Out Takes

So this is  Paris and there are a lot of quirky moments when something amusing pops into view and  ends up on my camera roll.  But often they just  don’t fit into the themes I am writing about this time.  I  now have enough of these images  to make a little farewell post as Alan and I will be winging back to winter on Saturday. Turn  on the sound track to Amelie and read on.

  I love this turn of the century Sephardic girl (from the   Musee Juif) with her pointy hat, mono-brow and hopeful expression. Zoom in.

  Watch out Alan! Giant sculpture fragment fro the Musee des Arts Decoratifs is coming after you.

  This impossibly cute little chest of drawers  at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs looks like it is going to jump up and run into a Disney animation any minute. Lumiere where are you?

  In January, bakeries feature galette du roi, a delish almond and puff pastry dessert which honours the three kings of the Christmas story. A”bean” is tucked in and whoever gets the bean  wears the golden crown that comes with the cake. Pictured is the bean, a little ceramic baker. Very cute. If you’re me, you not only get to wear the crown, you also get to call your dentist when you get back, because after  biting down on the bean you require a crown of a different kind.

 Worth peering at this poor image to see the cavorting doggies on the lawn of the Tuilleries. Used to be NO ONE got on this grass, now they have a dog run. Dogs, sculpture, the Louvre…. heaven. Speaking of which.  Around the corner is Heaven. And Heaven is on the Allee des Justes, named for those who helped the Jews during World War II. Some things just make sense.

  Here is Bacchus at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs. Note the cleverly placed draperies. He is peering into his cup as if to say, “This stuff may have a future…”

 I couldn’t agree more.

 It’s chilly just hanging out on the side of the Louvre. Can you tell?

  Time to fade out. See you in Winter.

On a Binge in Paris

You know what happens. After the first one, you’re feeling good. Loose, stimulated, happy.     But then you want another. Finding one is no problem, so you go ahead and indulge. The pleasure is intense. You can’t stop talking and thinking, your mind is darting everywhere, from what you know to what you wish you did. You tell yourself, no harm done.  Next thing you know you’re doing two a day. Exhaustion sets in but something is driving you. You just…have to…. keep going… to museums.

It’s true, we did two yesterday and one today. It’s too much but we can’t help it. It’s our last weekend in Paris and, il faut profiter. Yesterday we woke up to a morning that looked like this:

  Yes, that is greenery. Sunshine. Perfect day to journey across Paris and see this:

Eiffel Tower – seen from Trocadero (a plaza across the river)

At Trocadero, is another museum that we have not seen before: the Palais de Chaillot, a museum of architecture  and “patrimoine”. Like so much we have been to, it was blessedly empty (take a note, last two weeks of January are prime time for museum-going in Paris).

  Impressive, no? Especially for fans of medieval art. I kept saying to Alan, “Why couldn’t these churches be saved?

 Dummy. These are moldings taken of the original works. I cannot imagine what it must be like to put the whole east facade Rheims cathedral in a mold. But these French are awfully clever.

  Isn’t he lovely?

And this?    

 

An enjoyable aspect of all this is that these architectural elements are often high up in gloomy cathedrals and here you could really see the beautiful carvings of so many anonymous master sculptors.

I got into depictions of Eve (I”m always into that).

 Upstairs at the Palais Chaillot an enormous room full of architectural models.

 But having traversed hundreds of meters of culture, Eve was ready to bite the apple. We went in search of food and found it down the hill at…. The Musee d’Art Moderne. After quiche and a salad…. are you thinking what I’m thinking?

That’s Sonia Delauney on the left (the painting, I mean) and a gorgeous Dufy on the right. I won’t tire you with more, but it was lovely and not too much. Not really.

Today…. hmm what shall we do?

  If the army of the French Republic is going to spend so much time and money guarding the Jewish Museum, the least we can do is go, right? We waved to the two machine-gun -toting soldiers, cleared the airport-level security check, and entered this:

  Yes, a seventeenth century hotel particular, where else but in the Marais.

 Just a taste of what we saw. Speaking of tasting, this museum-going is hungry work. What would be the right meal after getting in touch with our Jewish heritage?

Fallafel! Another heritage item guarded by machine gun. I kid you not.

And what are we reading?

