Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

The fallen leaf is a symbol of decay. The general mood symbolizes Modernism vs Existentialism.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

blog.miazine.com/2009/12/robert-indiana-one-through-zero-...

Robert Indiana

One through Zero

Stainless steel

ART BASEL 2009

Robert Indiana is born in New Castle, Indiana and later relocated to Indianapolis where he graduated from Arsenal Technical High School. He moved to New York City in 1954 and joined the pop art movement, using distinctive imagery drawing on commercial art approaches blended with existentialism, that gradually moved toward what Indiana calls "sculptural poems".

In 1962, Eleanor Ward's Stable Gallery hosted Robert Indiana's first New York solo exhibition.

He has since enjoyed solo exhibitions at over 30 museums and galleries worldwide. Indiana's works are in the permanent collections of numerous museums, including sweetMOMA jesus, NY, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York; Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; Stedelijk Museum, Schiedam, The Netherlands; Carnegie Institute, Pittsburgh; Detroit Institute of Art, Michigan; Baltimore Museum of Art, Maryland; Brandeis Museum, Waltham, Massachusetts; Albright-Knox Gallery of Art, Buffalo, New York; San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, California, the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington D.C.; Institute of Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; and the Los Angeles County Museum, California, among many many others. Indiana's work often consists of bold, simple, iconic images, especially numbers and short words like EAT, HUG, and, his best known example, LOVE

Albert Camus: author; philosopher; playwrite; journalist; member of the French Resistance; goalkeeper and a man who even managed to look subversively smooth while smoking a pipe.

James Dean readily confessed to modelling his 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams' image on Camus' 'La Peste' cover picture.

His novel, The Fall, was also the source of Mark E. Smith's band's name and The Cure's first single, Killing An Arab, was based on Camus' novel L’Étranger (The Outsider) about French colonialism and injustice.

When asked which he preferred, the Theatre or Football, without hesitation he said "Football".

These pictures have been gathered from all over the net, some from sites so cool you have to wear gloves to type their web addresses. The music is I Can't Stand It by the Velvet Underground, which though made after Camus' death, sort of sums up his existential approach to life: "It's hard being a man (or woman) living in a garbage pail". Although, where the 13 dead cats and a purple dog that wears spats come into it, only Lou Reed knows. I think Camus, who was well known for his dancing ability would have been a Velvets' fan.

In his study of suicide, The Myth of Sisyphus, Our' Albert compares the human condition to that of the Greek king punished by being compelled to roll an huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down, and to repeat this throughout eternity. Camus says, in the end , you have to imagine Sisyphus happy with his lot. In other words: "Life is tough - deal with it. You have to make your own happiness out of the apparent absurdity of existence"

The tragic irony of James Dean stealing Camus' style in life, was that Camus 'copied' Dean in death. He was killed in a car crash in 1960, five years after Dean died in the same way, aged 47.

Right, now, where were we? "Albert! Albert! Over 'ere. Sur Mon tête Son"

Full video at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8OW5qLnlgs

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

1. me, 2. existentialism, 3. , 4. , 5. lamp, 6. , 7. Mom & daughter, 8. ,

9. sweet embrace, 10. Grazie, Giovanni, 11. , 12. me, 13. Grazie, Giovanni, 14. se avessi avuto un grandangolo......., 15. lovers, 16. *bigfoot*,

17. , 18. , 19. peace flag *stop the war with your hand!!!*, 20. walking on the seashore, 21. Grazie, Giovanni, 22. Red hole, 23. 87 anni........., 24. ...,

25. business call, 26. winx amiche per sempre part 2. La rivincita di Aisha, 27. Faccia di c....!, 28. L'amore è anche questo., 29. uh??, 30. non è mai troppo tardi per innamorarsi.., 31. , 32. Che sete!,

33. Turchese/Turquoise, 34. io&babbo natale, 35. tiger, 36. , 37. *, 38. , 39. flickr.com/photos/67895093@N00/2369165120/, 40. shining,

41. , 42. "the mask of kimba", 43. antichi sapori, 44. , 45. psycho-mutation, 46. , 47. also sprach Zarathustra, 48. paws,

49. Matisse tail, 50. the thoughtful dancer, 51. *, 52. , 53. winx amiche x sempre part 1: Bloom all'attacco, 54. ohm... yoga meditation, 55. non bisogna gettare i rifiuti per terra!!, 56. non è solo Napoli,

57. heavenStairs, 58. studying, 59. little kimba, 60. , 61. fior di rugiada, 62. mi porti a spasso?, 63. me and my friend, 64. ,

65. candles, 66. amore sgrammaticato, 67. Gargano, Foresta Umbra, 68. silence together, 69. , 70. PROCIDA, 71. superficie, 72. rebecca

Created with fd's Flickr Toys.

