The Parisian Street

You are in Paris, walking down the north bank of the Seine when you spot them…beautiful, bold and bare breasted…It would be a shame to just walk by and ignore them for they are meant to be admired like beautiful women everywhere. Contrary to what you may think, I am not referring to the flocks of Parisiennes sunbathers who, towel-bearing and bikini-clad, crowd the river banks from June to September every year. The fiery females I am referring to are Caryatids; full-scale standing female figures carved in stone. This particular pair stand proud, as columns on either side of an entrance arch to an anonymous building, their pretty heads bearing the great weight of the entablature* of the porch above.

Getting Some Sun on the Quai of the Seine

A Relaxed Pose

Whereas carrying the weight of the world in both business and warfare has traditionally been the realm of muscular males, it is a less celebrated fact that the more fragile females can be a physical force unto themselves (not only supporting their men but also supporting entire buildings!) Little do people know that in ancient Greece, women were the first to be subjected to supporting the heavy entablature of great buildings as columns in female form, and only later in time did the men follow suit. Clearly women deserve more recognition for their leading architectural role.

Such statements, of course, are confusing to anyone who is not familiar with a Caryatid, or an Atlas. As implied above, a Caryatid is a column in the form of a woman with an Atlas being the male version (Atlantes is the plural male form). Given the substantial number of these male and female support figures to be found on buildings throughout the city of Paris today, it is worth knowing more about them and exactly where they come from.

A Formal Pose

In the case of the Caryatid, the search for the architectural precedent leads us back to Ancient Greece and to the original version of women playing the role of columns on the south porch of the Erechtheion, a building (built in 420-410 BC) situated on the Acropolis* in Athens, Greece, just across from the ultimate example of classic Greek Temple architecture: the Parthenon. Whereas the Parthenon was the product of many centuries of refinement in temple construction, the Erechtheion, with its porch of female columns was the first of its kind. These female figures therefore provided the prototype for all female standing figures to come. (Female figures as support elements existed in earlier times in decorative items and on vases, but not as structural architectural columns in a building façade).

The Erechtheion in Athens

Taking a closer look at the Erechtheion* maidens, the somewhat stiff poses and archaic reserve help situate these original Caryatids in time (see photo of Erechtheion Caryatid). Early Greek statuary, beholding to its Egyptian ancestry, has a more formal feel in the poses and more modesty in the presentation of voluptuous female forms than later Greek statuary, when realism and more natural poses became the norm. Whoever came up with the idea of making women into columns had some serious structural issues to resolve in the tapered neck junction between the head and the body; but he did so in an elegant and graceful manner that seemingly defies these structural necessities, while showing no semblance of stress in the actual pose.

According to the great Roman architectural historian Vitruvius* (1st century B.C.), these Caryatid women, who came from the town of Caryae near Sparta, were reduced to slavery for siding with Persia in the Greco-Persian war*. As their punishment, they were supposedly obliged to serve as support columns. Although this explanation sounds plausible, Vitruvius was just guessing several centuries after the fact. Ultimately, we have to rely upon what we can see, or rather, we must trust our eyes since we have not clear facts in hand. Upon close inspection, these female figures, with their gracious appearance, appear to bear their burden while showing no sign of suffering. At ease, they even seem to enjoy displaying their curvaceous bodies to the world. Clearly, these women are not in pain, nor are they exerting much effort in their Herculean task; rather, they seem to be proudly displaying the idealised beauty of their female forms with no concern for the weight they bear.

Blvd St. Germain

Blvd St. Germain Closeup

Whether in the form of a column, a statue, a painting, or in the flesh, the female body remains an eternal source of fascination for man… and mankind. Drawing female nudes and mastering the proportions of the body are essential steps in the traditional training of an artist from ancient times to the present day. The French have simply carried forward this Greco-Roman heritage of studying female forms and proudly displaying scantily clothed or naked women in almost every form of art to be found in the public places of Paris…and no one bats an eye in disapproval. On the contrary, viewing such artwork is an acceptable sensuous experience (as opposed to sensual).

Torso Bust Pair

Be they Caryatids, or paintings by David*, or bare breasted Marianne’s*, the French have continued to worship women’s bodies, no matter what their state of undress. Today, many French women think nothing of baring their breasts on the beaches… and why should they have any complex about their partial nudity when their culture so glorifies the female physique? Given our Puritan heritage, it can be disconcerting to go to a French beach, having to constantly avert our gaze; but with these Caryatids, we should feel free to look in unabashed admiration as long as we like. This is what I suggest you do as well, the next time you are walking the streets of Paris; for these women are just a few of the noteworthy characters to be found in the rich theatre of the Parisian street…and they merit everyone’s admiration.

