Photography from Peter Ferenczi, and ongoing fiction from Mark Fitzpatrick!

 

 

Hello, folks! This week we have a new contributor to the blog in photographer/writer Peter Ferenczi. Peter is the artist behind the Partial Sight blog, and the book of the same name, in which he pairs his street photography with thought-provoking, humorous and sometimes mind-bending captions. He was nice enough to send us one of his recent snaps of life on the Seine (below) and we hope it's just a small taste of much more to come from Peter on the blog. If you can't wait for more, you can find more info about Peter at the bottom of the page. But on your way down the page, please also enjoy the most recent installments in our serialization of the quai-side scenes from Mark Fitzpatrick's novel, Very Few to Love. And more about Mark's writing can also be found below. Until next time, we wish you warmth and holiday cheer from the banks of the Seine!

 

 

    photo by Peter Ferenczi

 

 

VI

The late afternoon sun burned gold through low clouds, shining on the wet stone of the quai, everything filled with the quiet and clean absence of the rain. The drips rustling in the leaves above, the footsteps of the few people wandering down alongside the river now, the saxophone’s husky note from far off under the bridges: all were made distinct and strange in the calm after the storm. Jill arrived, with bread and cheese, and a thick floury sausage, and we ate chunks of them cut with the blackened blade of Viktor’s old wooden Opinel clasp knife. We didn’t speak much, just ate. A tall, bearded Frenchman, who I had seen painting portraits alongside the Russians, joined us, and handed round plastic cups of hot, weak coffee from a flask in exchange for some of Jill’s food. She just passed him the bread and the knife with a smile, as if it was all the most natural thing in the world. It felt almost like it was. It was quite normal for me to sit here and break this bread, passed from hand to ink-stained hand, with the artists and madmen, down on the quai. I was one of them now.

VII

I took my case and made my way by the narrow streets down towards the river. Stopping at a café blooming smells of coffee into the street, hissing hot-water sounds, clinking and rattling of cups and saucers, I bought a double espresso à emporter and a baguette with ham and butter, and took this breakfast down onto the Quai de Montebello.

I sat on one of the benches and watched the day begin. Stuffed bins were littered around with papers and bottles from the night before, joggers huffed past me, a small speedboat full of pompiers sped up the river, spreading a wide white wake, leaving the water rocking. I sat and ate and drank with my suitcase beside me, feeling like I’d just arrived off a night train, or from a different time zone through echoing departure lounges and starry skies above the clouds that faded as we sped into the dawn. What did I know of these things? The boy with the battered suitcase, sitting smoking in the sun: he seemed like they were what he was used to. He seemed to have come a long and mysterious way to get to this bench by the river across from Notre Dame. He was anyone, from anywhere. And today he would sell paintings for a surly Romanian artist, and tomorrow he might disappear, on other strange journeys. I felt like a character from the stories Lucy and I would tell ourselves, as we fancied our future adventures. For this moment, until someone broke the quiet around me and forced me to speak, to betray myself and reveal that I was only me, I was anyone, from anywhere.

VIII

We walked along the Left Bank to Pont Neuf, along the quais, past lounging groups of young people strumming guitars, drinking cheap wine, or kissing and fondling each other. Under bridges where it stank of urine and alcohol, we passed people with weathered faces and sturdy boots, their hair and clothes matted and ragged, strangely ornamented, drinking from tall cans and paper bags. I thought I saw Ludwig, but we passed quickly, and he made no sign, if it was him, that he recognised us. Beside Pont Neuf, on the deck of a boat pulled up to the bank, handsome young pompiers lounged around a table drinking wine. After crossing the bridge, under which passed Bateaux Mouches full of cheering tourists and camera flashes, we turned on to rue de Rivoli at the grand Samaritaine department stores. High up on one of the buildings was an enormous billboard of a sultry woman in sheer underwear. Viktor blew her a kiss, and his mood seemed to brighten.