“You won't find Christ in the church - you won't find Krishna in the temple - you won't find Jehovah in the synagogue - you won't find Allah in the mosque - the only place they reside is in the humans. Lend a hand to a human in misery and it'll be the highest service to the lord.”

― Abhijit Naskar, Mad About Humans: World Maker's Almanac

what is funny is relative, what is true is even more relative

are you an existentialist in a minibus

you are too much of an existentialist to even buy into existentialism

fuck that, are you hungry, do you want to get something to eat

does it depress you

yeah it obviously depresses you, obviously

you could write a funny poem using words from other languages

you could hold a book in your hand that people pretend to remotely understand

for two hours during a lecture in class

you could say that about anything

because you are an existentialist

will you please stop saying that, it's really annoying

your computer is broken

the spacebar is broken

you bought a block of cheese

i drew a comic in your notebook of someone spilling coins all over the floor

the woman who gave a lecture today was extremely attractive, we agreed

but it was because she was fucking genius

i drew a comic in my notebook

on monday we did the first free lunch monday and took a man named jim to eat at kentucky fried chicken

because that was where he wanted to eat

he was forty five and we were both twenty one because it was recently your birthday

he ate a three piece chicken meal and we didn't eat anything

he said thank you like a hundred times and answered our questions with one word responses

we talked about what we could do to make the situation a less of an "us and them" type thing

when it was your birthday i sang you happy birthday on thumb piano

i made you a card and bought you lunch

you said it was a great birthday even though you missed home

i was extremely happy sitting on the corner because i saw three strangers hugging each other

they were dressed very nicely

they looked very excited to see each other

they hugged each other what appeared to be very hard, very good

the place was very busy and loud and there was a lot of social pressure, i am sure

but it was quiet in my head and i was watching people smile at each other and i even saw a boy talk to a guy passing out bibles

without acting extremely annoyed

the man passing out free bibles genuinely thought he was helping people, genuinely believed he was helping people

and what is not to appreciate in that?

i felt extremely happy

Isamu Noguchi, Gregory (Effigy), 1946, cast 1964, bronze, 175.6 x 41 x 41.9 cm (Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville) © estate of the artist

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

Jean-Paul Sartre

playing with the Man Ray group

www.flickr.com/groups/man-ray/discuss/72157600006647641/

original image from Grand Paul

www.flickr.com/photos/63263430@N00/425253300/

©2014 a.m.abbott

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Kierkegaard's childhood home is now the Danske bank on the left.

Doorways have symbolized the boundary between realities since Giovanni di Paolo's 1422 classic Door (the title loses something in the translation). The following decades saw a startling number of young painters, inspired by di Paolo's work, painting nothing but doors, doorways, arches, even gates. No, I'm kidding about the gates, of course. But the Door Movement had a profound effect on the general acceptance of doors in society. As a result, orders for new doors increased by a very large number, like, um, 20,534.2%. And di Paolo, who had cleverly patented the doorknob, was poised to become the third-richest man in the civilized world (which, at the time, was Italy, Greece, and the nice part of France. I'm sorry, that should have read "the nice region of France." Wait, um...yeah, just Italy and Greece, then).

Only one thing stood in di Paolo's way: the Catholic Church. Under Pope Martin V: The Final Frontier, the Church had secretly funded the manufacture of a staggeringly large number of door latches. It was the Pope's plan to flood the market with these cheap latches, then sweep in and secure the rights to the doorknob from a financially devastated di Paolo. That was the last anyone ever heard of Giovanni di Paolo.¹ And that's basically the story of how doorways represent the boundary between realities.

Meanwhile, a recurring theme in my absurdist-caption work is what is reality, and what does it want from us? It's a topic Theodor Geisel dealt with in his treatise on mental illness, Horton Hears a Who! Terry Gilliam would again address the subject in the 1985 classic, Hot Shots: Part Deux. Philip K. Dick wrestled with the question until the last year of his life, when he inexplicably started writing 18th-century period fiction featuring gruff-yet-sensitive pirates and ample-bosomed heroines under an assumed name (oddly, Philip L. Dick).

