View allAll Photos Tagged existentialism
Skipping through Dystopia on way to Utopia
A lone figure moves with an unsettling grace in the dim twilight of a decaying city, where the remnants of civilisation stand as silent witnesses to their demise. Each step taken amidst the desolation seems to mock the essence of existence as if moving forward is a futile rebellion against the oppressive weight of being. The air is thick with the stench of rust and decay, a tangible reminder of the absurdity that permeates this forsaken world.
As the figure advances, the surrounding gloom intensifies, the shadows growing longer and more oppressive. The skeletal remains of the old world loom ominously, their presence a stark reminder of the inescapable reality of existence. Yet, amidst this suffocating despair, there is a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift where the oppressive darkness gives way to a horizon bathed in a cold, indifferent light. The figure pauses, gazing back at the path traversed, a journey marked by the relentless confrontation with the absurdity of being. In this moment, there is no utopia, no redemption, only the stark, unyielding reality of existence and the solitary figure's acknowledgment of it.
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Keywords:
Dystopia, Utopia, Existentialism, Decay, Resilience, Transformation, Hope, Desolation, Journey, Rebirth, Solitude, Redemption, Wellness
Günter Wilhelm Grass (born October 16, 1927) is a Nobel Prize-winning German author and playwright.
He was born in the Free City of Danzig (now Gdańsk, Poland). Since 1945, he has lived in (the now former) West Germany, but in his fiction he frequently returns to the Danzig of his childhood.
He is best known for his first novel, The Tin Drum, a key text in European magic realism. His works frequently have a strong (left wing, socialist) political dimension, and Grass has been an active supporter of the Social Democratic Party of Germany. In 2006, Grass caused a controversy with his belated disclosure of Waffen-SS service during the final months of World War II.
------------
Peeling the Onion
"The story of a life. Of a childhood in Danzig that ends with the beginning of World War II. The family in a crowded two-room apartment - mother, father, sister, and the young Gunter, who collects cigarette cards featuring the masterpieces of Renaissance art, and dreams of enlisting in the submarine corps." "At age ten, he joins the Jungvolk; at age fifteen, he volunteers for the navy, but is rejected. "A believer till the end ... with untroubled, unquestioning fervor" - that is how Grass sees himself in his own rearview mirror. Two years later he is drafted and assigned to the Waffen-SS as a tank gunner. He is sent to the Eastern Front in the spring of 1945." "Wounded, Grass ends up in an American POW camp when the war ends. There he spends time taking abstract cooking classes (no ingredients, just words) and playing dice with a pious fellow prisoner, a Bavarian by the name of Joseph ... could it have been Joseph Ratzinger? And it is there that, in disbelief, he first sees photographs of Bergen-Belsen." "Released from camp, Grass hits the road - working deep underground in a mine near Hanover; carving tombstones and flirting with existentialism in Dusseldorf; making art and dancing to ragtime in Berlin with Anna, his first great love. He mourns his mother, "who was born in pain and died in pain, and set me free to write and write." He begins work on his great novel, The Tin Drum."-- book jacket
The Velvetear’s [velvet-ear’s {or} velvet-tear’s] are a marshmallowy ensemble of misanthropic shenaniganizer’s, brought to YOOO in a hearty bowl of milk.
With each dunk of mouth-waterin' Velvetear’s, the consumer may gurgle down a crunchy bunch o' satire, playfulness 'n rare insight! We’re gonna stuff meaning back into American teenagers, washing ‘em silly of their weed and beer stained minds. This is it cowgirls. Open up yer A1 sauce and drown yer sorrow’s cause us Velvethead’s, er.. Velvetear’s are sick of ye’s already! WE IS FUMIN’ WITH DESIRE TO SHOW YOU A SPLEND' TIME!
Velvetear’s: now available on Netsies for high-brow hilarity and knowledge.
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.
RIGHT, i know you lot have already seen this, but i find it adorable and i need to tell a story, and i look like ABSOLUTE SHIT right now, honestly, my hair is so greasy, i have no makeupz on, i'm proper hungover...the list goes on.
this might offend some; just a disclaimer.
but, i need to record this, and flickr is like, my journal anyway, so why not here? bahahah.
so.
so.
so.
sososososososo.
