the view was even better than I remembered it, so I supposed it all evened out.
This is me admiring the view from the steps of the Basilique:
Also, at this point it's very important that we make a soundtrack switch. On Montmartre, La Vie en Rose was playing in my head. I should mention I also love the Rat Pack and old jazz and that whole era. (Of course, if you read my New Orleans post you can hear me wax poetic on jazz for awhile longer.)
After the view, we wandered around Montmartre for awhile, among the artists and the cafes. I had a terrible crepe and a ridiculously good macaron. Street performers and musicians played in the square. Artists tried to convince you to let them sketch you -- for a fee, of course. Music boxes played from every shop, and it was such lovely chaos. There's a reason this is where all the artists and writers came to hang out. It's everything you've ever heard and also so much more. On the way down I took a polaroid of an incredible graffiti painting of a woman. There are few better ways to spend an afternoon.
5. Up, up, up the Eiffel Tower.
Of course, we went back to the Eiffel Tower. We still had to go up to the top. We chose dusk as the time to do this, and won the lottery on the wait-time to get to the top. (FYI, usually you're waiting in line for a loooooooong time.) Seeing as I have a fear of heights, this was a curse and a blessing. The ascension (worst part) was over quickly. But it was still pretty terrifying and I had less time to prepare myself than I would have liked.
Admittedly, it was worth it. While we were there, France was hosting the Eurocup finals and a game was happening far down below. It was so loud that I could hear the relentless chorus of vuvuzelas
from down below. Think about that for a second. Yeah, that's insane. By the time we started heading down, it was dusky and the crowds had started to thin out. Time seems to progress differently up there -- everything goes faster and slower.
6. Giverny
Alright, the next two will be cheating bit because they aren't in Paris. BUT they are just outside of Paris and were both incredible experience, so now we'll take a brief journey outside the city. First: Giverny, home of Claude Monet and the secret garden to end all secret gardens. Another religious experience to add to the books. I had dreamed of visiting Giverny for years. To actually be able to reach out and brush the flowers and window frame of Monet's house was incredible.
A photo posted by Alexandria Petrassi (@alexandriapetra) on
The glorious thing about Monet's house was that every room was dominated by a different color. There was a yellow dining room, a blue kitchen. It was both mad and magical. Do places this perfect even exist anymore? I don't know how much I was breathing, so I remember being pretty light-headed through all this.
A photo posted by Alexandria Petrassi (@alexandriapetra) on
Of course, the Water Lilies were chief among the things I wanted to see while I was in Giverny. What a moment it was. I couldn't tell if I was happy or sad and I think that was about right.
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7. The Palace of Versailles
Again, not in Paris. But obviously this deserves to be on the list. This palace is the definition of decadence. In a way, it's terrifying to believe people actually lived there. It's a relief that it's a museum now. It's so vast and unnecessary and beautiful.
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And of course, the history. I'm always very aware of my feet and the path I am wandering in places like this. Who else has stood where I am standing? What were they thinking? Were they also looking out this window just after it had rained? It's a minor obsession of mine.
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The air is absolutely thick with the history of movement through these spaces. You can feel the past brush up against you so palpably. And the amount of details there are to notice and process and photograph and write about makes this a writer's dream.
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8. The Louvre
Back to Paris. After our long day adventuring outside of the city, we returned and visited The Louvre. You can't leave without paying a visit to this spectacular museum, but be warned: it's insanity. The huge increase in tourism has made it a little overwhelming sometimes, especially around the Mona Lisa. This is OK as long as you're prepared for it. Not surprisingly, I don't have many superb shots of the most popular artwork at The Louvre.
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Of course, I like to think this helped me to focus on the other artwork in this grand museum which is just as deserving of my attention. I'll share a few snapshots from my wandering in the museum:
There's the lovely Venus de Milo. Whom I had to photograph from behind and on an upward angle because she is quite popular with the tourists. But I like this shot more for being a little unconventional.
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Okay, yes there's some side-eye at selfie sticks in that caption. I'm sorry, but I can't hide my distaste for them. Especially in an art museum. I read about someone knocking over a priceless statue while trying to take a selfie with it the other day. Tragic. Why does your face need to be in every photo of art anyway?? Fight the urge, people. Fight the urge. Look at the art and absorb it. Don't look at it like a trophy to stick next to your face.
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Cour Marley is a great place to take a breather and get a little fresh air. The whole courtyard is marble and there's more air movement in there. Plus, it's not that crowded so it's a nice spot to pull over and collect yourself before diving back into the halls of The Louvre.
Oh, and the marble statues are fantastic. That goes without saying.
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So, you could give me a year to spend wandering The Louvre and it wouldn't be enough. But it does make for a fine day.
9. Musee d'Orsay
In the same day, I visited Musee d'Orsay, another huge place on my to-do list. This was a week after the Seine had overflowed and caused flooding. The river was still quite high, and it was raining. As we hopped around puddles, we watched the Seine hustle along. As rainy days go, it was a rather nice one.
We entered the museum, which used to be a train station, and headed to the top floor where the big collection of Impressionist art is located. There's a big clock face here right when you get to the top. It's lovely.
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I'll share some works I saw there without much commentary -- it doesn't need much explaining. I really loved the quiet nature of this museum. It's definitely worth a visit if you have the time.
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10. MISC. (AKA I'm cheating and want to show you three other quick things.)
Because what would Paris be without the little details?!
A. Dessert
OH MY GOD THIS WAS AN INCREDIBLE THING. We basically had little to no idea what we were ordering and I nearly died when they set this down. It was better than you're imagining. Trust me. I'm still not over it.
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C. Moulin Rouge
Last, but by no means least. This is a show I will never, ever, EVER forget. If you go to Paris, try to do this. You will be blown away and also there will be a lot of bare breasts and innuendo and glitter and shiny things and gorgeous people and singing and roller skating and champagne. It's an experience. There were also bunch of small red lamps that reminded me of the Red Light distract, but I couldn't photograph them. So here's the outside of this iconic establishment:
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I hope you enjoyed this little adventure through Paris. It's by no means exhaustive. The beauty of Paris is the atmosphere and the history and the vibes. It's a city with charm and a lot to offer the tireless visitor. Stay tuned for the last city I visited during my vacation this summer: London. And then of course, the many more adventures I've had in the Fall.
Never stop exploring, friends. There's too much to see in this world.