¹ I should mention at this point that I wrote this entire piece with Leonardo Da Vinci as the protagonist before I realized I couldn't get away with so drastically altering the timeline (of human history, don't you know...), and so I was forced to hunt down the only other Italian painter of the period who could possibly have been involved in this completely factual series of believable events, which I did not make up.²

² Come to think of it, if I were to do this one again I would keep di Paolo as the original painter and cast Da Vinci as the doorknob inventor who's ultimately crushed by the Church. Or not.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amagertorv

Pleisch's tearoom was here where Kierkegaard often visited with his professors. Amagertorv 4. Entry 37. where George Jensen is now.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Mixed Media Polaroid Art

My wife meets the Pacific Ocean at Rodeo Cove near San Francisco, California. They get some surprisingly large waves out here -- much larger than I remember from the Atlantic beaches I've seen. Model release: yes

Exhibition view "Francis Bacon and Existential Condition in Contemporary Art", CCC Strozzina, Palazzo Strozzi, Firenze

© photo Martino Margheri

Just a dity to document the rare late Winter snowfall here in Dixie.

If you don't know me by now ...... then when ?!!

When the sun came up,

We were sleeping in,

Sunk inside our blankets,

Sprawled across the bed,

And we were dreaming,

There are moments when,

When I know it and

The world revolves around us,

And we're keeping it,

Keep it all going,

This delicate balance,

Vulnerable all knowing,

Sing like you think no one's listening,

You would kill for this,

Just a little bit,

Just a little bit,

You would, kill for this

Sing like you think no one's listening,

You would kill for this,

Just a little bit,

Just a little bit,

You would, you would...

Sing me something soft,

Sad and delicate,

Or loud and out of key,

Sing me anything,

we're glad for what we've got,

Done with what we've lost

Our whole lives laid out right in front of us,

Sing like you think no one's listening,

You would kill for this,

Just a little bit,

Just a little bit,

You would,

Sing like you think no one's listening,

You would kill for this,

Just a little bit,

Just a little bit,

You would, you would....

Sing me something soft,

Sad and delicate,

Or loud and out of key,

Sing me anything.

"Existentialism On Prom Night"

LYRICS BY STRAYLIGHT RUN

;)

FOX NEWS ALERT - BREAKING NEW TERROR THREAT SHOCK!

See:

www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fg-clinton-paki...

Of course, she's right!.

Existentialists have always been troublemaking malcontents,,,not least because most of the worst ones have always been French,,, and we all know what those cheese munching surrender-monkey/intellectuals are like.

As the LA Times piece above reveals, Hillary Clinton herself has now uncovered that these Pakistani fundamentalist madmen are only pretending to be Wahabiist followers of Osama Bin Laden, to throw the CIA off the scent, and are in fact operating with minds that have been twisted by the fanatic philosophy of "Immams" like Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Jean Genet, André Gide and André Malraux - in a crazy plot to make the whole world Existentialist.

Crammed into Existentialist funded pakistani madrasars from infancy, brainwashed child recruits chant robotically from 1st editions of L'Étranger and Les Chemins de la liberté, hidden inside copies of The Qu'oran, having to learn every single word by rote, in French.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

1. Untitled, 2. Turchese/Turquoise, 3. Untitled, 4. non è mai troppo tardi per innamorarsi.., 5. ..., 6. patatE, 7. existentialism, 8. Untitled,

9. me and my friend, 10. sweet embrace

Created with fd's Flickr Toys.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Mixed Media Polaroid Art

Title: This is not Art

Artist: Unknown

Year: 2010

Medium: Spray enamel on gray acrylic

In a convoluted display of deep irony and lighthearted existentialism, this piece- whilst poorly executed, perhaps due to the artist's state of advanced inebriation- certainly seems to be commenting on both the act of graffiti, the legal status of unofficial public art, and the public perception of misplaced artistic endeavours.

The inscription at the base, 'This is not Art', is both a declaration and a question. On the one hand it is declaring that, no, a bad copy of a painting on a wall is not considered part of the world of (high) Art- in fact, to many people, any artistic expression created on a wall you don't own is, by definition, unwanted by society at large, and the creator(s) should be punished with heavy fines and / or jail time. On the other hand, it is simply stating it's own deceitfulness; it is not a product you can buy and sell, therefore it is not Art.