:D
i had an evening with swineflu last night.
OKA, SCENE:
hardee's (free wifi), alixi, sitting in the back corner, is literally having a panic attack at the prospect of meeting this creature. i was shaking so badly it was visible and i kept getting straws to chew on (i went through about fifteen! gnawed to bits! it would have been hilarious if i weren't so petrified.)
alixi receives a text: i'm outside.
alixi writes a frantic facewookie message to zac, that was to the tune of "if i don't get online tomorrow night. call ---, and tell her that i'm with *** and to call the goddamn police!"
alixi looks up and notices a lanky figure, in tight, black - properly tailored - trousers, mod shoes and an "we all have hands" (or something, i really wasn't focused on his bloody shirt) shirt. who also, might i add, rocks a septum piercing and a highly charismatic (and somewhat arrogant) demeanour.
figure sits down.
"heyy."
uh. heyy.
"..are you oka?"
no, i'm heavy nervous! shows hands shaking.
"HAHA, why? evil grin. because i'm a terrifying rapist?"
AH! (and yes, i actually make that noise often.) don't say that to me!
"HAHAHAHAH, oh, lixxie."
anyroad, the story i'd gotten from *** (the..erm.."rapee") was false; she told the police he had a bloody meth lab in his house and all this other bollocks (he doesn't do meth); he even showed me a copy of the police report at his house to ease my fears.
REGARDLESSSSS.
so, we're having a right proper time, we get along very well, and i'm in his car, and we're driving to his house and i switch on the light to find my cigarettes and i see STAR TREK!!
"WHAT. WHAT. WHAT THE FUCK, ALIXI. OF COURSE YOU WOULD LIKE STAR TREK!"
so, we got stoned (i know, i said i wouldn't.), and drank a lot (i know, i said i wouldn't.), and we're all laughing like morons and having this epic star trek marathon (i'm quite a rabid fan - anything space-y, i'll jump in that pond.), and we've smoked two packets of fags in like, two hours (he smokes as much as i do. HA.), and we've not even touched or kissed or anything, we're both a bit tipsy, but still in full control of ourselves and etc.
finally i turn to him and i say, "i'm sorry i thought you were a paedophile. and a creeper. and..i'm sorry there's a knife in my tits." and he just turns to me and goes, "give me the knife." in a well scary voice, and i AH! again and scramble off the couch, and fucksake, he's just laughing his arse off.
oh, we were on the laptop, and i was on my flickr, and i showed him that last photo, about how i was wigging the fuck out, and he just thought it was the bee's knees, especially the message to zac - and then he updated my facebook status, "Alixi Chanèl
is with SwineFlu. Fuck off, motherfuckers. Rape is not in the agenda." bahahahahahahhahah. i know i'm rambling, i apologise.
anyroad, then a WEIRD thing happened; i was quoting star trek (yes, i know. i am lame.) to him, and we were "WELL, DID YOU KNOW -- ?!!!!" about quentin tarantino and the office and star trek and existentialism and..we talked a lot about spock, bahahahhahaha, ANYROAD, he just looks at me and gets all serious and goes, "you're gonna break my heart, alixi."
erm.
what?
i didn't press it, and i just gave him a hug BAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA, OH, and then he stands up to stretch (he's six feet and four inches tall) and his head bumps the ceiling (i was also incorrect - he has his own house. and he has his own business. and he's twenty-five. i take back what i said about him being scum, bahahha.), and that just makes me laugh hysterically, and he goes all still and quiet, and with the light to his back, he looked quite fearsome, and he goes (in that same fecking voice from earlier.), "do you still find me terrifying, alixi?" apparently - i've never noticed it, but i hear it a lot - when i'm scared or unsure of something, my eyes get bloody huge and i cover my mouth with my hand and just stare. bahahahahhahaha, and apparently i did it then too.
