I am what I am. Who I am. No matter what you say I am. I can't put myself down in words if I tried. And neither can you. Nor should we try. For I am everything at once. And nothing at all. I'm not the best, though sometimes I get carried away in narcissism.. but I'm pretty good; usually. I'm not the worst, though often I fear I might be.. but I can be quite horrendous; at times. Yes I've got my set of strengths, things I'm good at.. but I don't let that get to my head. Well I try. Yes I've got my flaws, my weaknesses.. but I don't let that get me down. Well.. I try. I am my own best friend, and worst enemy. I am my biggest fan... And critic. I am both a dream come true, and living nightmare. Not too good, not too bad. Not too happy, and not too sad. I am just... me. Of course I'm special, outstanding.. In my own unique way. I'm the best me there ever was! Like nobody else.. A class apart.. But so are you, I hope you know that. Wait, DO you know that?.. Do you know you're special? Exactly just how you are? Did you know you are the best... you? Did you realise comparisons don't matter? Whether you're tall or short, fat or skinny, boy or girl, black or white, smart or stupid, young or old. It doesn't matter! There is only one you. There will never be another one like you. Only you can be you. And you ARE! Right now! Own it. Breathe it. Exude it. Flaunt it. Be yourself. Believe in yourself. For more, follow The Existentialist on Facebook. ift.tt/2qDMoiC Tags: #existential, #existentialism, #existentialist, #life, #existence, #wisewords, #wisdom, #lifequotes, #lifehacks, #lifelessons, #beyourself, #selfhelp, #selflove, #believeinyourself, #believe, #self, #justdoit, #yolo, #special, #unique, #myself, #dontgiveup, #nevergiveup, #poetry, #poetsofig, #poetrycommunity, #poetsofinstagram, #original, #help, #instapoetry.. Check out this post on Instagram! ift.tt/2s3gzRS.

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.

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/

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.

Arcangelo Sassolino, site specific installation

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

© photo Martino Margheri

The Beginning

Something profound has occurred to me within the last few weeks. That is what this entire book is about. My fathers unexpected death was, I believe, the catalyst for this. That was the most painful two weeks of my entire life. I began thinking more about death, life, existence in...

smj12.com/truth-theory/

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

Sorry not being here as i often as i like to be. I have been super busy with work and getting life in order. I hope all of you are well and being good. I will get back into flickr as soon as possible when everything settles down. A friend of mine took this shot.

"November Rain" by Guns N Roses:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=siBoLc9vxac&feature=related

View On Black

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

I am a fragile plant

Arcangelo Sassolino, site specific installation

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

© photo Martino Margheri

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

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

;)

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

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.

Well, that's a relief! All these years of existential angst for nothing!!

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.

Yipee! A pretty edition Crime & Punishment!

usually I play BLUES 4/4 not 3/4 - but friends encouraged me to study a waltz for a wedding party ...

A Dog, Barking is a production of Small Rice Field and is my junior year film at the SUNY Purchase Conservatory of Film. I would like to thank all that participated and helped in the development of this film from it's early conceptual stages all the way through post production. With that said, please enjoy!

IMDB: www.imdb.com/title/tt1675790/

Cast:

Xena as A Dog, Barking

Orien Longo as Leon Redding

Emily Fleischer as Alice

Tymon Brown as Marcus

Matthew Lobenhofer as Connor

Bek O'Connel as Girl 1

Kelly Simpson as Girl 2

Maya Sasao as Girl 3

Daniel Onoda as Waiter

Shane McGaffey as Bartender

Directed by Daniel Onoda

Music by Camera Obscura

Co-written by Orien Longo

Produced by Tymon Brown and Daniel Onoda

Production Managed by Alishia Longo

Cinematography by Ryan Guiterman

Score by Daniel Onoda

Watch this video on Vimeo. Video created by Daniel Onoda.

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.

Portrait of Arcangelo Sassolino in front of his artwork

© photo Martino Margheri

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

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.

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.

Jean-Paul Sartre - Nausea

New Directions Paperbook NDP82, 1964

Cover Design: Brownjohn, Chermayeff & Geismar

Cover Photo: Len Gittleman

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

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.

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

played by Andrey Shilov, Russia - this video is also a part of the LIFE IN A DAY project by Ridley Scott for YOUTUBE

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.)

acrylic gel painting / private collection.

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.

Jean Paul Satre och Simone De Beauvours grav

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.