Hemingway 2

Henry James' Paris

I’ve never felt both lost and at home, but as I’m writing this I’m torn. Paris is home now, yet I still find myself wide-eyed and filled with an intrinsic need to do everything; fully experience this opportunity. Before I came a friend told me not to worry about doing everything-going everywhere, but instead to focus on making Paris home. “Find a cafe you really like, a park that’s pretty. Make Paris your own.” But making somewhere home is easier said than done. 

It’s hard to feel at home when the familiar, normally re-enforcing my own perception of myself, is gone. It’s similar to the way people get so worked up over break-ups: they’re forced to alter their own perception of themselves devoid their ex-only in this case my ex is Manhattan. 

Paris seems unexplored, as though it’s a secret someone has been keeping. James writes about this stating that the Englishman has, “Suprise at finding that so little of either of these two almost contiguous towns has rubbed off upon the other. He is surprised at certain English people feeling so far away from France.” It’s the mystery of Paris. It seems endlessly unexplored and engaging; even the familiar seeming new; mysterious. Upon seeing some men at a cafe, James writes, “Who are they? What are they?” There’s still mystery in the familiarity. Maybe once Paris becomes home that’ll change.

I guess I’m already experiencing that actually. I bought an apple this morning from a fruit stand below my apartment. I’ve been buying apples here every morning, more out of convenience than anything else. The man smiles when I come in, reaching for the scale, knowing exactly what I’m going to be buying. “Je vais vous voir demain.” I smile. This is my home now. This is where I know people. This is where I buy things. This is where I live. 

Home is important: somewhere I can find comfort outside of myself. “It’s about living in the present.” A cliche, but living in the present gets harder when you rack up more to compare everything to. James called this being a cosmopolite. Maybe a broader awareness, although the way to further understanding, isn’t the way to a happier life. Compare the people on the metro to those farmers riding their horses…who’s happier? Who knows? And I guess happiness isn’t all of it. Fulfillment, meaning, that counts for something.

The apple is sweet-as expected. I head over to the Picasso museum in the Marais. I didn’t know Picasso had been bald…or a communist. I also didn’t realize the extent and variety to what he created-sculptures, paintings, drawings-all carrying some unspoken quirkiness unique to him, yet varying just enough to prevent one (or myself, at least) from pinpointing a consistent style.  

Walking through the museum, it all blends. I have beef with museums for this reason. Although nice, they never seem to do the art justice. When it’s situated altogether-rows upon rows, filling space-the art loses its individuality, becoming merely another thing to see as opposed to portraying its intention. 

It’s the same with people. Alone, each person holds emotions/thoughts making them an individual, but together-like on the metro-they blend into one mass-one huge blob of something to look at. 

Dora Maar

Scanning the walls, Dora Maar appears. This painting, alone on a wall, eliminates any prior conviction I’d had for Picasso. There’s an excerpt from the reading that suddenly makes sense to me: “It was easy because the presence before him was from moment to moment, referring itself back to some recent observation or memory; something caught somewhere.” Henry James is wordy without sounding pretentious-a skill that I’m well aware that I have yet to master. 

Anyways, seeing Dora Maar the room loses its vastness. The previously overwhelming quantity of art fades, blurring itself, allowing me to meet Dora Maar. I’d scene pictures, my grandmother having some reprint hanging around in her old house. 

A wave of familiarity, freedom, fills the room-comfort. I know this woman. This foreign museum in this foreign country loses its previous need to be explored, becoming instead something to coast in; sink into. Dora Maar, a kinder, more respected Cruella Deville-y figure stares into me. She knows me-she has known me. Her authoritative shoulder pads, polished nails colored the crispest red-she has authority. A power in which every woman can relate to: the power of feeling beautiful, but knowing that she warrants respect based off content. Nothing is more powerful than a woman conscious to her worth and merely aware of her beauty. 

Dora Maar is everything I hope to one day be. Dora Maar is power in a gentle way-authority without conviction. Apathy without sacrificial sympathy; reason and logic. Dora Maar has reason and logic, without sacrificing kindness. On bad days, she merely cloaks her insecurity in a nice glass of wine and a fancy dress-her only solid insecurities lending themselves to when feels defeated, tired, restless; her agenda overpowering the truths she holds concrete. 

Her insecurities themselves surface only when the truths she holds concrete are shaken up. Her black hair enforces a deeper understanding; the light green portrays her ability to enjoy her surroundings. Having knowledge and not being pessimistic is a skill set within itself, and one Dora Maar not only contains, but has mastered. 

Being one of the first paintings I had ever seen, Dora Maar holds apart of myself that I don’t even acknowledge as myself-but merely a memory. A memory of my grandmother’s house and of being young.  

Memories hold with them comfort. A memory is in no way or form a surprise-you know how it played out and find comfort in it. But this memory was untold-one I didn’t even realize I had. I was living a memory-experiencing a memory for the first time. I have familiarity with it; I have power over it. 

Dora Maar 

Henry James' Paris Cont'd

I’ve been seeing a lot of art lately. There’s this much in New York, but I definitely don’t take full advantage of it there. It’s nice though. We see Paris portrayed as over-romanticized in the “Velvet Glove.” It’s shown as a stimulant for Berridge, over-romanticizing everything around him while in the city. Paris becomes more or an environment than a city-a concrete presence for Berridge to be inspired in and about. We see this when Berridge refuses to write the preface, telling the Princess, “You are romance.” This demonstrates how the ‘inner lives’ of people differ, but more importantly we see Paris as a place where one can be consumed by romance, engulfed in art, affected by what William James refers to as the ‘social affections.’ 

I went to the opera the other day too. I’d never been. The opera is, to say the least, a production. The words registering emotion, followed by the music comforting me, telling me it’s okay to feel before I even knew I was feeling. The woman on stage, her voice not gentle or conserved, but loud, not afraid to live; not afraid to express; not afraid to be human.

It all boils down to expression. We all want to express ourselves, trying to put some order to the chaos of the unknown. Art does this. That’s why so much literature, paintings, operas are about love. No one really understands it; we can only try and mimic it. 

James does this. His literary style walks you through Paris, jumping from commentary of the Seine, to autumn, to the Champs Elysees all within three sentences. Instead of building on his sentences, with the intention of reaching a main idea, James presents Paris to us naturally, in a more stream of conscious style. This mimics William James’ psychological beliefs, stating “Our psychic life has rhythm: it is a series of transitions and resting-places, of “flights and perchings” (PP 236). We rest when we remember the name we have been searching for; and we are off again when we hear a noise that might be the baby waking from her nap.” By jumping from observation to observation, but further more, stopping occasionally to work out a concept, Henry James recreates the natural order of the mind. 

Stein and Hemingway both embraced this stream of conscious style, allowing their works to be relatively easy to grasp. By mimicking how the mind works naturally, these authors, primarily Hemingway, are able to keep the reader engaged, moving them from one thing to the next the way in which the mind is programmed to do, allowing one to stay engulfed-captivated within the reading, as opposed to moving onto subjects outside of what is presented.