Thursday, June 28
Arrival in Amsterdam.
Morning walk with Griffin and his dog, Tabor, beloved hosts. We are met with a warm face at every turn. Nobody asks what you do when they meet you, and their cell phones are out of sight. They interact with the living! Marijuana and prostitution are legal here, so people work it through their systems and that is that; the culture is healthier without the suppression. Biking is bloodsport on these streets. The only saving grace is that women wear high heels while doing so... a pleasant vision before you're struck!
Van Gogh's ferocity bounds from canvas to viewer at his Museum - the most thrilling communion imaginable. So why can't folks put their cameras down for a moment and just be with the painting?
Friday, June 29
My first herring "sashimi" — a delicacy!
I am drawn to a tiny art gallery where the owner gifts me with a spot-on, spontaneous psychic reading and a painting... his final words: Illuminate your spirit and you will be transparent - and invincible!
A deep memory stirs my blood at Anne Frank's house; I see my sister and grandmother in her face, as well as the ancestral hiding endemic to Judaism.
The women, especially the older ones, dress sumptuously here, and really own their sensuality. I actually mistook an 82 year old for a 65 year old!
The sun sets between 10:30-11pm, so we eat late. Folks open their windows and doors while dining, or sit on the porch. It feels so communal.
Saturday, June 30
Extraordinary stroopwafel and local cuisine at the Sunday morning market.
At The Hague, Griffin and I climb atop the highest sand dune, then dine on the beach and watch the children play. Parents let their children figure things out on their own here - in turn, they "act" less like kids. Our waiter is of Dutch royal lineage; he is wearing a ring carrying the sovereign crest.
Griffin shows me HRH Queen Beatrix's office.
Spent some time at an exhibit of the graduating class of The Royal Academy of Art. Climbed into a beautiful installation which simulated a mother's womb! I was asked to pose for a photographer doing a moustache study, then befriended three artists, one of whom is Icelandic. Learned that there are no last names in Iceland, aside from "son of..." or "daughter of..."
Incredible coral-colored sunset and delicious midnight beer on the glittering canal. Went to a fantastic club where I watched the dance floor from above, like a pulsating cosmos, then joined it.
Everything has worked out so easily here. In Griffin's words: One day without cellphones, without Facebook - the world comes to you. Life really does find you!
Sunday, July 1
Croissant, fromage, confiture and coffee before saying a hearty "dank u wel" to Griffin.
Beautiful train ride from Amsterdam through Belgium, the French countryside, then into Paris. Despite the changing scenery, I feel more myself than ever.
Travelers are, by necessity, vulnerable. Surrounded by new languages, customs and cuisines, we are humbled into a deep curiosity... if we allow ourselves to be. That said, I realize now that if one wants a whole new life, learning another language opens countless doors.
Arriving at my host's apartment, the elevator is one foot deep and two feet wide! Inside the flat, there is a magician giving a show for her son's 7th birthday.
My first outing in Paris is to Parc Monceau, across the street from where I live. Teenagers in the park sing and play guitar - artists sketch flowers - even the dogs seem to walk with panache. I am home, I think. My people!
Here, the wrinkles are visible, facial lines exposed - and time honored. There is also a kind of loving attention paid to the daily purchase and preparation of food, the enjoyment of coffee and wine, the selection of flowers, clothing and scent. It is a sensitivity which elevates living from mere survival to grace.
Monday, July 2
First day of school!
I train 45 minutes through the French countryside to a tiny, medieval village called Étampes. No directions have been provided, but another slightly-late classmate (the Australian Edan) and I wind our way through tiny streets to the unsuspecting crucible that is École Philippe Gaulier.
Monsieur Gaulier is a genius. About 36 of us from around the world sit at his feet. He aims for us to find the beautiful, optimistic idiot that is our unique clown. Anyone can be an idiot, he says, but clown embodies the hopefulness of an idiot. Already I feel great love for this man.
Dinner with my hosts, Clara, Jean-Jacques and their tiny children, watching the Eiffel Tower glitter in the distance.
Tuesday, July 3
I wake up this and each morning with the thought, "My God, I'm in Paris!"
Getting dressed, one thinks of the whole ensemble now, in honor of the surrounding beauty - beauty not only in the monuments, churches and gardens, but in the studied nonchalance of a perfectly hued scarf draped over a woman's shoulder, or the delicate way a shoe hugs the foot. I realize now how much beauty can define and elevate a culture.
Gaulier is a wicked Santa doling out presents, masked as insults, to all of us, his "little ones." His feedback ranges from Thank you, it was just horrible to Not extremely bad! To see him laugh is amazing, a crimson flower opening before the sun. He encourages us to shift from feeling shame in failing to feeling optimism in it: I'm not lucky today, but perhaps tomorrow! If you want to be a clown with your will, he explains, you will never be a clown. People who "want to be good" are awful! If you are okay with being bad, you may stumble upon your clown by chance. And, when you are bad in a good way, the clown comes 'round your body, and we love you.
After leaving class in Étampes, an hour into the French countryside, we gather for beer at the local pub. A new Aussie friend, Josh, suggested we walk around his neighborhood, Le Marais (The Swamp), later that evening after our respective dinner plans. He has no phone, is unsure of his exact address or when he'll be free. "Use your intuition," I told him, "and when you feel me outside your building, come downstairs."