 

 

 

 

 

Small Wonders

This post about the royal palace of Fontainebleau and that extended wing of the Louvre called the Musee des Arts Decoratifs has, I would think, an unexpected title. It expresses a  strategy that I use when I am out and about: the larger the place, the more one should concentrate on the small stuff. I am  looking for the real spirit of the place, the times and the people, and it can often be found in those small things.

We have been visiting the past and especially the seventeenth century. We drove out to Fontainebleau on the weekend,  another field trip to the past,  and a stellar opportunity to   bone up on the history of French monarchy. Napoleon (there’s a joke here – Bone up, “Boney”, but I can’t think what it is) who had his pick of the French royal abodes, spent a lot of time there and called it, “The true home of kings.” Indeed French royals lived there continuously from the 12th c. to the end of the 19th.

 Here, at Fontainebleau, is Napoleon’s throne room. Grand, no? Does it speak to you of the time, the man? In a way. But what about this?

  In terms of materials, this hat and coat may be amongst the least precious objects at Fontainebleau. But they summon the man with a wrenching immediacy.  As does his campaign bed. He spent far too much time on it.

Grand spaces abound at Fontainebleau.

 

Francois I (same period as England’s Henry VIII) built this massive ballroom. For some reason, he believed that he had to reinforce the grand gesture with a series of small ones.

Royal initials are everywhere, inside and out. Kingly graffiti. Massive egos? I think so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhere at Fontainebleau, small things draw the eye.

  Beautifully patinated balusters.

  Everything not carved is painted. Doesn’t she look like the Mona Lisa?

 Wonderful fabrics.

  A small fresco, so very lovely, so easy to overlook in the context of the space it is in, below, the Chapel of the Trinity, Fontainebleau.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside,  is a massive park with statuary.

 

  But the moss and lichen-covered railings speak of time’s passage even more eloquently.

On to more time travel and a first visit – to the Musee des Arts Decoratifs – housed in a wing of the Louvre. At first, it didn’t seem that different from the Louvre proper. Lots of Fine Art is there.

 For example, this Gauguin, presented absolutely without fuss. “Wow'” I thought. “That painter is a lot like Gauguin. Oh. That painter IS Gauguin.”

 

Fabulous sculpture, isn’t it. Takes the gallic shrug to a new level.

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s look again for the small stuff.             

 Marquetry. Painting with wood. What mastery.

  My favourite gallery: 17th century chairs. Each a perfect, small sculpture.

  When Alan saw me kneeling on the floor to photograph this one, he said, “You really ARE a girl, aren’t you?” He noticed.

We often hear that the devil is in the details. But I would side with the  great Vladimir Nabokov who wrote,  “there is no delight without the detail” (thanks Tom).

 

 

Hanging With my Besties in the Hood

 “Yes,” I said, pointing to my faux Matisse which was drying on the floor, “We’re having a workshop today on Matisse decoupage”.They gave me a blank look. This was the third couple to drop by yesterday morning who clearly had no idea who this “Matisse” might be. We stared at each other. I pointed to the book on the chair. “C’est un peintre francais.” “Ah oui?” the husband said as the wife frowned.

She was trying to imagine a world  in which people know about different painters and try to make things inspired by them just as I was trying to imagine a world in which they don’t. They left and I bustled around mixing paints and spreading paper on the floor. I was sad to think about people going through life not knowing about Matisse. Obviously, his work is the thing, but knowing about his life, his struggles and how he prevailed is enriching, too. That was the idea behind the workshop.

“Painting with scissors” was Matisse’s  primary focus for the last 15 years of his life. Too ill to stand at his easel, and on a quest for simplicity and flatness in his work, he took great pleasure from his cut-outs as we do today. 

In my own “Matisse” I included a blue nude (but pink in mine), the undulating leaf-shapes, and stars and suns. What fun.

 Here Renalee starts the process by covering large sheets of paper in colour. Matisse had his studio assistants do this.

Phyllis and Suzanne deliver blues and pinks.

A floor full of lovely Matisse colours: the colours of summer and happiness.

 First the canvas is divided into asymmetric areas with masking tape. Then squares , rectangles and rhomboids are painted on, in the same happy colours.

Working on the floor turns out to be the best way to do it.