(improper paragraph break, i apologise.) and he just laughs and tackles me on the couch and kisses me.
and it was sweet.
and adorable as sin.
cuddlecuddlestartrektriviasmokesmoke, anchorman (which i fecking hate.) and we're still being fantastically adorable with little kisses and bla bla, and i'm scoffing at will farrell (who is a bloody fool - i loathe him) and he's scoffing at my scoffing, and we're just having a grand time.
we both get tired - and not, "oh, let's go to the bedroom, tired", but "it's two in the morning and i'm bloody wasted and i'm about to pass out" tired.
..........................................................i'm deciding how much i want to write, here.
i'm not ashamed, by any means, but i do believe there's a level of tastefulness and privacy - - - - well, fuck tastefulness, more like, privacy.
hmm.
well, he didn't stick his penis into my vag, let's say that.
OH, BAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHAH.
and this just makes me laugh. (this is the disclaimer bit, i warn you now.)
warned?
oka.
i don't even KNOW what happened, i was kissing him and it was rather intense, and i just.....got on top of him, pulled his hair and slapped him in the face, with all my might!!
..
....
i have no, no, no bloody idea what happened there, and neither did he!! but, he just pushes me down and does the same thing, slapped me right across my face. he looks all awful and goes, "i'm sorry. i....i don't want to do that. i don't want to hit you. i'm not into violence." me either, mate, what the fuck happened to me?!!!??
blimey. :/
but, regardless.
i have conquered my fears of
1. being under the influence with strange men.
2. men, period.
3. going to strange bandhouses.
4. being with a man under 30.
and we're still mates, that's the best part.
so, that was my night.
how was yours? :D
(OH. and i fixed the comments on my photos of brittany. they should be swell now.)
played by Andrey Shilov, Russia - this video is also a part of the LIFE IN A DAY project by Ridley Scott for YOUTUBE
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
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.
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
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.
Copenhagen University (where Kierkegaard got his doctorate)
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Copenhagen
the security door was somehow open so I got this interior shot before anyone saw me
living in suburbia can slowly drive you insane.
in sad news this classic window pane is no longer in the house anymore, my parents relented to modernity and tore it out to replace it with a dull plastic window a few weeks ago.
Italian postcard by Rotalfoto, Milano, nr. 83.
French actress and chanson singer Juliette Gréco (1927) was the muse of the existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre. Later she became the protégée of film mogul Darryl F. Zanuck, who cast her in his films.
For more postcards, a bio and clips check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.
I based this photo off of a drawing I had done 4 or 5 years before this. I had just gotten an Olympus with a remote control and was able to fire it from outside the window.
Kunstindustrimuseet. The Danish Museum of Art and Design. (Used to be Frederiks Hospital where Kierkegaard died at.)
The museum didn't allow tripods and I had to sneak this one in but I'm not happy enough with this one to print it. The subject matter is strong, though, melding my interests of Existentialism with Institutional Theory.
Does anyone know the room exactly where Kierkegaard died?
In senior year, my English teacher taught us existentialism and absurdism. The philosophical meaning of absurdism is that humans exist in a meaningless, irrational universe and that any search for order by them will bring them into direct conflict with this universe. So there is no hope in life. And I used meaning of Anemone, fading hope, to connect with idea of absurdism.
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.
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
... when you're down and out ... - once sung by Bessie Smith, Josh White, Alberta Hunter, B.B. King, Eric Clapton, Carla Bruni etc.
+
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.
results of the contest 6 of my group www.flickr.com/groups/EXISTentialism - 1. Today will be yesterday tomorrow…, 2. BUDLY DISTRIBUTED WORLD!, 3. Depth, 4. purchased
Colagem (série) Desenho original fotocopiado sobre pagina de livro de anatomia do sec XIX sobre aluminio.
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
The Imago Theatre perform and fittingly open Silhouettes, The Art Institute of Portland's fashion show with their unique dance style. From adaptations of classics to excursions into vaudevillian existentialism, Imago's repertoire is as vast as the forms they shape.
Learn more about Imago Theatre: www.imagotheater.com
Learn more about The Art Institute of Portland: www.artinstitutes.edu/portland
Photo: Lulu Hoeller