Yes there really is such a thing as Wilkes University. It’s in a curious place far far away – a place called Wilkes–Barre, Pennsylvania. I’ve got the hat, and the shot glass, to prove it. My brother Steve mentioned Wilkes U. about ten years ago. He was in the area on a business trip and happened across it. Before that time, none of our family had ever been to Wilkes–Barre, although I’d long harbored a bit of curiosity about the name. Wilkes U. was still just a College back then. My sister Joan was in the area a few years later and confirmed the existence of an actual Wilkes College. For a few more years it remained just an odd curiosity to the family. But it occupied a vacant spot on my “life list,“ and eventually I’d travel a long distance to see it for myself. It was one of the things we did on our “Retirement Odyssey, 2004.” The towns of Wilkes–Barre and Scranton lie close together in the heart of the coal mining country of NW Pennsylvania. It’s not a place I’d call “beautiful” or “charming,” In fact the whole area looks as though it’s been dying for a very long time. Yet it’s compelling in a sad sort of way. Those who defined the “Rust Belt of America” had places like this in mind. On the way to Wilkes-Barre, Interstate 81 passes miles of un-reclaimed mining land covered with piles of discarded rock overburden and mine slag. Rusted abandoned tractors, graders, and shovels stand idle in denuded hollows and valleys where the coal played out long ago. They’re waiting for a call that will never come, the ghosts of an outdated technology bypassed by even more massive, even more ruthless earthmoving equipment. In addition to a declining coal economy, the historical center of Wilkes–Barre underwent the disastrous process of “urban renewal.” It was a time when most of the country seemed locked in a race to the bottom, determined to destroy its irreplaceable patrimony as quickly and profitably as possible in the short term with no realistic plan to clean up and properly develop the resulting mess of vacant land and city-killing parking lots. Like most American cities, Wilkes-Barre could not resist the lure of easy Federal money. And then there was the flood. In 1972 the remnants of Hurricane Agnes swept through the area with torrential rains. The Susquehanna River leapt its banks, right at the point where it bends to the southwest in downtown Wilkes–Barre, and flooded much of the old part of the community – including the campus. Wilkes-Barre has seen some rough times. Today, just a little west of the remaining downtown core, sits the quiet tree-shaded campus of Wilkes University. We exit the freeway and follow the signs to this small urban university, that happens to be named for an eccentric ancestor of mine.
I stop at the admissions office and ask around about the history of the University. When I mention my connection to the namesake of Wilkes U, I get a nice tour from the director of the library and she takes my picture with the statue of John Wilkes that stands at the western end of the central greensward. I stare for moment at his bronze face to verify an important detail. I want to make sure they got it right and I can just make it out. Yes the statue is indeed cross-eyed. Then it’s off to meet the Provost who’s extremely interested in Wilkesian history, and seemed to know much more about it than I did. I become even more of a minor celebrity when I give the Library a copy of the book I wrote in memory of my brother. They’re delighted to add a title from someone named Wilkes. John Wilkes was a rakish character, strident journalist, and free speech advocate who was well known in London at the time of King George III and the American Revolution. Wilkes published scandalous broadsides that opposed certain public policies and were transparently critical of the King. He ran for Parliament from Middlesex and won several times, but each time the results were thrown out by the Government. After he was actually banned from running, he won on a write-in vote, but he was never allowed to take his seat. Wilkes was once described by the essayist Hogarth as “...capable of a degree of abuse for which licentious seems too mild a word.” He was well known to the literati and was an acquaintance of Samuel Johnson and James Boswell, among others. It may well have been because of King George’s preoccupation with the outrageous antics and constant needling of Wilkes that he failed to pay sufficient attention to events beyond the Atlantic, and ended up losing the Thirteen Colonies. It must have been an interesting time to live in London. Wilkes later invested in a mining venture (in partnership with Barre) in the former colonies. There are several books about this interesting individual, including one with the memorable title of “That Rascal Wilkes.” I hope to read most of them someday when we get our books unpacked. Today there’s a city and a University named for him in a distant land he never saw.