“For this thing, at least, I love France. You never go far without seeing pictures of beautiful women without their clothes. It is good for the heart. Come, we’re nearly there. L’Hôtel de la Perdition. The Last Resort.”

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.

For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:

https://plus.google.com/106989872665923693086#106989872665923693086/posts

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:

http://hollowbehindthehearthstone.blogspot.fr/2012/09/i-hollow-behind-hearthstone.html

 

 

 

Peter Ferenczi is an American photographer and writer based in Paris, France.

 

Follow Peter's photo blog, Partial Sight, at

www.partialsight.com

 

And keep up with Peter's writing by liking his facebook page at

https://www.facebook.com/#!/PeterMFerenczi?fref=ts

 

 

Photos of Mark Fitzpatrick and Peter Ferenczi by Leslie McAllister:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leslie-McAllister-Photography/280232792123)

www.lesliemcallister.com

Music, Video and Fiction!

Hello again! After a few weeks' pause, the I'm au Quai, You're au Quai blog is back this week with a new video and some more winter reading to enjoy by the fire. The video is a snippet of live saxophone performance, captured for us on the quai by filmmaker Richard Dailey. Below, you'll also find the fifth installment in our series of quai-related scenes from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris novel Very Few to Love. At the bottom, you'll find info for contacting both Richard and Mark to check out more of their work. As the musician in this video reminds us, even the cold weather can't take the romance away from the Seine!

V

As I walked down Boulevard Saint Michel, the sky rapidly darkened and a cold wind swept in. Moments after the first drops of rain burst on the pavement, it was a downpour, hissing on the streets and chuckling in the gutters, setting people to dashing, newspapers held above their heads. I kept walking steadily, enjoying the feeling of it running down my face, soaking straight through my clothes. By the time I made it to the steps down to Quai de Montebello, the footpaths were almost clear of the milling tourists that had filled them a little earlier. Solid sheets of rain filled the air. Across the river, Notre Dame loomed through the mist and sudden dark. I walked down the steps, onto the almost abandoned quai. The surface of the river sizzled as the rain endlessly rippled it. Further along, beneath the trees, I saw a couple of artists desperately covering their portfolios with their jackets and making a run for it. A couple of the Russians were sitting stoically under the bridge to my left, their easels set up, ready to work if a customer should stumble in out of the rain. They were both on folding stools, talking quietly and passing a hipflask back and forth. Unwilling to intrude upon their peaceful moment, I walked the other way.

The downpour continued, and I paid no attention, letting it soak me. Under one of the trees, relatively untouched by the rain, Ludwig sat cross-legged, working on one of his little white sculptures. He looked up as I approached, gave me what I took to be a smile, and went back to his work, scraping at a groove in the crumbling stone, blowing it gently free of dust. I sat on the corner of one of the concrete benches near him, just about under the shelter of the tree. He paid me no attention at first, but then began to sing, softly, tunelessly.

“Little Irish boy, oh little Irish boy, oh my little Irish boy.” He sang it over and over, in a strange crooning monotone. Occasionally, he shot a sidelong glance my way, but always quickly averted his eyes again if mine met them. He smelled of paint, of mysterious herbs, of wet dog. Eventually, he put down the sculpture he had been working on and sighed. He looked up at me, then held up one finger while he rummaged in his many pockets. After many diverse, glimpsed items were pulled out and tucked back into other pockets, he found an unshaped chunk of his white, porous stone. His gold teeth flashed towards the back of a wide smile.

He pointed at the patch of relatively dry ground in front of him, beckoning me over to look at it. I leaned against the tree trunk and peered over his shoulder as he began to draw on the ground. It took me a moment, but I quickly identified his first rough chalky outlines as the shapes of Ireland and Britain. Then he placed his chunk of stone to the ground, and in one long, angular line, he went from the top of Norway, in around the Baltic Sea, down along the Low Countries to France, the Bay of Biscay, the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and all along North Africa until the Straits of Gibraltar had all but closed off the Mediterranean, and the line trailed off towards the bench, in a vague, here-be-dragons sweep. The European coastline was perfectly in proportion, and his initial drawing of the islands fitted in exactly the right position. He looked up at me, pleased with himself.

