Paris Stories, Part VI: Arrondissements Municipaux

Paris Stories – Arrondissements Municipaux

[Part VI] like a person, Paris shines brilliantly, as the “city of lights”, but with 22-different personalities. Actually, the twenty-two districts are called arrondissements in French, originally numbering around a dozen in 1790; each sub-divided into four ancienne (“former” or older) districts.

The twenty-two arrondissements are arranged clockwise in the form of a “spiral” (often likened to nature’s nautilus shell-shape, reflected in the Fibonacci sequence -- see Part IV of this series), starting from the center of the city, with the first on the “Right Bank” (north bank, or la Rive Droite) of the Seine. Similar to minor divisions in a personality, or the gradual differences we all share, but which make us exceptional through individual personhood; these subdivisions each exhibit the idiosyncratic variances in Paris which make it so complex.

Visiting cafes and restaurants gives a vision of each district’s grandeur. Making the twirling route from the center of the city outward in mathematical precision, moving from scene to scene; one can picture the different affiliations and intrigues of each group of writers, philosophers, artists, and curators whose lives are similar but vary according to their own experiences and worldviews, reflected in each neighborhood. (See Poirier’s book, Left Bank, Holt & Co. 2018).

Just as DNA bonds like a ladder along a double-helix, so Paris' personality trails upon either side of the Seine, and in each municipal district. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, of course; however, stereotyping Paris is impossible, and every arrondissement links almost symmetrically to the next neighborhood either Left or Right bank, Montparnasse or Montmartre, as unique as brothers or sisters from the same family.

As different as the two young lovers were, they shared the spark of discovery, the relief of escape, the procrastination of youth, the magnetism of common art, and the freedom of time. What they lacked financially, they made up with the richness of creativity, tolerance, curiosity, health, confidence, and the comfort of common attraction. In one way poor, there are many who'd label them infinitely wealthy. 

And they were in Paris!

to be continued..........

2018©Mark H. Pillsbury

Paris Stories: Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV)

Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV):

(Paris) Along with differences in age, language, size, and demeanor; between us walked our constant companion, his art. Training alongside the verbal, linear logic of legal precedence, my companion spun mathematical formulas out of his mind into symmetrical circles of exacting care, drawn softly with pencil and later illuminated with black & white acrylic paint.

As the practical, grounded, first-born daughter of an accountant and a classroom English teacher, my style epitomized the ascending power of the American Female Lawyer. It is true that women still struggle in the workplace for equality, but my experience was like a clear, fortunate passage into a profitable career.  At the same time, Gabriel showed me how an unorganized giant, uncomfortable in his own skin, could give his art the hyper-focus it demanded; producing large scale paintings that drew your eye into a tunnel of precision, a mystical maze of fastidious circles.

His art bloomed out of more than a mere triquetra (trinity knot), it subtly revealed the sacred artistic geometry of life; exact, mathematical, but more than just slide rules and protractors. Exhibiting the formulas of Fibonacci and the ancient truths of a sunflower’s pattern of seeds, the paintings communicated the consistent, repeatable thread of life going back to the beginning—the historic symmetry of the human struggle.

[artist and author]

Drawing by hand, sequences appearing to have come from a CAD drawing and a laser printer, Gabriel believed the complete, ancient flower of life formed an inter-dimensional tool, like a portal. Meditation showed him a mental window into what some call the inter-space plane. Not only therapeutic, his mind now had a factory in which to process traumatic stress that had once destroyed and dismantled his natural genius. He patiently waited, unbridled the yoke of mental illness, practicing his art with hope, and what Cameron calls our true nature:

"No matter what your age or your life path, whether making art is your career or your hobby or your dream, it is not too late or too egotistical or too selfish or too silly to work on your creativity. . . . I have come to believe that creativity is our true nature, that blocks are an unnatural thwarting of a process at once as normal and as miraculous as the blossoming of a flower at the end of a slender green stem." (end quote) by Julia Cameron 

Gabriel created two series of curves winding in opposite directions, drawing with a fine mechanical pencil. Beginning at the center, they stretched out to the widest part of his canvas like petals. With each seed-shaped unit sitting at a certain angle from the neighboring seeds, he demonstrated the precision of a spiral, which exists everywhere in the physical universe. The angle found in the “flower-of-life” is the universal “juste-milieu”; yet, it is the most irrational number imaginable for such a drawing, a feeble approximation of a fraction. This number is sometimes called the golden mean, or the golden angle, which is 137.5⁰.