Wilkes University maintains a broad undergraduate curriculum with Colleges in Arts, Humanities and Social Sciences, Science and Engineering, Business and Leadership, and Pharmacy and Nursing. They offer graduate degrees in Business, Computer Science, Creative Writing, Education, Electrical Engineering, Mathematics, and Nursing. More information is available at: 1–800–WILKES–U or www.wilkes.edu.
Summer 2018: Paris II
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Fondation Louis Vuitton
A big item on our list is the highly-touted Fondation Louis Vuitton, Frank Gehry’s new and challenging creation located in the woods, in the broad Bois de Boulogne. It’s a brisk walk on a fine day through the park from the Porte Maillot Metro stop in Neuilly, and the museum is hard to miss as we draw closer. Gehry makes a statement, although this one, unlike his museum in Bilbao, is hidden in the trees. Perhaps there was no good site available along the Seine, even with substantial Louis Vuitton funding to back it.
Gehry’s latest extravagance gives few clues as to what lies inside. It’s an exterior-dominant exercise in sculptural-structural complexity and ‘candy wrapping’ that demands exploration of its artistry, its ‘funhouse’ dynamic before getting to the art on display. Its amorphous ’crumpled tinfoil tossed on the ground’ aesthetic recalls the one in Bilbao, which is highly viewable from various parts of the city, including the riverwalk – and especially from the top of the funicular across the river. But the Paris example is curiously hidden. And as in Bilbao, the artworks on display take second place to the building itself.
(Here's a link to our post from Bilbao in 2016: http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/06/summer-2016-bilbao.html)
Views toward the great city of Paris are rare, with peeks at the modern skyline of La Défense being chief among them. Oddly, little homage is paid to the masterpiece of Gustav Eiffel, a kindred structure, where majestic form and robust connections are proudly shown as a main artistic element. The great Iron Lady is largely ignored here and only visible through a small opening in a remote corner, if you can find it.
On show in several large galleries, the huge and fantastical work of Takashi Murakami, born in Japan in 1962, deserves attention. The large sculpture in the center of one gallery, entitled “Chakras open and I Drown Under the Waterfall of Life, 2017” represents his response to “…the trauma of the tsunami that struck Japan in 2011.”
In other rooms, Murakami’s cartoons and splashing colors, drawn from his work in anime, require a close encounter to fully appreciate the detail involved.
In other galleries, the ghostly presence of Jean-Marie Appriou’s large “Lips and ears, 2018” dominates a room by itself.
Other galleries contain works by modernist masters such as Brancusi, De Chirico, and other notable artists.
And a hidden exterior water space provides a bit of whimsy, and a hall for mirror play by wannabe photo-journalists.
After an afternoon drenched in the challenging Fondation Louis Vuitton, we walk back into the city again, in need of a quiet dinner and a glass or two of good red wine.
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Paris is one of the world’s great cities for living and wandering without any plan at all, for stopping at the window of a ‘jam shop,’ or heeding a sign that reads, “Enter! Here good wine makes good moments.” (Except the place was closed.) We check out the fine art in a gallery nearby, notice that Charlie Hebdo is still publishing outrageous political satire – despite a deadly attack by extremists – and consider turning up for an Archie Shepp concert at ‘an undisclosed location.’ I find a jaunty chapeau somewhere to keep the sunburn off my thinning scalp, and now the locals don’t assume I’m American anymore; they think I’m a lost German tourist.
There’s time to hang out by the lazy waters of the Seine, or stop by a tempting place that assures us, “Here one drinks and one eats until 2:00 in the morning.” And not far away is another good nose-wet called Le Smiley, with a fine singer in house.
And for breakfast we stop at Le Pain Quotidien for coffee with almond croissants and a view to the street, while Parisian parents deliver their children to a nearby school. On another morning we’ll enjoy delicious buckwheat crepes at La Petite Bretonne, while tradesmen make deliveries to a nearby boucherie (butcher shop). It’s another day in the early morning life of the city.