Before we can continue, the paint must dry. This gave us a chance to see slides of Matisse’s work, to discuss his ideas, his place in the story of art, and his life. It was great to share his story with this lovely group of women. I could see that they were moved by Matisse in the same way I am. I don’t know these gals very well – some hardly at all. But there was a great feeling of fellowship in the room. We had a common purpose and interest. We trusted each other. We were sharing ideas and making art together in freedom.  We ended this part of the workshop by thinking about some of the things Matisse said:

“(My aim is) to present emotion as directly as possible and by the simplest means.”

“Exactitude is not truth.”

“Everything is new, everything is fresh as if the world had just been born…”

This last statement  was made by Matisse following the illness that left him bed-ridden. His child-like excitement at the beauty of the world and his vocation of expressing his feelings through cut-outs is touching and inspiring, no? “That’s the spirit I want you to bring to your cut-outs,” I said.

 Cutting begins. Faye works on placing and moving things around. Everyone is silent as they concentrate on their compositions.

 Christiane’s colour choices are original and stimulating.

 Elaine knows a thing or two about composition.

They are all coming together so well.

There’s a lot of moving shapes around before the final gluing. 

By the end, we’re all exhausted, but everyone has a really beautiful work to take home. One of the new-comers said,  “That’s the most enjoyable afternoon I’ve spent in a long time.” Others murmured assent. I was filled with the glow that comes at the end of a good class. And the delight of getting to do what I need to do – share knowledge, share art, make things, nurture people, express myself. How lucky is that?

Open for Business

Somehow, it happens. After weeks of imagining, calling, emailing, paying (and paying) discussing, deciding, listing (not a verb in the sense that I mean it, I know), shopping, cleaning, plastering, painting, framing, nailing, hanging, writing, translating (alas, badly), we finally made it to the opening night of our beloved artefact gallery. I just checked my to do list and somehow all those things happened. Now our summer can truly begin.  

 

Many friends and family members came. A number of folks new to artefact came, too. Elaine and Jim cooked up a storm despite the fact that the food is SUPPOSED to be lousy at a vernissage. Let’s take a look at what we are up to in artefact this summer.

Fabulous pillow collection. Faithful readers will recognize the Paris fabrics on the pillows made by wonderful Laure Bonneville. The shelving units are neat and were whipped up by talented friends.

 

. Laure.

At the serious end of the gallery, fine art rules. The exhibition is called “Atila et Moi”. Moi is me. I’m showing the works I did in France – mostly acrylic and pure pigment on paper. Have a look.

 This is one of the  ones that sold.

 

Do you see some of the influence of the art I was looking at in Paris – at the Art Fair, and the Drawing Salon? Here’s a reminder: I saw these intensely coloured works and got interested in trying out the use of pure pigment in my work. The colours are so rich and deep.

The Atila of our show is a surrealist painter whose works came up for auction at Drouot in the early spring.  I acquired several lots thinking, I could build a show around this stuff. It is really good. The show is about surrealism and the influence one artist has on another. Go here for more info on the gallery, the show, and for my artist’s statement. Man, was this  fun: conceiving and curating the show and hanging it, aided by friend Alison. I think Atila would have liked it. That idea has been important to me. Have a look.

 

Atila and an etching from 1980.

The etchings look great clustered together in the black gallery where you can really get up close. The work on the easel is one of mine, inspired by Atila Here’s a close up.   More Atila’s from the 1980’s. I love their mysterious symbolism. I come back again and again thinking who are these people; what stories are they acting out? You feel on the verge of comprehension and then it slips away again.

It was a great night and a good party. Today in the gallery it was blessedly quiet and I enjoyed the peace and the alone time. 

We are open for business. Damn! Is that painting crooked?

Here We Go Again

Yes, I’m back. I’ve missed the blog, and it feels great to tell you that many readers have been saying that they miss it , too. Time for a fresh start and a new focus, without forgetting the fun we had before, in Paris.

 Ferns emerging in mid-May.

Six weeks have passed since we returned from our Winter in Paris. We have picked up our many responsibilities: houses, gardens, aged mothers, adult children who still need us, and the extended circle of friends for whom we wish we had more time. During our absence, a member of the extended family died, leaving us a lovely bequest but also the  ton of work it takes  to settle the many details of an estate. Our car died, too, and it was not a clean and painless death. But while our Uncle is missed, the car is not. Good riddance. Never buy a Hyundai.

