IV Paris

Leaving Île Saint-Louis, the quaint island in the Seine River that has been my home this past week, via the bridge at the island’s westerly tip and walking north along the Rue du Pont Louis-Philippe, I enter the fashionable Marais district in Paris’s 4th arrondissement. As the road narrows and becomes Rue Vieille-du-Temple, the late afternoon light reveals variations in the colour and tone of the Lutetian limestone facades that had been hidden by the strong sunlight of the day.

Above the heads of the tourist throng, this simple oval window cries out to be noticed. The centrepiece of this narrow facade, this wonderfully decorated cameo window is transformed by the light into an elegant piece of boudoir objet d’art, an elegant and quintessentially Parisian piece of decor. It is this divinely decadent and yet delicate decoration that, for me, defines Paris.

This wonderful window is one of a pair that bookend the facade of the Hôtel des journaux officiels. It is an excellent example of storytelling within architectural decoration. Here, on one side of the window, an infant sits recumbent on a cornucopia of knowledge, pondering the globe with callipers; on the other side, another is operating what looks like a mechanised printing press. Cherubs are often used to tell tales about a building’s use or to celebrate its owners. The origin of this slightly bizarre practice is not entirely clear to me, although I have begun to suspect it harks back to the Greco-Roman idea of the genius. Today we view talent as something embedded within the individual, but in the classical world, it was believed that every place or person had their own external genius or spirit that acted as a conduit for inspiration and good fortune between the mortal world and that of the gods. These spirits were often represented by winged infants and over time became a sort of personal or professional guardian that both protected them and ensured their success. I like this idea of talent being outside of us and linked to specific places. This is a view that fits in with my own humble experiences. I often look back over my own work and remember little of its creation and believe it to be well beyond my own skills and capabilities. In these moments of the greatest creativity, it is as if some other power was guiding my hand.

Pont-Neuf, ‘New Bridge’ in English, is actually the oldest bridge in Paris, dating back to the early 17th century. The construction of this enormous bridge took more than half a century, an astounding undertaking. I am sure that many of the stonemasons that built the bridge would have both begun and ended their working lives on this single project. In fact, the first bridge project to connect the Louvre Royal Palace with the new neighborhood  of Paris was under the reign of King Henri II, in around 1545. However, construction work commenced under King Henri III in 1577. The bridge was finally inaugurated by King Henri IV in 1607, hence its nickname ‘Le Pont des Trois Henri,’ ‘The Three Henry’s Bridge.’

For me, these elegant cast iron lampposts are the stars of the bridge’s expansive roadway. They sit atop stone plinths on either side of the half-moon turrets that grace both sides of the causeway. They provide welcome punctuation along what is, to this day, the third longest bridge in Paris. But it is the change of scale amidst the enormity of the stone structure that is their greatest contribution. The delicate detail within the casting provides more human-size respite; I particularly enjoy the snails that sit below Poseidon’s beard.

Here, on the South side of The Louvre, where the Pont du Carrousel crosses the Seine, the arches of the Pavillon de la Trémoille provide impressive road access to the historic complex. The Pavilion itself is demarcated by a pair of towers that sit slightly higher than the adjacent roofline and project out from the rest of the elevation, creating recessed corners on either side. These recesses have been utilised to house enormous cast-iron rainwater downpipes that have been decorated, in keeping with the rest of the lavish decor, with an ornate organic pattern that spirals along their length.

However, when these elegant iron cylinders encounter the lip of the huge stone plinth that runs around the base of the pavilion, they are forced into an ungainly swan neck, thus breaking the clean vertical line. Clearly unsatisfied with this, the architects, in line with the wedding cake design philosophy employed throughout the Louvre, have added these cetaceans to ease this transition and facilitate the flow of the deluge around the step of the plinth. I very much mourn for the loss of a world in which ‘vomiting dolphins’ are hailed as the most agreeable solution in any design meeting, but alas, the world moves on. Odd they may be, but beautiful they are. Soaked in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, the thick patina of rust briefly becomes a cloak of vivid colour before it is taken by the gloom of dusk.

The Pavillon Turgot sits on the north-western corner of the Cour Napoléon, the principal courtyard within the Louvre complex. The pavilion is one of a pair, its sister being the Pavillon Mollien on the south side of the courtyard. Together they frame the plaza and the Pyramide du Louvre when approaching the Cour Napoléon from the Tuileries Garden. The multitude of pavilions, wings, and arcades that make up the Louvre are a veritable feast for the eyes. Everywhere you look, there is an abundance of lavish decoration. There is, in fact, so much to behold that it becomes difficult for just one area to hold the attention for long before the eye’s fleeting attention is once more distracted.