“Why did you start with Ireland?” I asked. “Surely that makes it harder?”

He nodded happily.

I said, “Were you just showing off?” He nodded again, and clapped his hands, laughing silently. He held up his finger again, and dug into a pocket, pulling out a small metal Eiffel Tower key-ring, with the ring part broken off. He placed it on the map, where Paris would be, always further East than I think it should be. Then he took one of his little vaguely human-shaped figurines, and held it up, pointing to his own chest.

“That’s you, Ludwig?”

“Ja, ja. Ludwig. Von Hamburg.” He placed the rough manshape on the map in the Germany area. Then he took another of the sculptures out of a pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked at it for a while. It was featureless, had only a smooth white head, and thick but graceful limbs, rounded off at the ends, no real hands or feet. It stood, legs together, its head inclined. One arm was down by its side, and the other was held up beside its face, either listening or whispering a secret, it was hard to tell. Ludwig tapped it gently, and then tapped my chest. “Irish.” He nodded and flashed his back teeth again.

I carefully placed the figure on the South-East corner of Ireland. “Cork,” I said. “James. Cork.” Ludwig nodded. Then he picked up his playing piece, and, very deliberately, changed its location. Berlin. He stopped and looked at me, his expression perhaps a comment on what went on while he was in Berlin. Then he moved it again, tapping it as if counting squares on a chessboard for a knight’s move. Prague. He sat back again for a moment, looked at me for acknowledgement, then made another move. Milan. Each time, he stopped and sat back, looked at me, before moving again and naming the new city. Perhaps he was waiting for me to make my own moves. I did nothing, just nodded each time he looked. Barcelona. Marrakech. Frankfurt. Back to Berlin. There he stopped, and put his head in his hands. He stayed like that for some time, just rocking slightly, almost imperceptibly, maybe even whimpering right at the edge of hearing. Finally, he shivered and stretched, like a dog come in from the rain. He moved his piece to Paris, and sat back, arms crossed. I leaned over and picked mine up. I placed it beside his, beside the broken Eiffel Tower souvenir. “Paris,” I said.

We sat and looked out at the rain, still roaring down around the shelter of the tree with seemingly inexhaustible energy. Large drops made their way through the thick canopy of leaves above us as well. One fell on the English Channel, slightly blurring the coastlines at Dover and Calais. Ludwig leaned forward and gathered up the Eiffel Tower and the two figurines. He held them in his hands, cupped them close to his face as if whispering to them, conferring urgently with his little chalkmen. I looked fixedly out into the rain, but from the corner of my eye saw him nodding and smiling. He leaned over and nudged me. Taking my hand, he opened it, put the figure that represented me into it, and closed my fingers tightly around it, holding my hand in both of his.

“Irish boy,” he said, singsong. “You take him home, the Irish boy.”

I nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Ludwig.”

He sat back against the tree and paid me no more attention for some time, concentrating rather on the pouch of tobacco and rolling papers that he fished out of his sock. He meticulously made five or six cigarettes, holding them up to compare them, making sure they were as near identical as possible. Then he selected one, and, after tucking the rest into one of the upper breast pockets of his vest, he lit it, and smoked meditatively. I sat on the damp bench, my face in my hands, elbows on knees, staring at the river and the rain.

I looked up to see a spluttering and dripping Viktor arriving under the relative shelter of the tree, and shaking out his umbrella. He stood his little trolley beside the bench, and took his battered hat off to beat the rain from it. He grinned at me, gestured at the smeared chalk map on the ground in front of us.

“So. We take the opportunity to have a little geography lesson, eh? Very good, very good. Europa ist unser Spielplatz, eh Ludwig? Nicht wahr?”

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.