How does it feel? I LOVE it here. Here is me. Here is who I am.I adore Paris, but I can never be a Parisienne, however fascinating  that idea may be. All this baggage of home and its people and the things that go with it  doesn’t quite define me, but it is a big part of my definition. It all expresses a myriad of choices made over decades, and all the work and nurturing and trying and imagining that has gone into crafting  my life. It all stands out in relief now that I have been away and I must say that I like what I see. Pretty much.

 Our country garden..

 We came home to primroses.

 

Things are different here and so am I.  For one, I am less good-looking. Here’s what I mean. I was going through some of my Paris pictures with my friend Hannah, who will be  in Paris soon and wanted to get my thoughts on Versailles. So I was showing her pictures of me and my friend Alison at Versailles and she pointed to one and said, “This must be Alison”. “Uh… no. It’s me.” She looked at the photo again in disbelief and then back at me.”Okay,” I said. “I up my game when I’m there.” She reacted the same way to several more photos. I vowed to start wearing make-up again. And accessories.

Me at Versailles. Note foulard, tight pants, vintage belt, Chanel (not really) jacket, everything matches.

Me at home with Sophie. Note baggy pants,  dirty hair tied back so that I look like a ninja, sensible red boat shoes, glass of wine.

I’m less focussed on food here. It’s just a lot more difficult to get the very best ingredients and usually involves getting in a car and takes time which I may not have. Meals are simple, usually grilled fish, a salad and a glass or four of wine. Chocolate is a must because I insist on healthy eating. I hope to be eating from the garden soon and more on that later.

The gallery with new banner flying.

What I am very much focussed on is the art gallery, my beloved artefact, 255a Knowlton Road, Town of Brome Lake. We open in less than 5 days! Yikes. Any readers living in the vicinity are invited to join us for the Grande Ouverture, wine and cheese at 5 pm and a  chance to win a framed work on paper. That just rolls off my tongue because I have been repeating it over the phone so much and now even in my sleep I can be heard muttering, “framed work on paper…” I am so excited about the opening exhibition, “Atila et Moi/Atila and Me” which features the surrealist works on paper that I bought on auction in Paris and many of my own works, also in a surrealist vein. Here’s a preview.

 

One of my works.One of Atila’s works.

More to come, on every front. Gallery website: http://www.artefact-bromelake.com.

 

 

Dames d’un Certain Age II

Don’t think I have ceased researching my soon- to-be best-seller on the beauty secrets of middle-aged Parisiennes. Au contraire.  I know that in this time of resurgent Cold War and financial uncertainty, when a SARS-like epidemic out of the Middle-East (coincidence?) is heading our way, the primary pressing concern of the average North American woman of a certain age is how to stave off the ravages of time, shed wrinkles and extra pounds,  and achieve the insouciant epitome of chic that is the natural state of women over here. I have dedicated myself to this research (a fact I particularly insist upon in the expectation that I can write off all of my expenses on this trip in my 2014 tax return). I cannot give away all the book’s secrets, but to whet your appetite I would like to begin with a general discussion of certain myths concerning the aging Parisienne.

#1. It is not true that all  Parisian women are young-looking and chic. Not at all. They often  show their age. Every one of those Gitanes they smoked as they mounted the barricades in May 68 is written on their faces in wrinkles as complex as the Paris metro map. They often wear nondescript outfits and sensible shoes. Their hair is in  a bun, and  not a chic messy-bun as seen in the advertizing for Aesop skin care products. Not at all.

#2. It is not true that the French don’t try to be beautiful. Believe me, they try. Take cellulite creams. In the pharmacies of Paris there is hardly room for any drugs because of the amount of shelf-space devoted to cellulite creams. And honestly, who would be naive enough to think that a cream would get rid of cellulite, anyway?

Imagined conversation:

Pharmacist:   “Desolez, Madame, but I cannot give you any antibiotics for your oozing sores to-day, because we ran out of room for them.”

Customer: “Zut, what shall I do?”

Pharmacist: “Perhaps try some cellulite cream? It’s very effective.”

#3. It is not true that Parisiennes do not use botox. At a dinner party I attended recently, a truly beautiful fellow guest was so botoxed that when she spoke, she sounded like she had no teeth. It was painful to see her try to form words, and discover that her upper lip just wasn’t going anywhere.

Exercise for those considering botox:

Go to a mirror. Stuff four cotton balls under your upper lip. Notice that those witchy lines do disappear, but also notice that  you look like Bugs Bunny. Now try to talk. Say words like: wonderful, please, and why would I want to look so ridiculous.