For us, having ‘something to do’ isn’t necessary, or even desirable, in a city like Paris. We're content to absorb the energy of the streets in a place that has inspired great writers, artists, and thinkers for centuries – with no illusions that ‘greatness’ will somehow rub off on us. But it’s nice to be in a place where that often happens.
In Paris, iconic images are everywhere, none more so than a modern Parisienne shugged against a wall with a cigarette in one hand and her iPhone in the other.
The streets and squares of Paris lend themselves so well to wandering. Wherever you end up, there’s a Metro nearby to get you back where you need to be. And the words of the prophets are sometimes plastered on those Metro walls, with all the catchy ads and notices. And there are good musicians to make use of those fine acoustics in the tunnels.
And at the end of the day, we’ll return late to the apartment for rich chocolates, a few crispy crapotes (!?), and a snifter of Armagnac. The soft rumble of late Metro trains deep below us in the granite heart of Montmartre lulls us to sleep.
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La Cigale
A poster on a wall reads: “Ben Folds and a Piano,” at nearby La Cigale. It’s a well-known Parisian nightlife venue, even if the façade is badly ‘modernized.’ Inside there’s a gorgeous old theatre with intricate cast iron balconies and a stage front to recall the glory days when Toulouse-Lautrec was hanging out a few blocks down the street drawing posters for the Moulin Rouge.
But the people were waiting for the manic energy of Ben Folds, who soon attacked a piano waiting in the spotlight. He spoke to the crowd with riotous black and white key work, pain and anger – personal but general, at being screwed by The Man – and they sang with him. After a long and furious crashing set on the piano, Folds assaulted an innocent drum kit – subtlety not a part of his nature – to rumbling applause. The evening ended with a standing ovation and the throbbing, sated, crowd poured out into the Parisian night.
We walked about a block, to our cosy apartment overlooking the Pigalle.
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Atelier des Lumières
Abundant 60s references come to mind as color visions from 140 BARCO projectors swirl the entire space and a seamless sound track resonates throughout. Think, ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; or the Byrds coloristic: ‘…and wander in the forest, where the trees have leaves of prisms that break the light in colors that no-one knows the names of’.’; or Joni Mitchell’s Chelsea Morning, ‘…and the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses.’ Just try to imagine what they could do with this show in Amsterdam….
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Pere Lachaise
And after that full-immersion, we plunge ourselves onto the famous slopes and woods of Père Lachaise cemetery, only a block or so away. Here in these leafy grounds, dozens of famous artists, writers, musicians, and performers have found their final resting place, along with dozens of ordinary souls. A raven perched among the markers seems appropriate for such a grey and drizzly day.
This city of the dead has a long history and the list of permanent residents is noteworthy: Colette, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, Balzac, Apollinaire, Georges Bizet, Delacroix, Daumier, Yves Montand, Simone Signoret – even Porfirio Diaz and Benjamin Franklin’s grandson William.
Numerous sad, crumbling old monuments in this jumbled city of the dead remind us that unless someone comes to attend our graves they too will crumble into soil or succumb to tree roots someday. Regardless, we all return to the fertile land as bio-mass to nurture the future. And our best ideas, if we’re lucky, may pass into what Robert M Hutchins called, “The Great Conversation.”
OK, we also did the ‘60s thing’ and stopped by the grave of James Douglas Morrison. Someone said, “You can tell where it is by all the hippies around it.” Jim’s grave is not spectacular, wedged into a small and well-trampled spot between many other burials by a ‘gum tree’ — one of those trees that people stick their gum to for some reason. His tomb seems oddly anti-climactic after his short and flamboyant life.
Many others in Père Lachaise must have led flamboyant lives for their era, but that’s long forgotten as the artists and rogues of each new age concoct outrages of their own. And rarely do graves blaspheme the dead with factual accounts of their lives. That’s for the biographers and novelists and should not sully the headstones of the deceased. A bit of whimsy may suffice, however.