For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:

https://plus.google.com/106989872665923693086#106989872665923693086/posts

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:

http://hollowbehindthehearthstone.blogspot.fr/2012/09/i-hollow-behind-hearthstone.html

 

Richard Dailey is an artist and filmmaker, and the Editor in Chief of Afterart News.

More information about Richard's projects can be found on his website:

www.afterart.com

And be sure to check out the facebook page for Richard's new hip-hop documentary, Nos States,

where you can find info on upcoming screenings in Paris and New York:

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Nos-States/136213929779767?fref=ts

 

Photos of Mark Fitzpatrick and Richard Dailey by Leslie McAllister:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leslie-McAllister-Photography/280232792123)

 

Another Dose of Fiction from Mark Fitzpatrick!

Hello, all! This week, I'm very happy to to share two new 'quai-centric' excerpts from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris-set novel Very Few to Love. In case you missed last week's post, Mark has been kind enough to go through his novel and pick out the scenes that take place around the quai for the purpose of sharing them here with us! Through these windows we glimpse a rich world of engaging characters and intriguing situations that invites us in and leaves us wanting more. Luckily, at the bottom of the page, there's info on how to contact Mark for the rest of the novel, and also a link to follow more of his work! Here at the top of the page, you'll find another of my quai-side photos. Enjoy!

Part III

She led me down to the Quai de Montebello, directly across from Notre Dame, stopping at a café-tabac to buy a ten-box of Gauloises and four coffees. One noisette, one with sugar, two without. I didn’t ask who they were for; I supposed I would find out soon enough. We went down the steps by the Pont au Double, down onto the quay. It was wide here, and tree-lined, benches between the trees. The leaves had just begun to turn, and fall in small rustling drifts on the ground. Almost overnight, summer had turned to autumn, and the air had a brisk snap to it, though the sky was blue, and the sun still warm. Near the steps, several artists had set up large easels and were painting soft-focus monochrome portraits of cute little girls while their sitters’ parents looked on. Further down the quay were more varied artists, offering caricatures, beaded necklaces, to write your name in Chinese calligraphy while you waited, to carve your name on a grain of rice. We walked along past them, each holding two of the takeaway coffees.

Halfway down the quay, Jill walked over to a group gathered around a seated figure beside a small but elaborate easel. He wore a long brown overcoat, and a battered hat hung on the corner of his easel. His hair and his thick moustache were iron-grey, his eyes under spiky brows twinkled with tragedy and comedy. As he spoke to the two women standing in front of him, his hands were filling and packing the bowl of a pipe with black tobacco. The two women, mother and daughter perhaps, had the healthy glow and practical clothes of American tourists. To one side and a little behind the seated man was another, sitting on the ground, his long legs sprawled in front of him. On them, stained tracksuit pants were tucked into thick socks that ended in battered boots, string laces undone. His chest was bare under an army-surplus vest covered in pockets, from which poked various cards, papers, paintbrushes, ribbons, flowers. His skin was nut-brown tanned; under curly, greying hair tied in braids and beads and feathers, held back by a dark red bandanna, his long face was intent on the work in his hands. A piece of white stone was held there, quickly turned under the chipping and gouging of one of the blades of a solid metal tool. On the ground in front of him were arrayed his wares, small figures smooth of detail in the white, porous stone. A circle was chalked around them, and prices on the stone beside each, proclaiming their vast value in francs and dollars. As he saw Jill approaching, the man at the easel stood.

“Forgive me a moment, beautiful ladies, but I see the love of my life is approaching with my breakfast.” He bowed slightly to them, ushering Jill towards him with a sweep of his hand. His accent was slight, Eastern European. He held out his hands to Jill, took her by the shoulders and kissed her firmly on both cheeks. “Bonjour chérie! Your timing is impeccable, as always.”

“Watch the coffee, Viktor! You’re going to make me spill it!” She held the plastic cups out of the way of his embrace. I hovered in the background, holding the other two awkwardly in front of me. The two Americans moved off, smiling. As soon as they were gone, Viktor spoke in a low aside to Jill.