Enough myth-busting, although there is much more to be said. Time for stalking the chic Parisiennes we do admire. Let’s look at some photos and analyze.

A few weeks ago, at the Paris Art Fair, I noticed that I was surrounded by the subject types we are most interested in. Ah-ha, iphone 5C at the ready!

 Here’s the setting. The beautiful Grand Palais. Chic Parisiennes are everywhere, selling, buying, discussing, seeing and being seen.

   Our first subject shows that you need not be young nor happy to be chic. She has style, she matches the paintings, the grey hair was a good choice and she understands that if you are going to go grey you have to wear lipstick.

 Perfect. The figure on the right has orange everything – jacket, hair and hem. And it’s really working. She looks vibrant, chic – er than thou. Her friend has the most gorgeous coat. The purse and pants are right.

 Some art. Just to raise the tone of our discussion.

 Oh, the young Moms. Jeggings, leggings, great knee-length coat, large hand bag, white platform running shoes. Copy that.

 Running shoes again. Now this hurts a bit, because no running shoes unless at the gym, used be a central tenet of the Parisiennes’ creed. But things have changed and running shoe culture has come to Paris. Still, as your teenagers know, they have to wear the RIGHT running shoes. White or black lace-ups. Look like Keds. Could be platform if you want a little height.

 More art. Improve your mind.

 Yes. Camel and perfectly coiffed. Oxfords are another good shoe choice and they are everywhere here.

  Arty, shawled, dark tights. Take notes.

 Dashing about. She’s working but always coordinated in the great Paris non-colours that are a no-risk choice for the chic.

Okay, there you have it. More myths busted and more secrets revealed in “Aging Like A Parisienne”, by Christine Stonehewer. Advanced orders accepted.

 

 

On Safari

On the Left Bank, a stone’s throw from the Eiffel Tower, is the large structure you see pictured above. The French designer, Patrick Blanc, was the first to create buildings clad in vegetation and what a beautiful idea that is. This building is the Musee de Quai Branly, the home of France’s “ethnographic”  collection. It inspired Picasso and  Matisse. And inspirational they are.

 This stone sculpture, half animal, half human, is Oceanic but could easily be a modern work by Brancusi or Zadkine.

To enter the museum, you walk up a long ramp, in the dark, as a river of lit words, in the various languages of the peoples represented in the museum, appears underfoot. “What the hell is that?” Alan said as we stumbled up the ramp. “Art, Honey” I replied. When you get to the top, the happy guy pictured above waves at you. The dim lighting prevails, as you can see.

To add to the confusion, scores of tiny school children are dashing about, calling excitedly in shrill voices. You can’t see them and you are afraid you will step on them. Glass cases are filled with scary guys like this.

And this.

Is it not slightly masochistic subjecting tiny children to these frightening works? Apparently, it’s part of the national toughening up in  France. “Don’t worry dear” I said to Alan. “Imagine having to be the class parent on this outing.” He grimaced. “That is a truly scary thought,” he said as he dodged a tot hurtling like a missile in his direction.

We continued on and things got better. We tried to stay ahead of the school groups.

Ahhh, fabrics. How I love them. And this museum offers a feast. These are batiks from Java.

Zoom on these, if you can. The needlework is incredible.

These colours and designs, representing Cambodian, Middle Eastern and Afghani peoples, literally take my breath away. I am moved by these works in the way I would be by a Van Gogh. They found these patterns and designs compelling and I do, too. So viewing their art I feel united with them as we share aesthetic values. At the same time I felt slightly uncomfortable standing in front of all these captive goods, emprisoned as they are in plexiglass. These remnants of the French colonial enterprise, housed in the beautiful modern museum, are mute. They cannot say what might be said about suffering, greed and loss.

Enough said, I suppose. Returning to inspiration, it is perhaps not accidental that the week after Quai Branly, I was up at the Marché St. Pierre in Montmartre. Here, at the foot of Sacre-Coeur, a host of discount fabric stores offer their wares to dedicated hunters. The main shop, a department store offering five floors of fabric, was a trove of fabric finds.

A couple of trips later, I had bought many metres of cloth for the coming pillow line at the gallery this summer.

 Look for great pillows this spring at artefact.