Aristotle thought the angle was the middle point between extremes, e.g., if courage is a virtue, its excess could manifest in one extreme as recklessness, and in deficiency, cowardice. The Greeks thought the golden mean was artistically beautiful but at the same time closely associated with mathematics, being both beautiful and true. Because the best known group of American artists are usually said to be the abstract expressionists of the “New York” style, my artistic palate wasn’t typically exposed to this degree of exactness, but I guess the lawyer in me liked it? Gabriel helped me realize that the artist often must "unlearn" what she has learned, in order to know her path. ##

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part II: Tribute to the lost firefighters of 9/11, continued... second installment:

[Author's note: the first installment of my fictional 9/11 series was written 18-months ago, but listening to Brene Brown, and a trip to New York prompted more writing about the family O'Keafe. Although the tragic events of September 11th are painfully true, everything written below is fiction]

[any connection to deceased is coincidental and not meant as a truthful reference]

Escape

Out on the lake, in this pristine state park, Michael cleared his head. Fishing pulled his dad out of his comfort zone, onto a battlefield without sure footing. Whether the quiet nature of the sport, or the serene isolation of this oasis, Michael’s excursion into the suburbs today reminded him of Tim McGraw’s song: Live like he was dyin’ “All of a sudden goin’ fishin’ wasn’t such an imposition.” Michael could see things as they are (or were) meant to be seen on this clear September morning. (see previous post, September 10, 2011; a bad day fishing...) http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-9-11-tribute-in-fiction.html

Unfortunately today he confronted the rawness and ugliness his father showed him over the years. A constant, intimidating flow of his upbringing’s lifeblood, gave course to fear and spread the worst contagion a parent bestows upon his children, that which is called shame. Today Mike felt strong enough to “feel,” down to the core, being open to joy and pain; most importantly owning all the shame poured over him through the years.

Shame wasn't exactly overt in his home, but it represented a strong O’Keafe family value. It wreaks more damage than a viral outbreak, because shame says to an immature child that you are not loved or lovable unless you meet often sensible, yet arbitrary expectations of the parent. Shame makes a kid feel small. Its potent sting paralyzes creativity and its anguishing power overcomes even the strongest-willed child.

Shame stunts in a child the ability to learn self-compassion because it is graceless, watchful, and critical; outweighing any compliment with a deluge of correction. Michael realized that Jim O’Keafe’s standards were held up, idolized, and projected upon his children; and to those who could not reach them; well, they were de-valued and unfit. As Michael engaged in this session alone with his thoughts on the lake, the engine off and no wind to drift the boat; his mind wandered off while watching the end of his line for tugs:

“Why didn't I study art in college?" he thought, "At least, then dropping-out would've been for the honor of art and not because I skipped too many classes, failed too many tests?” The pursuit of art slipped away from Michael once enrolled in the Fireman Academy, even though his dream of painting with oil and watercolor lived vividly in his subconscious. During unhurried, deliberate days filled with slow creativity, not rushed by pursuit of disaster; Michael expressed himself carefully, with great fulfillment. Did he become a fireman for the same reason his brother did, because their father willed them into the inferno?

Grieving his dreams became more important than catching fish today.

Existing in warm California, not New York; his fantasy artist life reflected a contemplative environment reduced to the priority of communicating the struggle and strength of life on canvas or paper. He taught art at a Junior College to make a living, but spent most of his hours pensive, smocked, and painting. Despite his love for impressionists his painting conveyed a sharp realism. He visualized and illustrated “real things” with an eye for natural beauty.