Or is it as simple as René Magritte's similar declarative statement- beneath a painting of a pipe, Magritte wrote "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" ("This is not a pipe"). Which, in essence, is true; it is a painting, not a pipe. But does this still ring true when the piece is referring to the greater continuum of 'Art'?

Perhaps we will never truly understand this enigmatic piece.

Legions of scholars have been attempting to decipher it's hidden meaning for years; still, however, it has remained as much of a mystery as that big black box thing from '2001:A Space Odyssey' that supposedly made everyone go shitballs crazy. Did you really read all this bullshit? Get a better hobby, you weirdo.

The Cages

The first of the cages was meant to protect; they built it

around a great and sacred beast, to keep it from wolves,

but the beast got bored inside it. At first it merely paced,

wearing a rectangular groove in the ground. Later, it rung

its horns against the bars, set up an incessant lowing,

showed its baser nature – so they killed it and ate it.

The second cage was meant to restrain; they forged it

for a wild and accursed beast, to keep it from maiming,

but the beast grew meek inside it. At first it merely mewed,

rolling on its side and trembling. Later, it yowled out

repentance, clawed the outside air, lapped invisible milk,

showed its servile nature – so they released and tamed it.

The third cage was built within a cage; they made it

for a wayward mind, to stop it loving or thinking.

The mind chafed inside it. At first it merely plotted,

then gave in to ungovernable rage. The iron melted.

Its keepers shrank away, so it came forward – found

itself within a cage within a cage within a cage.

Poem by Giles Watson, 2012.

Arcangelo Sassolino, site specific installation

Exhibition view "Francis Bacon and Existential Condition in Contemporary Art", CCC Strozzina, Palazzo Strozzi, Firenze

© photo Martino Margheri

Cover Image of the 2020 book "Servitude is Sanctitude" by the celebrated Neuroscientist and Author Abhijit Naskar

Aan het einde van de negentiende eeuw begon de Franse overheid, die destijds het monopolie op tabaksproductie had, de sigaretten van merknamen te voorzien. Een van die merken was Hongroises (Hongaarse vrouwen), dat in 1910 werd omgedoopt tot Gauloises.

In de jaren 1950 werd het roken van Gauloises een van de uiterlijke stijlkenmerken van het existentialisme.

Beroemdheden zoals Pablo Picasso, Jim Morrison of de pionier van het Franse existentialisme Jean-Paul Sartre liet zich regelmatig fotograferen met een Gauloise in de hand.

Het existentialisme stelt dat de mens volledig vrij is in het leven. Deze manier van denken inspireerde de tekst "Liberté toujours" (Altijd vrijheid) op de zijkant van de pakjes van Gauloises.

Decal on a wall at a animal shelter in Moreno Valley....

In twitter conversation with Jim Groom last night we mentioned Camus, which reminded me of this opening line of The Myth of Sisyphus: "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide." It's a great opening line whatever you think of Camus.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

Le Cimetière du Montparnasse, Paris, France

I headed south to le Cimetière Montparnasse. After the Paris churchyards closed in the 18th century, a full three quarters of a century before the English closed their urban churchyards, four great cemeteries were laid out to the north, east, south and west of the city. Pere Lachaise is the most famous, Montmartre the most aesthetically pleasing, but Montparnasse probably the most interesting. I spent about three hours and three hundred photographs pottering about. Some of the famous graves are easy to find because they are well documented, and visitors have placed tributes on them. For example, the first grave I went in search of, Samuel Beckett's, has metro tickets placed on it by visitors as a mark of having waited for something.

I already knew where Beckett's grave was, but two others in the same section were more difficult, as I did not have exact locations. I eventually found the grave of Phillipe Noiret, an actor I very much admired particularly for his role in my favourite film, Cinema Paradiso, but also for his role in Le Cop, which has criminally never had a DVD release with English subtitles. There were no public tributes on it, merely a plaque from his wife saying 'pour mon Cher Philippe' and a picture of a horse. While I was photographing it, four gendarmes, two men and two women, passed behind me and came across to see why I was photographing it. "Noiret!" exclaimed one of the men, and then "mais pourquoi le cheval?" wondered one of the women. But they didn't stop for me to explain, for I had read an article about Noiret about fifteen years previously in a copy of La Nouvelle Observateur while staying in a hotel in Boulogne, and I knew that he had bred horses in his spare time.

The other grave I had hoped to find in this section was that of Susan Sontag, but I couldn't track it down.

