A Toast of Absence
Last fall I realized I couldn’t bring home the whole of André Breton’s Pompidou-reconstituted wall—le Mur Breton. Curiously, I couldn’t carry home a book or even a postcard depicting this sublime and mysterious dimly lit room, since the Pompidou had not thought to publish either. Breton’s assemblage—eccentric, nearly monochromatic—rounds up unmatchable objects into blind conspiracy. Oceanic carvings, African masks, boxed butterflies, Giacometti’s Boule suspendue, demure portrait photograph and framed painting alchemize into a panoramic cabinet of curiosities. Pupils adjust to the dimmed light of magic in the works.
After the mur, I had a hankering for a souvenir of Breton’s exoticism, a reflection of his eye for the fortunate accretion. So when I happened upon the mirage of a temporary art and antiques fair, housed in tents and passages circling the Bastille Métro station, I saw in the discrete chaos the possibility for satisfaction. I fell for an African statue of smooth dark wood, maybe three feet tall and warmly patinated by age. The price approached the cost of my trip, but—my trip hadn’t cost all that much. I felt rushed, choked by a lack of expertise, and, with immediate misgivings, I turned the piece down. I didn’t have the wherewithal to inquire about its country of origin or its age. So now where can I look for its double?
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve thought about that statue, how, eventually, it dawned on me that France had historical reasons to serve as a conduit for fine African art. Back in New York, I’ve seen nothing remotely like the deep statue. I salute its memory from an ever-more-distant dock.
Addendum: This same wonderful antiques fair had a food section! Sandwiches or whole tarts glossed with syrups and alcohol. At a little table, under the bustling supervision of a proprietary cook, I gobbled up apple tart and drank a ravishing red wine. This wine, from an obscure vineyard, was available by the case, fairly priced, and ready to be shipped. I did not arrange for any shipment, and have long-since lost the slip of paper where I copied the label. I think the wine's name was either “Melancholy” or “Tears”.
After the mur, I had a hankering for a souvenir of Breton’s exoticism, a reflection of his eye for the fortunate accretion. So when I happened upon the mirage of a temporary art and antiques fair, housed in tents and passages circling the Bastille Métro station, I saw in the discrete chaos the possibility for satisfaction. I fell for an African statue of smooth dark wood, maybe three feet tall and warmly patinated by age. The price approached the cost of my trip, but—my trip hadn’t cost all that much. I felt rushed, choked by a lack of expertise, and, with immediate misgivings, I turned the piece down. I didn’t have the wherewithal to inquire about its country of origin or its age. So now where can I look for its double?
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve thought about that statue, how, eventually, it dawned on me that France had historical reasons to serve as a conduit for fine African art. Back in New York, I’ve seen nothing remotely like the deep statue. I salute its memory from an ever-more-distant dock.
Addendum: This same wonderful antiques fair had a food section! Sandwiches or whole tarts glossed with syrups and alcohol. At a little table, under the bustling supervision of a proprietary cook, I gobbled up apple tart and drank a ravishing red wine. This wine, from an obscure vineyard, was available by the case, fairly priced, and ready to be shipped. I did not arrange for any shipment, and have long-since lost the slip of paper where I copied the label. I think the wine's name was either “Melancholy” or “Tears”.
posted by E.H. at 2:22 AM
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