The three stories that make up the bulk of the pavilion are, in the context of the rest of the palace, unremarkable. The mansard roof, however, is quite a different story. There is something about this roof that just screams Paris to me. There is nothing more quintessentially Parisian than a limestone dormer window, emerging from a steep grey slate roof. But there is more to it than this. The writhing mass of carved stone figures and floral decorations, bathed in the warm sienna light of sunset, come to life as the roof takes on the appearance of something that has grown rather than was built.

The Pavillon stands at the southwest end of the Louvre. It was originally constructed in 1607 as part of a larger plan, known as the ‘Grand Design,’ devised during the reign of King Henry IV, to connect the Louvre’s Grande Galerie with the Tuileries Palace to the north. Further work on the Grand Design was abandoned following the assassination of Henry IV in 1610. The pavilion was entirely redesigned and rebuilt in 1864 in a highly decorated ‘Napoleon III style’ as it remains to this day.

This chimney, facing the Jardin du Carrousel on the pavilion’s northern elevation, is what I love about Parisian design. Unselfconsciously taking something as mundane as a chimney stack and embellishing it beyond all recognition. The unabashed addition of layers of exquisite decoration has transformed this functional architectural necessity into a decadent centrepiece worthy of the Fabergé mark.

The Hôtel de Lamoignon, earlier the Hôtel d’Angoulême, is a late 16th-century hôtel particulier, or grand townhouse, in the Marais district of Paris’ 4th arrondissement. It is renowned as the best-preserved house from this period in all of Paris. Like much of the Marais district, the building was abandoned by the aristocracy after the revolution and so throughout the 19th century housed workshops, stores, and factories. Since 1969, it has been the home of the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris.

In 1718, the widow of Chrétien-François, Marie-Jeanne de Lamoignon, had the current portal to the courtyard constructed. It features two carved putti, the one on the left holding a mirror symbolising truth, beauty, and the spiritual self, and the one on the right holding a snake symbolising prudence, healing, and fertility. It also provides a sheltered roost for the city’s pigeons.

The Panthéon centre, also known as the Paris law school, is an impressive classical-fronted building in Paris’ 5th arrondissement. Occupying a prominent position on the Place du Panthéon, the building currently houses both the presidencies of the Panthéon-Sorbonne and Panthéon-Assas universities, as well as the College and School of law from Paris II and the Sorbonne Law School. The Panthéon centre was originally designed to accommodate law students and their professors in 1771 and has housed such since 1774 when it was completed, right up to the present day.

You don’t have to look far to find evidence of this University building’s original purpose as a bastion of the French legal system. This building has gravitas. Everything about it is designed to impose, from the heavy stone walls and chunky iron railings to the four enormous columns that support the massive stone pediment at the University’s entrance. But it is at the rear of the building, on the Rue Saint-Jacques, that my attention is caught. The three pairs of bottle green double doors that dominate this facade perfectly encapsulate this desire to dwarf. Each door is huge, easily four metres tall, and the word ‘solid’ does not do them justice. The centrepiece of each door is a single torch, carved in almost full relief, symbolic of the power of fire, now tamed by humankind and wielded purposefully. The torch has long since represented civilisation, a universal icon of liberty, freedom, knowledge, and teaching. These doors are a wonderful expression of the spirit of the law, majestic, unwavering, and definitive.

The Hôtel de Ville is the city hall of Paris. It stands on the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville – Esplanade de la Libération in the 4th arrondissement. The site has been the headquarters of the municipality since 1357 and now houses the local government along with the Mayors of Paris and their respective cabinets. In 1533, King Francis I decided to endow the city with a city hall which would be worthy of Paris, then the largest city in Europe. The old ‘House of Pillars’ was torn down and in 1628 this new Renaissance-style palace took its place.

The palace is a celebration of all that is Paris, from the arts and culture to science and military prowess. Its notable citizens are immortalised in 338 individual carved stone figures that occupy niches around the building’s elevations. Along with the portraits, the walls are festooned with a stunning array of countless other figures, animals, and sculptural features. When the palace was restored, after being burnt to the ground by the Communards in 1871, it took more than 230 sculptors, including Auguste Rodin, to complete the work.