“Ah thank God you arrived now! These Americans were in-tol-erable! They are content to listen to me telling charming stories and compliments to them, but will they buy something? Will they sit for a portrait in oils? Ha! They will rather pat me on the head and say, look, he is so cute, this old bohemian artist! He will make a story to tell to all the ladies in the bridge club at home in Nebraska. Pah!” He took one of the coffees from Jill, and, after sipping it, breathed out a great sigh. “Ah. Excuse me. It is only the crankiness of an old man who has not had breakfast. Here, Ludwig, coffee for you. Get up, you worthless wretch, and thank the nice young lady.”
 

Part IV

I sat there and sipped my cooling coffee, listened to Viktor banter in French and English with the other artists as they passed, or popped over for a few words. They all seemed to know Jill as well, saluting her with varying degrees of affection or wariness. Some paced about with a portfolio under one arm, examples of their portraits or caricatures clipped to the side, head up, eyes back and forth, seeking a target for their pitch. They would fire a rapid volley of offers to draw the cutest of any given family group, cycling through the likely languages until they had hit on one that was understood. Ten minutes, you don’t like, you don’t pay, here, sit here, signora, come, sit, I show you. They would pause for a few words and a joke with Viktor, before perching on one of the benches, on the wall by the steps, or on their folding stools, drawing-board propped in front of them, squinting at the pretty Spanish girl who sat presenting a three-quarter profile, her two friends watching and giggling over the artist’s shoulder as the drawing took shape.

Across the river, Notre Dame rose in stony splendour. Where we sat, shade had fallen, and the air was slightly chilly, but the cathedral was bathed in golden sunlight. Passing tourists stopped often, to take pictures of this grand old lady, to film each other for a moment, standing across from her. Couples sat on the low wall at the edge of the quay, the Seine lapping the stones down below them, occasionally glancing up at the spires and buttresses and gargoyles, who peered indifferently back. They’d seen the likes of these before; they’d see many more. What’s one more couple who think they’re in love?

 

 

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.

For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:

 

https://plus.google.com/106989872665923693086#106989872665923693086/posts

 

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:

 

http://hollowbehindthehearthstone.blogspot.fr/2012/09/i-hollow-behind-hearthstone.html

 

Photos by Leslie McAllister:

 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leslie-McAllister-Photography/280232792123)

Fiction by Mark Fitzpatrick

   

I am very pleased to present the first guest post on the I'm au Quai, You're au Quai blog! This week, we get to check out the first two parts in a series of excerpts from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris novel Very Few to Love. Mark has been kind enough to select all the scenes from the novel that take place on and around the quais and send them to us! More excerpts are to follow. And if you find yourself as hooked on it as I am, check out the links below for more info about Mark and his work. Enjoy!

 

Part I

I sat there shivering on the stone bench until the rain started. Notre Dame’s spires were veiled by the faint, half-hearted drizzle, and the trees rustled and dripped above. There was no one but me on the Quai de Montebello, alone in the dim, chilly morning. I stood as the cobblestones spattered and darkened with wet, pulling my jacket tight around me. The thick envelope was safely tucked into the inside pocket. The Seine was dark and heavy, swept with rain, rocking and slapping against the stone quaysides. Sporadic roars of traffic on the street above became unbroken, and a spry old jogger in blue Lycra huffed past, towing a scampering dog. Thick drops trickled out of my hair and down my face. With a last look around, as if I might have forgotten something, I set off down the quai. Under bridges, past the tied-up barges with the hatches battened down, up a stone stairway and across the river. Down the sidestreets, past the department stores, head down, striding faster through the streaming rain, past stirring cafés and still-shuttered shops, I ducked around corners, waited and looked back down the street to make sure there were no footsteps dogging mine. At the narrow entrance of the Hôtel Nord-Ouest, I keyed the code on the grimy panel, and slipped in, shutting out the waking city behind me.

