Marais Walk: Iain Sinclair

Sinclair and the Marais 

Sinclair’s cinematic, almost fragmented style fits the atmosphere of the Marais, or any city I think. Life works like a movie; noticing one thing, then the next. We really don’t focus on anything for too long, every thought kind of just occupying us until something else takes it place. We’ve formatted society to keep us occupied; entertainment: the job of cinema and society. 

Even walking is fragmented. Stopping at crosswalks, turning a corner-we rarely ever really walk in a straight line: a linear path that runs into the next, leading its walker directly to a conclusion. Instead the walker has to go, get lost, figure it out. Writing works both ways, but Sinclair’s style seems to lean towards the latter. 

Space Invader and an Ally

Space invaders sprinkle themselves along the area, providing some sort of constant throughout Paris. These little critters, unobtrusive yet undeniably apparent-there for those who want to appreciate them, but not asking for anything in return. Their technological façade contrasts with the old Parisian architecture. The colors, unapologetic in their vastness and clarity, clash against the classic cream. A cream that knows better. A cream that’s wise enough to accept the critters, but polished enough to distance itself from them.

Space Invader Outside the Metro 

The streets continue and so do the critters; connecting the Marais, connecting Paris, but also connecting me with home. A friend’s favorite artist is Invader; every critter carrying a wave of comfort. A wave of familiarity, tenderness, followed by a sharp pang for something-someone-I don’t have. The streets are filled with his memory-more his presence. It’s comforting to be constantly reminded of someone who made you happy in a way you didn’t even know you were capable of; who filled in that last bit that’s missing. That last little something: an outlet to share the happiness with. That’s why love works so well. It makes you happy and gives you an outlet for that happiness. 

Going through an ally there’s an assortment of street art. Each piece carries its own message. Each piece screaming to be heard, but ends up merely masked by its competitors. Street art: competitors who aren’t even trying to compete. The causes, messages, overlap and overwhelm, turning into one huge mass of ‘angsty' rebellion.

If any of this art was displayed at a gallery, people would probably be lining up to see it. Reading into the artist’s ‘message’ and nodding approvingly, feeling gratified that they understand and appreciate art; as long as someone else has told them of its value. Shepherd Ferry, Banksy-they started out as street artists, branding themselves to gain respect. With branding ('selling out') comes recognition. 

A storm trooper sits on the entrance of the ally. My brother loves these guys and suddenly I miss him. The thought of missing people is worse than the actual process-self-pitying remorse. With time being the controlling factor, there’s nothing to be done; no coping mechanism for this form of pain. Taking a picture and sending it to him is all to be done. And it’s time for lunch.

Storm Trooper 

The 'Dangerous' Marais 

L’as du Fallafel is on the corner. The falafel-crispy-warms me up from the inside. Psychological or not, I don’t care. This falafel really is better than any I’ve ever had. Continuing down the street: thrift stores, more falafel places, some crepe stands (as always) and a ton of galleries. There seems to be a pretty heavy Jewish influence here, which is why there are so many cops-keeping alert due to the recent ‘I am Charlie’ events. Safety fills the area; the calm after a storm.

Falafel that'll change your life

Soldiers-bureaucrats with guns-dressed in combat boots, bullet-proof vests-ready to fight, ready for war. They stand near the falafel stand, watching over the tourists too focused on checking this restaurant off their list to fully comprehend the power these men hold. Their Peter Pan-y hats overpowering their guns, vests, all intimidation is lost. Mere decorum; the people protecting France have to look good too. 

Bureaucracy using violence. I guess it’s necessary though. Once you’re a criminal, you lose some basic human rights since you’re posing a threat to a greater mass. Bureaucracy doesn’t work for an individual, it works for the masses because what individual would it choose to most represent? 

Regardless these soldiers aren’t intimidating. Or maybe it’s because I was in the city during all the Ferguson rallies-when people were really riled up and persistent in making a difference-literally fighting the cops to do so. These cops are that control-a reminder that the culture I live in controls society when it reaches primitive levels. 

I keep walking towards the Seine, looking up, searching for more art. In a window, two men look back at me. Mere paintings on a window, they carry with them a truth that gives them a misleading reality. Typical French: striped shirt, small hat, and a mustache-these men know what they’re doing. They’re confidant. They’re smooth. The subtlety of them is something owned by street art. It adds to the coolness of it; that it’s not asking to be appreciated, but is instead there for the sake of being there-for the sake of being public.  

'Je Suis Charlie' x Parisian in a Window

Walking past some more space invaders, a friend appears. She’s working the denim on denim (an accomplishment within itself), beanie covering her newly transformed hair cut. She has Doc Martins on and is puffing on her cigarette as though it’s fulfilling any other need or want she might’ve had. She doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need me. She’s badass. We hug. We talk. We do the whole thing. We’re here for the same assignement-this assignment. Telling me about some more hidden street art, we kiss goodbye-once on each cheek, of course (pretending to be French has become second nature by now).  

The hidden aspect to street art adds to its allure too. It’s too cool for just anyone to see-you have to know about it-be on the inside scoop. 

Some more Invader

The Bougie Marais 

The Marais is hip and upper class. Jeans aren’t just jeans here-they’re specialty pants and they advise you to clean them by throwing them in your freezer instead of in the wash. They’re too sensitive for a machine. The restaurants are chic and the only really cheap food you’ll find are crepes, and only if you’re content with your crepe being smothered with butter and sugar. You pay for the nutrition you receive in Paris. 

I LOVE MY BLENDER. The title doesn’t tell me anything; doesn’t tell you anything. It’s alluring. It’s marketing. Too hip for a descriptive name. It doesn’t need you to understand it. It doesn’t need your business. It just loves its blender. Housing an array of witty mugs, books with quirky titles just to reveal pictures of nonsense. A sofa sits in the front-decoration. The quintessential cool kid hang out. A place to buy stuff to make you unique; reassurance of your individuality. And for only 30 euros you can get a mug with a mustache. Wow. 

LA CHAMBRE AUX CONFITURES. Only jam. All jam. Any jam. Jam. Sweet jam. Savory jam. Never in my life have I seen so many jams. You know an area is a little bougie when a store that sells only jam (at an average of 8 euro/jar) can stay open. In its defense, if you’re willing to sling out the 8 euro, you can get your exact craving filled. Apricot isn’t just apricot. It’s apricot and lavender; apricot and ginger. The oranges aren’t just oranges. It’s orange and flower. ‘Orange exotique.’ What does exotic taste like? Whip out your 8 euro and find out. They’re displayed on shelves. Overwhelming. Looking up at jams, they suddenly seem to have more power. Intimidated by jam? No. Intimidated by the amount of product. The amount of possibilities, temptation, for me to waste a full day’s food money on. 

For an area that’s so chic, the street art becomes a sort of effort to keep the area from becoming ‘bougie.’ 

There’s something freeing about this art. Since it’s not really made for anyone, it ends up being made for everyone. Using known figures like storm troopers and President Sarkozy, everyone can relate to it in a way that a gallery (or the law) doesn’t really allow. Although I guess street art within itself is illegal too. 

President Sarkozy

Leaving the area, I look up. ’Je suis Charlie’ fills the area. 

It fills all of Paris: another message. This one slightly overpowering the others due to its simplicity and the fact that it’s everywhere. Je suis Charlie. Nous sommes Charlie. All it takes is gluing up a poster to make it seem like a whole city supports a cause. Maybe they do. I guess that’s the point.