Paul from Paris

Three noteworthy incidents have punctuated this summer in France:

• On a Sunday afternoon at the Parc Astérix theme park, a couple and two friends from Gisors were relaxing after a wedding, waiting in line for the Tonnère de Zeus ride. A group of youths from the Val d’Oise –boys and girls, minors and adults– chose not to wait in line. They cut in line. Protest from the group from Gisors was answered by blows, leading hospitalization. (Seven youths were subsequently convicted of assault.)
• On the A13 highway near Paris, two motorists have a fender-bender, a minor accident. Instead of filling out an accident report, as is customary, one of motorists telephones for “reinforcements” from the nearby town of Les Mureaux. A group soon arrives and beats to death the brother of the other motorist. (Seven people have been indicted for murder, battery, and other offenses.)
• In the city of Grenoble, a man robbed the casino at gunpoint. The robbery went badly; police responded, gunfire was exchanged, and the robber was fatally shot. The robber was acting alone (or as part of a small group), but his death set off large numbers of area youths, who went on a rioting spree. Over two days, they set ablaze dozens of cars and shot at police with firearms.

I see these incidents as something other than a decline in law and order, or of deterrence. What I think ties them together, and speaks most to these times in France, is a lack or absence of civic-mindedness or fraternité. French life traditionally has witnessed plenty of grumbling, but also of living-together, of getting-along. These incidents turn their back on this tradition, replacing words –not even heated words, not necessarily debate– with egregious violence.

“The problem with experience is that you become too content with playing it safe.”

-Roger Federer, quoted in Calvin Tomkins, “Anxiety on the Grass”, The New Yorker, 28 June 2010.

If a requiem mass were a book, that book might be Paris perdu.

Paris perdu is a coffee-table book written by a collective and featuring hundreds of interesting photographs; as befits the funereal tone, all of the latter are in black and white.

The book’s title means “lost Paris”, although the title also is a pun on “losing bets” or “a lost wager”.

The book’s subject is the loss suffered by various Paris neighborhoods through urban renewal, renovation, and development.

This reader found the text militant and ultimately superfluous: Paris perdu makes a strong case through its use of photographs. All of the photographs were chosen carefully, and many of them are intriguing. They make Paris perdu a great book for leisurely, repeated viewing, for any lover of Paris. I was particularly captivated, and dismayed, by a treasure of photographs of the Halles before their demolition and replacement by a commuter train hub and shopping mall (whose renovation is pending).

Paris perdu has two weaknesses, both rhetorical. First, it overstates its case at times. From a safe remove (of fifty or a hundred years), poverty or squalor can seem charming, or at least photogenic. Subdivision, cramped living quarters, and tuberculosis are ills on which this book does not long dwell. Second, instead of resting its case by presenting what is no longer, the book too often makes a point by contrasting the past (authentic, rich) with the present (standardized, enriching only for developers).

Paris perdu was published in 1991 by Editions Carré. It is no longer in print, but can be found in used bookshops or in libraries.

Anniversaire de la prise de la Bastille, 14 juillet 1789

Factory

This is a short detective story.

The city of Paris awarded architect Paul Friesé for the 1903 facade of the Métropolitain (subway) factory at 179 rue de Bercy. For the award jury, “This factory entrance is almost monumental.”

Viewed from the street, the factory brings to my mind the Museum of Natural History, in New York, or turn-of-the-century university buildings.

The facade was part of a large factory complex. To my eyes, what it most brings to mind is a mosque, complete with minarets. The entrance is a giant arch.

Factory

The Métropolitain factory has been demolished. The Paris transit authority has offices on the site, in part of a nondescript line of postwar office buildings that would be equally in place in Birmingham or Tulsa as in Paris.

Paris is receptive to industrial techniques –the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Palais, even the Grande Arche de La Défense– but not to actual industry. I’m left with the impression that Paris –city leaders, planners and architects, ordinary citizens– think factories and industry are embarrassments, better forgotten. What else could explain the oblivion into which the Métropolitain factory has fallen?

In addition to the factory on the rue de Bercy, the Métropolitain commissioned numerous electrical plants or sub-stations that are scattered throughout Paris. Some of these were also designed by Paul Friesé and are still standing. They bring to my mind armories, tiny forts.

Architect Paul Friesé was a remarkable figure. I’d recommend Hugues Fiblec’s Paris Friesé 1851-1917: Architectures de l’âge industriel, published by Norma; and the French architecture institute’s biography, from which I’ve borrowed the uncredited photo and illustration to show the Métropolitain facory.

Friesé was born in 1851 in Alsace. When he was 19, war broke out between France and Germany. Friesé enlisted, but France soon lost the war, and Alsace. Friesé moved to Paris and studied architecture. His architectural practice featured superb industrial buildings, few of which survive today. In keeping with his time, Friesé brought artistry to industry. He traveled extensively, and seems to have participated actively in architectural exchanges on design and materials.

France’s loss of Alsace to the Prussians nourished many hopes for revenge or re-taking. When war broke out in 1914, Friesé enlisted. He was 63 years old. From frequent visits to Alsace, Friesé had many contacts. He also had a command of German and equestrian skills. With this background, Friesé served as an interpreter. Paul Friesé died in 1917, while visiting his son, Jean-Paul, on the front. (I’m sure that there’s a superb story behind this fact, befitting of a W.G. Sebald tale, and I hope some day to look into it further.)