 

Part II

In the late afternoon, when the wintry sun is glaring in the western sky, I walk around. Sometimes down through the Tuileries gardens, around the twinkling fountains in their wide round pools, across the Place de la Concorde, further down the river, where things are wide apart and few people are walking under the bare trees, past the gilt and marble of the Invalides and Pont Alexandre III, to the Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower. I never go near the tower, but I like to round corners and see it looming, massive, in the middle distance, warping the scale of everything around it. Or else I walk along towards the Hôtel de Ville, and criss-cross the Ile de la Cité and Ile Saint Louis, to the Latin Quarter, back and forth along the bridges and the quais, up and down the stone steps, in and out of the narrow alleyways. There are a thousand permutations of the ways one could make this circuit, crossing every bridge, but never the same one twice. Notre Dame sits brooding in the middle. Scaffolding has gone up along one side. On the Quai de Montebello, where I sometimes linger for a while, there are no more artists anymore. The Russians have left for the winter, back to St Petersburg to work on their serious paintings, with the money made from the flattering portraits done for tourists during the summer. The others have gone elsewhere. The police moved them on too often from there, and now there are restaurant boats moored at the quai, and joggers in the daytime, young tourists with wine and guitars at night. Soon they will be gone too, as the weather gets colder.

I stop at the booksellers’ stalls, flicking through plastic-wrapped, plain-covered books. Occasionally, I ask if they have anything by Martin Caulder. They rarely do, but every so often, one of them has an old copy of a French translation of one of his novels. I buy them, and bring them home. Other books too, which I read into the night. I tell myself that if my French gets better, I will finally try to read his books.

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.

For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at: https://plus.google.com/106989872665923693086#106989872665923693086/posts

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at: http://hollowbehindthehearthstone.blogspot.fr/2012/09/i-hollow-behind-hearthstone.html

 

Photos by Leslie McAllister:

 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leslie-McAllister-Photography/280232792123)

 

 

A quick oil painting

Here's an oil painting I dashed off one afternoon, looking at the tip of the Ile Saint-Louis from the left bank. I'm starting to realize that I often hang out around the same spots. Maybe I'll have to make an effort to get over to the right bank one of these days! Where do you like to hang out on the quai? And what kinds of things do you make and do there? Submissions for this blog can be sent to me at leslie@lesliemcallister.com . I'm looking for art, photography, writing, or film that was inspired by or created on the quai in Paris. I recently received word that a favorite novelist of mine will soon be sending in a segment from one of his novels that takes place there! In the meantime, please feel free to share, comment, discuss, critique, or just stay in  touch :).

A brief video meditation

Here's a short clip I cut together from some video footage I shot on the quai one day. Drop me a line to let me know what you think of it. Or better yet, send in your own videos, photos, art and writing from the riverbanks of Paris!

A watercolor from the left bank

Here's my next contribution to the I'm au Quai, You're au Quai series. This is a watercolor I did one afternoon on the left bank near the Pont Saint-Louis. If you have any paintings, drawings, writings, photos, or other artworks that you did on the quais of Paris, please feel free to send them to me at leslie@lesliemcallister.com .

Welcome to "I'm au Quai, You're au Quai"!

"I'm au Quai, You're au Quai" is a photo/art/writing blog that I have created to share documents of those moments of contemplation, introspection, inspiration and (heaven forbid) creativity that  regularly arise along the banks of the Seine in Paris, France. I often spend my afternoons drawing, taking pictures, or writing on the quai somewhere, and I know that many of my artist and writer friends in this city can say the same. To begin, I will post my own stuff: images, notes, musings, etc that I have harvested and compiled from my many quai-side sessions. But my hope is that my friends and colleauges, and eventually new friends and colleagues, will submit their own work to me for inclusion in this blog. Feel free to send any visual or verbal art, as long as it either was created on the quai in Paris or features the quai as its subject matter. And for now, while I wait for those submissions to start pouring in, I will update every few days with some more stuff of my own.

Contact me at leslie@lesliemcallister.com