The joint headstone of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir is easily found by the main entrance, and I thought it rather sweet that they were remembered together. Despite all their efforts for existentialism and feminism, it was like a headstone in a quiet English churchyard which might have 'reunited' or 'together in eternity' inscribed on it. I think he wasn't pleasant company, and while she was certainly more intelligent than he was she made intellectual arrogance respectable. I photographed their headstone more out of interest than admiration.

Admiration was at the heart of my search for a gravestone lost in sections 6 and 7 which I think is not found often. It is for the surrealist photographer Man Ray. I was delighted to find it after barely 20 minutes searching. He designed it himself, and in his own handwriting into the cement it says 'unconcerned, but not indifferent', which could be taken as rebuff to Satre and his circle I suppose. Charmingly, beside it like the other half of a book is a photograph of him with his wife and the inscription 'Juliet Man Ray 1911-1991, together again'. Enough to leave De Beauvoir spluttering into her Pernod.

You can read my account of my travels at pariswander.blogspot.co.uk.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gendarmenmarkt

Kierkegaard lived briefly in Berlin in the building behind the canopies on the right.

There was a lights festival going on which explains the weird colors. These colors are pretty ugly and I wish the lights were just the normal white instead.

2018-02-10 IFLY - LXXX You III Kibbee Gallery Atlanta

IFLY - LXXX You III.

One night art performance. Music and dancing. Fun for all.

In this mix of musical mayhem and merriment is the ongoing performance by Erin Vaiskauckas, "Embrace which requires group participation.

Saturday, Feb 10, 6-10pm

Here is the serious:

- LXXX YOU is a rotating group of artists and friends founded by Mike Stasny and George Long. Prompted by party motifs and the parody of human life, LXXX YOU's performance and installation work lampoons social experiences by inviting viewers into a surreal world. Primarily working as hyper-real costumed DJ’s, LXXX YOU has provided entertainment for the Hambidge Auction, the opening of Ponce City Market, Burnaway Auction, Zuckerman Museum of Art, Eide Magazine Anniversary Party, MOCA GA, Marcia Wood Gallery, Sandler Hudson Gallery, WonderFarm, and Atlanta Contemporary Art Center’s ART PARTY.

Here is the fun:

Who likes potato chips? EVERYONE! You wanna hide your apple jack in a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches? You wanna read a book on the history of existentialism while YouTube-ing vintage Energizer battery commercials? Yeah! I know! Life is NEAT! We have all been there...

Listen... Let's get serious... Eating Cookie Crisp is a REAL thing and nothing beats what's REAL.

If you want FREE DUMB.

If you want INDIE PEN DANCE.

If you want to continue the life you are living but without the self hate and need to put your "no no" in the "downstairs" of a manatee... Join us? No questions asked. We've all been there. Put a battery in this...Please, can I charge my cell phone in that... Fu*#... I just broke a guitar string and my dad don't know nuthin' about rocking hard dead center. We ALL want to take a fun time special shower with hot people. We all want to know, "Where did my pants go?" Shoot man, just last week I put an umbrella in my mouth and opened it up. WAIT A SEC... Didn't I meet you at that party? See you soon... lets do this again... No problem.

WE, LXXX YOU

Maker:L,Date:2017-8-29,Ver:5,Lens:Kan03,Act:Kan02,E-ve

Arcangelo Sassolino, site specific installation

Exhibition view "Francis Bacon and Existential Condition in Contemporary Art", CCC Strozzina, Palazzo Strozzi, Firenze

© photo Martino Margheri

Jean-Paul Sartre - Nausea

New Directions Paperbook NDP82, 1964

Cover Design: Brownjohn, Chermayeff & Geismar

Cover Photo: Len Gittleman

Infinte Jest by David Foster Wallace

House of Leave by Mark Danielewski

Bossypants by Tina Fey

A Moveable Feat by Ernest Hemingway

Relativity by Albert Einstein

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Marakami

Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez

Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins

Watership Down by Richard Adams

Quantum Psychology by Robert Anton Wilson

The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley

Studies in Alchemy by Saint Germain

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

Existentialism by Walter Kaufman

The Laughing Party by Milan Kundera

Fire by Anais Nin

Embroideries by Marjane Satrapi

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

Buddhism for Beginners by Thubten Chodron

Madness by Marya Hornbacher

Eat. Pray. Love. by Elizabeth Gilbert

RED is the (photographer's) rule - compare the (longer) youtube version