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Title : Art in Paris -- Contemplative Discovery
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Art in Paris -- Contemplative Discovery

 I'm always surprised and gratified and fascinated and ever so grateful to this community when I post something tentative and somewhat vulnerable, when I'm thinking out loud, as it were -- and then, as with Wednesday's post, a conversation builds that is rich and varied and thoughtful and illuminating and honest.  If you haven't already, I hope you might find time to read through post and comments and, perhaps, to add your own.

I, however, am still guarding my right arm -- improving, but still tender -- and we're having friends visit for lunch, so I've a bit of tidying and stirring to do. I've answered many of your comments, but probably won't get to more of them until much later today. Meanwhile, do feel free to chat amongst yourselves.

First, though, I thought I'd share these photos taken in Paris last November in a wonderful old church -- very bare of ornamentation and awaiting/undergoing restoration-- I discovered about a decade ago, when Eric Tennin posted a photo of this statue on his much loved, but now defunct, blog ParisDailyPhoto

The sculpture, by Pierre de Grauw, is titled Le Christ aux Outrages, or Christ, Mocked, and in an artist's note taped up nearby, de Grauw compares this representation of Christ to another sculpture beside it in his studio -- in that sculpture, a man cried out "with all his forces his indignation and revolt." The sculptor goes on to say that he discovered that those two sculptures were equally religious, that Jesus also cried out against inhumanity, that Jesus wasn't afraid to raise his voice against those who made others suffer in unjustifiable ways.

But, de Grauw points out, when he suffers himself, Christ retreats into silence. This is Christ Mocked [Le Christ Aux Outrages and Christ Mocked are iconic moments in Christ's life and suffering, represented and well known in Christian art -- generally including a Crown of Thrones], the sculptor tells us: majestic, dignified, peaceful, and grown/enlarged/amplified by an unsuspected inner strength.

I haven't visited St. Merri for quite a few years, although I've been nearby for exhibitions at the Pompidou Centre or enroute to the Marais. But I'd walked from the 6th to the 5th and then over the Seine that rainy Paris morning to check out the charming stationery shop -- L'Ecritoire -- that had begun carrying my friend's whimsical cards featuring the doings of Wiston the Mouse and his friend Otis.

That delightful shop (oh, the tempting treasures!) turned out to be just across the street from St. Merri. Of course, I took the opportunity to renew acquaintance with this sombre and beautiful and meditative work of art, its insistence on the true meaning of Christianity.

And was met with another powerful prompt to think about what Christianity should or could mean in this work by Haude Bernabé entitled #marenostrum -- Our Sea, in Latin, referring to the Mediterranean. Bernabé's installation was conceived after the 2013 tragedy in which 366 mostly African migrants died when the ship carrying them from Libya to Italy sank off the island of Lampedusa.

In response to that tragedy, the Italian Prime Minister Enrico Letta used the ancient term "Mare Nostrum" for the Mediterranean as he put into action a plan for the European community to come to grips with increased immigration.

 Inspired by Letta's commitment, Bernabé -- at least as I understand from a quick reading of this article -- began working on a "cri de coeur dont la forme est artistique" (a cry from the heart, whose form is artistic). The hope (or even belief) here is that Art might have the power to let people see that Europe cannot remain a fortress and the the Mediterranean must not be a cemetery.

And that rather than closing borders, a politics of opening to the Other is needed "Plutôt que de fermer les frontières, une politique d'ouverture à l'autre semble nécessaire."

 I will say no more (my arm is beginning to cry aloud, though -- keyboarding does not seem to be what it wants to do right now)

 but leave you to walk around this moving installation on your own. . .

 Finally, it felt only right to implicate myself directly in this installation. . .

I can see, as I finish this post, that I've ended on rather too sombre a note for a Friday. Tant pis, quite honestly, is all I can muster in response. The sombre exists, and if Art makes it disturbingly beautiful for us, we are fortunate that we must only contemplate -- rather than experience (not only contemplate, perhaps, but my right arm is not prepared to suggest action other than loosely gesturing toward the UNHCR). 

And on that note, I wave best weekend wishes to all of you and look forward to reading your comments here and on Wednesday's (and any earlier) posts. xo

Thus articles Art in Paris -- Contemplative Discovery

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