And while at Père Lachaise, how could we not go in search of the final resting place for a person listed on the roster simply as ‘Sex Toy?’ Below a large bronze placard emblazoned with “Sex Toy,” the name of Delphine Palatsi (1968-2002) is etched into the cold and mossy stone. Known around Paris as ‘one of the premier female techno-DJs of the 1990s,’ she began her career mixing at Le Scandalo, a club on Rue Keller in Paris. She mixed at venues for Louis Vuitton, l’Oréal, and the Cannes film festival, appeared in several films, and lived her manic life until 2002 when she died of a heart attack at 33 years of age.
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It’s appropriate that we’ll depart Paris on a train from the Gare Saint Lazare to visit Monet’s home and garden in Giverny, since he often painted the old coal-chuffing engines arriving from Normandy in this very station. In his day, those giant and powerful machines were strong symbols of a new industrial age transforming much of Europe from its medieval past into a brave new future. The romantic old coal-burners are gone now – and the air is cleaner – but the Gare Saint Lazare still exudes some of its old magic.
Monet was largely a self-taught rebel, ignoring his father’s wishes to join the family grocery business, and rejecting art classes to study with the masters. Michelangelo, Goya, Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso – the list of such artistic rebels is long.
Monet was known for his mastery of many subjects besides smoking steam engines. He’s mostly remembered for his peaceful and romantic scenes of canals in Venice and Amsterdam, the sailing boats at Argenteuil, and his beloved gardens in Giverny. His attraction in later life to a peaceful life in the countryside far from the clangor of Paris is understandable.
In less than an hour from Paris by train we’re at the Vernon station and boarding a bus for the short drive to Giverny. Then it’s a modest walk, on a crowded pathway, from the bus park to the Maison et Jardins de Claude Monet, where he and his family lived from 1883 to 1926.
Oscar-Claude Monet was a founder of French Impressionism – the term came from his painting Impression, soleil levant (Impression, Sunrise) first exhibited in 1874. He would paint scenes numerous times to capture subtle changes in light and the seasons of the year. He created his own landscape for painting in Giverny, where he lived for the last 43 years of his life.
Along the way to Monet’s home and garden we make the acquaintance of a friendly Chinese couple who are enjoying their own extended retirement wander in Europe. She’s very sprightly and a real spark who used to work for a German company in China. She speaks German, decent English, and Mandarin Chinese. He’s courtly but more quiet, and speaks no English. He was a manager for China Telecom. We find ourselves piloting our way together through narrow lanes to a very long line outside the entry door, but we’ll lose track of each other later, somewhere in Monet’s broad gardens.
The expansive gardens of Claude Monet are resplendent with flowers, just as we’d expect on such a fine warm day in springtime. The bees stay busy with the abundance of floral choices giving forth their bounty of honey.
Monet’s famous lily pond and arcing Japanese bridge are in a different
section, through a passageway under the rural road that runs beside his home and garden. The lily pond and woods are a fine place with hidden creeks and copses to lose ourselves among (along with a crowd of others) while tracing the pathways leading to the pond and bridge.
Monet’s modest home is charming and inviting, as if he’s only gone for the day and expected back later for supper. Besides the walls covered with his art and collections, the kitchen is a romantic image of old Brittany. It’s easy to see why Monet spent his final years here.
Back in the gift shop, we recline on some very comfortable couches for an informative talk about Monet by Helen Bordman, ‘Executive Volunteer,’ formerly of New Jersey but now resident in France. Helen has collected a variety of stories and impressions of Monet’s life here in the little community of Giverny and she brought those days to life.
(For more Monet & Giverny: https://www.claudemonetgallery.org)
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Alas, it’s time to leave…
But in the end we must leave familiar Paris behind, and search out other challenges. Our original loose itinerary has semi-evolved so that we’re now heading through Germany toward the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, and Italy. The old river port city of Strasbourg, lying just on the French side of the Rhine, will be our next stop. We’ll see you there! — PRW
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• For more of Paris from 2013 & 2016, see:
http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2013/07/summer-2013-sojourn-aaaah-paris.html
http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/08/summer-2016-paris.html
Posted on June 21, 2018 | Permalink | Comments (0)