During the train ride home, students from Brazil, Spain, Austria and I speak in hybrid languages. My post-dinner stroll through Bastille becomes an odyssey as I arrive at St. Paul's Village of antiques and curios - as well as a motel designed entirely around the theme of classic cinema. I pass through the French-Jewish area, treat myself to an extraordinary falafel, watch birds circling in the sunset and converse with an old French man who leans out his window to partake in the avian follies.
I pass the posh Pearle Bar which looks like it's straight out of Midnight in Paris - women in feathered hats and men in rolled pants and floppy chapeaus. Realizing I have no idea how to get to Josh's apartment, I decide to head home - and bump into Josh straightaway! He shows me a building that's "older than Australia has been civilized," where he rents a tiny atelier straight out of Giovanni's Room. We walk together and bump into another classmate on the steps of the church, a hospital clown from Spain! Together, we walk to see the largest moon of the year from Île de la Cité - the island village of Paris. We're treated to a glance of Notre Dame's backside (don't tell the Vatican) and a couple making love in a window next door to the church!
There seems only one option in Paris, which is to walk beyond the point of saturated exhaustion, then fall asleep in a flight of bubbly fancy.
Wednesday, July 4
As the city awakens, fresh markets unfold in the streets. Sleepless eyes, deeply etched in French faces, become badges of a night well spent. The scent of fresh baked goods emanates from boulangeries on every corner - and from the handbags of women carrying their daily bread.
I am pinching myself again to be traveling across the French countryside for clown school. Today, Gaulier introduces the concept of "flop" - making friends, by necessity, with failure. Mr. Flop says to us, Hello my little one, do something else - save the show! We must see, says Gaulier, the sensitivity, pleasure and beauty of a child being kissed every time we see you onstage! A clown must have the openness of a baby - yet everything that pacifies us as actors in the States is dispelled here instantly. Gaulier is unrelenting in his criticism, which makes his praise all the more touching. This is a true exploration of the primal relationship between audience and performer.
Overheard today:
Even Mother Theresa wouldn't love you.
Did you love him when he walked onstage... or did he study at the University of My Balls?
The world is full of idiots. The difference is - a clown is an idiot who dreams of being beautiful!
If you're not bad, you don't discover your clown.
If today didn't work out, we say, "Ah, Wednesday is not my lucky day... but tomorrow!" or "They don't think I am bad - there is simply a misunderstanding between my talent and the audience today."
The "little character" of your personality kills the beauty of your clown.
We don't want margarine, we want butter - your humanity!
He frequently asks my opinion, and there seems to be a complicity between us. We share a beautiful moment during break and I feel that he sees me - though my clown, up to now, waits in the wings.
Dinner in La Pigalle (the red light district), a long walk in Montmartre and a glimpse of morbid Cimetiére de Montmartre - by lightning!
Thursday, July 5
Awoke early and met two Swedish classmates, Joel and Marcus, at the Musée d'Orsay, steeping ourselves in Degas, Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Rodin, Seurat, Cézanne and Toulouse-Lautrec... How did these masters capture the truth in human eyes by placing color on canvas? How can flesh appear to vibrate when drawn from something cold and hard as marble? How do artists render light? It is close to Godliness. Without art, we are lost.
At school, we are introduced to the red nose. With it, we are to build a costume based on an assigned character. Then Gaulier gives us an "easy" exercise with which to end class and it. was. a. bloodbath. Brutal. With the entire group chanting, "Money back! Money back!" we must walk onstage and save the show by doing something funny. A lucky student has ten seconds to do this. No amount of training, experience or gumption helps here - beware the faint of heart! And all in the name of love.
Overheard today:
In your eyes, all we see is a little shit falling from the ass of a dog!
The nightmare of my life is to be subtle like this guy.
Pleasure gives light to the face. If we don't see your pleasure, we don't dream around you.
Arriving back in the city after a much needed beer, two friends and I visit the vintage shops in Le Marais searching for costumes, treat ourselves to café au lait and bonbons, then part. I continue exploring Place Igor Stravinsky, Forum des Images (Truffaut's film library) and the Forum des Halles. A gentle rain falls over the city and it's bedtime for this Yankee.
Friday, July 6
The day begins with a trip to the Musée Rodin - always inspiring, with a layout that allows you to breathe as you absorb each sculpture. The sensuality evoked by this man through rock is a marvel! Followed with a visit to the French vintage movie poster store.
End of the week at École Philippe Gaulier, he discusses the difference between the white (innocent) and auguste (naughty) clowns.
Overheard:
Two choices: My partner is sympathique - so funny - so full of love... or, my partner is a soft shit!
Between Einstein and her... mind the gap!
Bon, thank you for this horrible moment!
The clown thinks: I am bad, but I am happy to be onstage... the audience is my kingdom!
I wind down with a walk to Notre Dame and across the rainbowed Seine, a visit to the Hotel de Ville (where the Mayor lives), and back to costume shopping. I visit with my host Clara and her sister, Eva, who put me up during my first visit to Paris some 15 years ago.
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