The Paris Salon, 2014

This weekend, there are four art salons taking place in Paris, not to mention the wonderful Salon des Vins Independents (six euros buys you a glass and all the wine you can drink. I’m serious). Time to put on some comfortable shoes and join the art cognoscenti. Here is a chance to see what’s happening in contemporary art as well as view works on paper by Grand Masters. What a joy, since graphic works are very under-represented in museums in the mistaken view that works in oil and acrylic are more worthy. Also, in going to the art salon, we can  experience what was a mainstay of nineteenth century Parision life, and the central moment in the visual arts year of the period.

On Thursday, we went to the Place de la Bourse, for the Salon du Dessin, 2014. Housed in the former Paris Stock Exchange, a grand old building,  it features rows of booths rented by galleries from throughout Europe.

 

   

 

Get ready for beauty.

    I particularly enjoyed the mix of periods.

 

Today, while Alan went to spend the morning tasting and buying wines, I was off to the Paris Art Fair at the Grand Palais. This eye-popping venue is an exhibition hall built for the International Exposition of 1900. Designed to assert French grandeur and pre-eminence amongst nations, it is a vast space with a glass ceiling. Flooded with light, it is great for viewing art and anything else, I imagine. Here are some works that inspired me.

I always love dripping. 

This work and the trio of works in the next image, by an artist named Monique Frydman, inspire me with their vivid colours. The artist has rubbed pigments directly onto the canvas using a medium  to make them sink in. Can’t wait to try this.

These sculptures are quite large, and appear to be made of metal, but on inspection they are paper!

 This artist rolls Japanese paper into flower-like shapes and arranges them in plexiglass boxes. I love this idea. but I don’t want you to think that I liked everything.

 I guess every Salon needs something outrageous. But, really.

There were quite a few pieces in this genre. Large photographs of staged scenes in Technicolour. Here, “Jesus” visits Greenwich Village. Okay.

But don’t think I can’t take anything experimental. Here, water drips from two intravenous bags that hang from the ceiling (not in the picture) into two Chinese porcelain bowls filled to brimming with black ink. The ink spills over and a stain spreads on paper. As it spreads, Chinese calligraphy is revealed.

I also enjoyed these guys that are made from fabric and mud and I don’t know what else. I’m going to try this, too.

Are you surprised that there was nothing of mine in this years’ salons?  Maybe next year.

 

 

 

The State of Art

When you’re in love, you want to tell the world.

When he said this, Carl Sagan was explaining why his life has been devoted to explaining the cosmos, but it also sums up why I am blogging. Being here in Paris is so stimulating I am  bursting: with ideas, with feelings (not to mention with cheese, but that’s another post). Part of this is the inexhaustible feast of visual arts that Paris offers. If you are an art lover in Canada,  there is simply not that much out there to see, although we faithfully support our museums, check out temporary exhibitions in Ottawa, and consider bussing to Toronto if something is worthwhile. But  while in Canada we will largely content ourselves with nature and go to New York for art.

If you have been to Paris, you have probably been to the larger museums: the Louvre, the Pompidou and the Orsay. Although not strictly a  Fine Art museum, The Musee de l’Armee at the Hotel des Invalides is also large. Most people who go there limit their visit to Napoleon’s tomb, which is a shame because it is the least interesting item on display. Housed in a Louis XIV era hospital of stunning architectural beauty (OK, the golden dome may be in bad taste, but I think Napoleon III was responsible for that), the museum has so much to offer it’s hard to know where to begin. The many galleries of armour, all nations, all eras, highly decorated, often beautiful, reveal the making of armour to be an art form. Housed in their glass cases,  these helmets, breast plates and swords appear as interesting sculptures. I was especially drawn to the suits of armour crafted for Louis XIII as a child.

 

In another area, the histories of World War I and II unfold, told through film and through  displays of objects as diverse and interesting as a Paris taxicab ( the battle of the Marne, in which cabs joined the last-minute efforts to get French soldiers to the front), the first tanks, a Nazi flag, a yellow star, and gallery after gallery of uniforms, some familiar, many quite exotic. Uniforms are the signature object of this museum and in the Napoleon galleries their fabrics, embroideries and insignias are quite gorgeous and memorable.

It’s all state-sponsored propaganda, of course. And in Paris the connections between art, architecture and particular regimes  are evident everywhere and need not be explained. Those in power -the Church, the Bourbons, the Napoleons – require artists and artisans to reflect and support their “glory”. In return the artists get to do art and live. Those in power pass away, the art lives on.