The Musée d’Orsay is located on the left bank of the Seine, overlooking the Édouard-Glissant promenade in the former Orsay station, built by Victor Laloux in 1900. This impressive structure was in its time an innovation, the first electrified urban terminal station anywhere in the world, and the pride and optimism are evident everywhere you look. But this optimism was to be short-lived. Advancements in the railways in the early 20th century led to the introduction of much longer mainline trains. Although the Gare d’Orsay offered a convenient central location, the site was restricted, and there was no possibility of lengthening the platforms to accommodate the new, longer trains. As a result, by 1939, the Gare d’Orsay had closed to long-distance traffic and was effectively no more after just 39 years.

This archway, emblazoned with Bordeaux – Toulouse, is one of seven such former entrances that grace the Quai Valéry Giscard d’Estaing.

The Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre is located at an altitude of 130m, one of the highest points in Paris, on top of the Butte Montmartre, in the Clignancourt district of Paris’ 18th arrondissement. It remains a major functioning religious building to this day: “the Shrine of Perpetual Adoration and Divine Mercy, dedicated to Jesus’ Sacred Heart,” as well as a destination for around 11 million tourists each year.

The construction of this church was first conceived in the post-Franco-Prussian war period of 1870, but the building was not officially completed until 1923 after a complicated and contentious 40-year construction. This may be one of the reasons that the building’s design seems considerably older than its almost one hundred years.

This gargoyle on the Northern apse end of the church is a stunning example of one of the distinctly Gothic elements that have made their way into this eclectic Byzantine building. The fact that the facade is peppered with such medieval and classical references may also be a symptom of the parade of architects that worked on the project over its more than four decades.

In the background of the painting is the 91m high campanile or bell tower, which holds the 19-tonne Savoyarde, the largest bell in France. But it is these gargoyles that, for me, act as fascinators atop this edifice. Perched just under the roofline, pinching the writhing facade, this bizarre contorted menagerie in bleached limestone is bathed in golden sunlight. Keeping the building safe from water erosion and evil spirits, they enjoy perhaps the best views of Paris.

Directly in front of the main entrance to the Palais du Louvre, just across from the Rue de l’Amiral de Coligny and the Square Michel Caldaguès, is the Church of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. Widely regarded as the oldest church in Paris, its history is a torrid one. The first structure dates back to the 5th century, but this church, along with many subsequent churches, were destroyed and rebuilt on the same site, with the majority of the current structure being largely from the 15th century. During the French Revolution, the church was pillaged and converted into a barn for storing feed for animals, a printing shop, and, for a time, a gunpowder factory. The building was returned to the church in 1801 but suffered again during an anticlerical riot in 1831 when much of the church was damaged or destroyed.

These gargoyles sit at the end of the line of flying buttresses on the south wall, overlooking the narrow Rue des Prêtres Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. Denied their original purpose of spouting rainwater away from the church walls and foundations by more modern technologies (rainwater pipes mounted at the feet of each gargoyle), they now crane their necks out from the ramparts to fulfill their solitary secondary function. According to a French legend, they protect against evil and harmful spirits.

This unique view of the petrified menagerie under starters orders is afforded by the second floor picture windows of the recently restored Samaritaine department store. 

This facade on the Quai Voltaire in Paris’ 7th arrondissement is so small that it is barely wider than the ground floor doorway. At just 2.5m wide, it is probably the narrowest building in Paris. The first-floor facade consists of a single narrow pair of glazed doors that open onto a tiny scalloped balcony. Above this, the smallest of second-floor windows and balconies are dwarfed by its impressive five and six storey neighbours. This astonishing narrowness is the result of a comically recurring architectural Parisian phenomenon. The Pioust hotel in Saint-Gilles, as it is now known, was designed on a plot of land, in fact a former access passageway, that remained vacant between existing buildings. The curious building seems to have grown, like a weed, between two richly tended succulent plants.

But this is no shrinking violet, the facade is as lavishly decorated as it is small. It is encrusted with dragons, lion heads, wreaths, scrolls, and mascarons. It is unabashed, unselfconscious of its diminutive stature.

