Places I once knew

The other day, I revisited my old neighbourhood. Just walking down that familiar street brought memories that had entirely faded from my brain, rushing back with clarity. I remembered small, impossible details like what my friend ordered that time we ate at the café downstairs, the happy conversation I had with the nearby florist, discussing the contents of paté with my Mother when she visited, shopping for a tiny christmas tree with my best friend, the nearby church I had visited when I was at my lowest... I could go on for days.

But instead of making me happy, these memories just made me sad. I spent the rest of the day mulling over why sadness was my first reaction, and I still haven't quite figured it out.



What struck me was the familiar feeling of the weather. When I surfaced from the metro that very first early-autumn day in Paris, the skies were clear and blue, with some happy clouds, the sun was warm, but there was a slight chill in the air. And when I returned, a year and a half later, on a beautiful spring day, it felt so similar. How can everything look and feel the same, yet you've changed so much?

I started wondering who lives in my apartment now. Are they also a student, do they love it as much as I did, what place in the world did they travel from to arrive here in Paris? Do the people I walked past everyday still live in this neighbourhood? And even more than that - did my presence in this minuscule corner of the universe make any impression? Does a part of me still linger here?

I thought about my hometown, how even though I love the desert landscape and spending time with my family in our cozy house, I always end up feeling a little melancholy whenever I return. It's like the puzzle piece (me) doesn't quite fit comfortably anymore, and even though I am somewhat bothered by the awkwardness, there's nothing I can do to change that.

My mind then began to wander; what makes ME who I am? Is it the collective experiences, people, and places I've encountered? The spaces I've inhabited? The things I eat, the conversations I've had, the relationships and heartbreaks I've endured?

I don't think I'll ever come to discover a final version of myself - I truly feel like being human, by definition, is a constant transformational experience. Although I've always sought change in my life, never wanting to become boring or stagnant, I sure do have a hard time coping with the passage of good times.

Maybe the memories of my old Parisian apartment make me sad because I associate that time of my life with a better version of myself - a version with more passion and actual goals. Maybe I'm glorifying the past, and maybe I need to stop doing that.


“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
― Rainer Maria Rilke


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Post-Modernism, or something like that...

Although I call myself an Art Historian, I have yet to fully accept the kind of contemporary art that makes me feel slightly scared and very uncomfortable. The kind of art that is hideously ugly and disturbing, or the kind of art that simply makes no sense whatsoever. I try to imagine what the artists must have been thinking while piecing together such creations, and my mind cannot fathom it.

I can understand art that follows or comments upon the chronological flow of art history, and I can accept art that is pleasant to look at, or entertaining to interact with, but I have a really hard time accepting something that consists of cardboard hanging from a string, or something that is so ugly it makes me feel kinda queasy. Part of the problem is nobody wants to repeat what has already happened in the past, so boundaries are constantly being challenged. Boundaries of medium, subject matter, morals, etc. Doesn't it get exhausting to constantly challenge the status-quo?! It also places the artists' own personal, subjective vision or motivation, which much of the time is incomprehensible or hidden to the spectator, above everything else, especially beauty. The concept of beauty has been almost eradicated in contemporary art. I believe these tendencies are somewhere along the lines of Post-Modernism. And it is all very confusing, almost frustratingly so.



{Image from Palais de Tokyo website}

Perhaps with time, and more education, I'll be able to accept this kind of art without getting upset. haha, it's kinda ridiculous that I let it upset me! And in case you're wondering where I was, it was the Palais de Tokyo, a giant exposition space that constantly has new expos. It was open until midnight that Wednesday, so it was almost deserted when we arrived, which only added to my creeped-out feeling! And of course, I didn't hate all of the art there, some of it was interesting, as you'll see in these photos.

{HANSON! Sorry for the blur}
{Very large woman}
{Me and my friend, being eaten by a shark}
{Art that we could walk on! Kinda like a colorful skateboarding ramp}


{We couldn't resist the opportunity for a jumping picture}
{This room had a creepy, green, absinthe-like glow, and was set up like an old saloon. On one wall there was a video playing of a man, wearing a scary monster mask, playing a death-metal song frantically on an accordion. Also, there were photos of women whose eyes had been scribbled over, or who appeared deformed in some way. All kinds of creepy.}
{Video installation + darkness + red light + blur = creepy}
{Bunch of glow-in-the-dark art}


{room lit by a disco ball}
{Fountain/Statue thing}
Aren't you glad you spent 1 minute of your life looking at these pictures of weird art?