“I love to include enough detail so that the inquisitive mind must take apart the pieces of the scene like a puzzle,” Michael told his brother Patrick sometimes when they would talk during one of his exhibits, “The natural world is so complex, even without humans in my paintings; sometimes it’s beyond the viewer’s skill to unravel it?” Michael continued passionately, “I relish that difficulty, that tension; it is a big part of my fascination with art’s mystery.”

Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent;” as I sit here today, I believe my family denied me the freedom to describe, analyze, and interpret art, or life, for that matter. I did what I was told, mostly; even to the point of enrolling in the Fireman Academy; however, art, or the pursuit of art, saved me.

Michael believes his art is a creek or stream off of a mighty tributary called vulnerability. Art’s headwaters are from an energetic source which generates creative channels of light and life, but vulnerability is the courage to engage in all of life, whether good or bad, fortunate or dreadful. Today, on this lake, he is dealing with his upbringing, relationships with father and brother, and even the unfulfilled dreams of a thirty-something fireman from New York City. He sits serenely, the water laps against the boat.

Suddenly, Michael snapped out of his dream when a silver American Airlines jumbo-jet roared overhead flying low along the Hudson River, very close to Harriman Park. So close to the ground he saw the red glow of the turbo-jet engines; this airliner seemed to be racing too fast for a typical coast-to-coast journey of a jumbo-jet coming out of JFK. It pointed southward toward the city, rather than rising ascendant to a normal cruising altitude. His gut wrenched while his mind puzzled; Michael immediately thought of his brother Patrick J. O’Keafe, strangely absent from this fishing trip and now at the center of Michael’s consciousness watching the silver bullet speed toward Manhattan. (to be continued...)

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Fear

Our Constant Companion

Jesus repeatedly told his disciples and other people not to be afraid, yet humans deal with fear so often everyday that fear is almost our closest companion. As natural as breathing, apprehension can be a protective mechanism or a friendly motivator; but like food, too much makes us bulky and slow.

Like darkness invading nighttime, fear creeps into the day, ultimately blinding us from the reality of time. At the heart of each dawn is the possibility of a new day; however fear saps our joy and paralyzes our creativity. Can we be comfortable with distress like we are in our own skin, or will fear eat away at the soul, gradually corroding the mind from the inside out?

Constant Questions

We are constantly asking ourselves:

How do I look?

Do they like me?

Is she telling me the truth?

Am I late?

Did I forget about something?

Did I study enough?

Did I save enough?

How will I know what to do?

What’s going to happen to us?

Fear is even more basic than that; fear is connected to mortality, and the core question of our existence. We are afraid of other men, what will they think of us? We are afraid to die. We wonder after a certain age how much longer we have?

At the same time, fear gives us wisdom, discernment, perseverance, even intuition; in many ways it is our protective older brother but fear also takes charge and causes even the most rational to second guess.

Coping with Fear

Coping with fear is one of life’s greatest challenges. We sojourn to so many places in search for the miracle antidote. Fear is a toxic poison with deadly side-effects; it squeezes stress out of uncertainty instead of faith. Interpreting what John O’Donohue said, “stress is a perverted relationship to time,” I would add that stress is a perverted relationship to fear. Time and fear have overcome our daily routines, so that rather than being a subject of your own time, we become fear’s target and victim, lacking the control to stand up to these twin villains.

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God… for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power, love, and self-control.”
2 Timothy 1:6-7

Our Response by God's Grace

Instead of dismay, may I tremble at the Lord’s power to control the universe and his good intentions with my life and family? Rather than being overcome with anxiety, may I run to the biblical comfort of the Word made flesh, and rest in the admonitions of Jesus Christ? Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, but it is only the starting point. As we fall in love with the supremacy of God and the sovereignty of God, our peace grows to the point of resting in God and fearing no more the changes in our lives.

Without faith there is no meaning to life and no reason to conduct ourselves with courage in the face of fear. If death is merely a threshold onto another platform, and our hope is in a better place as we are promised in Christ, then we can dig deep into our well of faith and believe enough to push out the fear. This is done through the power of the spirit, with love and self-control.

©Mark H. Pillsbury