For me, painting this window creeps very close to cliché, as images of this iconic façade are pasted on postcards and plastered across tourist paraphernalia throughout Paris. It is, perhaps, only eclipsed by the Eiffel Tower as the symbol that depicts all things Parisian. Nevertheless, I can’t resist it. The rose window that graces Notre Dame’s western facade is a wonderful piece of 13th Century design and engineering. A window of this size, ten meters in diameter, could not hope to support the hundreds of tonnes of stone that sit above it. But the deceptively delicate yet structurally strong web of stone breaks up the aperture, distributing the weight equally across the circle. It is utterly exquisite.

It is the oldest of the three rose windows on the cathedral. It was originally completed around 1225, with the north and south transept windows being added about twenty-five years later. Just below the window is the gallery of Kings: a series of 28 statues of the kings of Israel. Though the statues are duplicated because the originals were beheaded during the revolution.

The magnificent Place de l’Hôtel de Ville is actually a kind of idealised restoration of the 17th-century Paris city hall. Construction of the original Hotel de Ville was completed under Louis XIII in 1628, and it was during this initial construction period that the clock was installed on the facade. The Hotel de Ville was almost completely destroyed during the ‘violent week’ in 1871 when, under the Paris Commune, a mob set the city hall on fire, completely gutting the building and its priceless contents. The enormous clock, weighing in at almost a tonne and a half, miraculously survived the destruction of the fire. It took the best part of two decades to restore the building after the devastation. Today, the clock sits proudly as rebuilt in 1880, framed by beautiful figures sculpted by Ernest Eugène Hiolle.

The construction of the hotel dates back to the mid-16th century. Up until the revolution in 1789, the ownership of the building was passed to a succession of nobles and minor royal figures. The last of these was Anne Gabrielle de Châtillon, widow of the Duke of Châtillon, who made this her home for two decades in the then fashionable Marais district of Paris. She is the one who left aher name on the residence.

In the 19th century, like many hotels in the Marais, the building was abandoned by the nobility in favour of sanctuary outside of France in preference to an appointment with the “national razor,” the guillotine’s nickname. (Interestingly or indeed barbarically, the guillotine remained France’s standard method of judicial execution until the abolition of capital punishment in 1981.)

The then abandoned building was utilised by artisanal activities with workshops occupying the garden. As this sign attests: H. Renon – bronze maker; fashioner of all styles of lighting; carver of wood; fabricator of wrought iron; and creator of reproduction ancient museum models had their business here during this time.

I love how these simple relics can offer a tangible connection to the grand stories of the past.

The Société de Géographie, in English, “The Geography Society,” is the oldest geographical society in the world. It was founded in 1821 to greater the understanding of the globe and offer support for foreign exploration.

Since 1878, the society’s headquarters have been here at 184 Boulevard Saint-Germain, Paris. The building’s entrance is proudly marked by these two gigantic caryatids representing Land and Sea, standing on either side of a terrestrial globe sculpted by French engraver and sculptor Émile Soldi.

This entrance provides a personal connection back to my studio in Panama, for it was right here, in 1879, that the construction of the first Panama Canal was decided upon. An event that gave the buildings of Casco Antiguo their distinctly French flavour.

This corner absolutely typifies what I love about cities. Their ability to constantly accommodate the new. As individual buildings are transformed by the changing purpose, so do clusters of buildings and indeed entire districts adapt their character with social evolution. But the old is never entirely overwritten; the past leaves its marks.

As it is with the Marais. The grand buildings that make up this district speak of a pre-revolutionary time of aristocrats and royals; the lampposts tell of the innovation of the industrial revolution, (Paris was named the City of Light, Ville lumière, at the beginning of the nineteenth century after becoming the first city in Europe to use gas lighting to illuminate its streets); the layers of graffiti tell a story from the 1980s and 90s of a new urban youth culture; while the vintage clothes store that now occupies the building has a more tourist-friendly message to send.

For me, these figures echo the change in tastes that was taking place at the turn of the twentieth century. Classical and Neoclassical architecture had been dominant for centuries in Europe and was very much still in favour with the older, more established money at this time. However, the use of long, sinuous, organic lines that typified the then modern Art Nouveau were clearly visible, particularly here in Paris. In addition to this, the first signs of the strong geometry that would become associated with Art Deco were just evident.

In these figures, we see all of these visual influences as well as confident and free artistic expression. These are so much more than architectural decoration; they are wonderful pieces of public art. Not just for their own time, they are as relevant today as they were then. They speak to me of the respective strengths of youth and experience. How, when they work together, they can support huge weights and achieve great things.