Les Caryatides Restaurant

Carya-tits?

For more photos of Paris, see our Parisian Street Photo Gallery here

 

This is the beginning of a modest monthly newsletter about subjects related to why people of all stripes love Paris. Of course, we will talk a bit from time to time about the short term furnished rental market, which is our bread and butter; but the focus will be elsewhere. With respect to these non-rental market subjects, they will mainly revolve around Art and Architecture in Paris; but we reserve the right to talk about our favourite ‘Off the Beaten Track’ restaurants from time to time. And occasionally, we might mention other topics of interest, as long as they pertain to the Parisian street in some way, shape, or form. To be sure, the PARISIAN SCAVENGER will certainly make an appearance from time to time, just to forewarn you. You never know just what he will find in the street…

To be footloose and fancy free in the streets of Paris, that is the objective! If you cannot be here with us, then at least you can get a vicarious thrill from time to time by reading about our own Parisian peregrinations. After all, walking the streets is a 3-dimensional, spatial experience that words and photos cannot capture or adequately express. When you throw into this recipe the unique, ever shifting, pastel quality of light that is such a distinctive feature of the Parisian atmosphere, then we approach a state of aesthetic nirvana…a veritable banquet for the eyes and all of the senses. If you are susceptible to this state of awareness, then you know what it means to feel the Parisian thrill. All we want to do is to transmit some of this excitement to you, our reader, despite the distance that separates you from the glorious city of Paris.

The Wooden Temples of Paris

Doorway on the Boulevard St Germain, Paris

When walking or driving through the streets of Paris, surrounded by a stunning array of palaces, churches, theatres, museums, monuments, and other noble buildings of lesser importance, anyone who truly enjoys being in Paris may wonder just why this city is so extraordinarily beautiful. What is it that makes a Parisian promenade so fulfilling? We may marvel at the ornate buildings that surround us, but in so doing, we do not always know exactly what we are seeing and why these varied structures are so pleasing to our senses. Aside from some vague notions of major architectural styles like Classical, Romanesque, or Gothic, the vast majority of visitors to Paris have no understanding of the rich, age old architectural heritage behind many of these distinctly French facades. One of the major purposes of this newsletter is to reveal to our readers what this French architectural heritage is all about …to seek out its origins, if you will…without getting bogged down in too much technicality. The emphasis will be on the basic history and the aesthetics. We will sometimes focus on a simple detail, and at other times we will look at a complete façade, or a building, if not an entire street, or even a feature of Parisian urban planning. In short, we want to share with you our love of Paris in the hopes that you will gain a better appreciation of this unique city and look more closely at your surroundings the next time you are in Paris.

Building facing the Pantheon in Paris

Although the city of Paris is a treasure trove of architectural jewels that covers a wide range of periods and styles (Gothic, Classical, Baroque, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Modernism, etc), what is generally known as the ‘CLASSICAL’ style is by far and away the predominant language of the Parisian architectural heritage. When we say ‘language’ we literally mean that this ‘Classical’ style is composed of a rich and subtle vocabulary of stylized shapes, forms, and details, most of which can be traced back thousands of years…back to the Romans and the Greeks, if not the ancient Egyptians themselves. Within this visual vocabulary, getting a grasp of the basic architectural elements is essential to understanding the language, and these elements are: vertical columns and their crowning capitals, triangular pediments, and horizontal cornices. It is quite stunning to think that the creation and refinement of just a few architectural elements thousands of years ago provided the fundamental grammar for the Classical architectural language to unfold and evolve over the course of time, all the way up to the present day.

The Pantheon in Paris

While looking at a doorway of an anonymous Parisian building or the main façade of a renowned building like the Pantheon, it can be difficult to imagine that in both cases, we are looking at glorified, stylised versions of what were originally simple wooden temple constructions. Yes, the starting point for the ‘Classical’ style can be found in the wooden temples of the ancient Greeks. Historians generally agree that the beautifully proportioned, rhythmically spaced, vertical marble columns of the ancient Greek temples like the Parthenon actually evolved over many centuries from carved wooden tree trunks that the primitive Greeks used to hold up horizontal wooden beams, which then supported the eaves of a roof, with it’s opposing down sloping sides and triangular shape at each end. This simple post and lintel construction (vertical supports with horizontal beams) combined with the flat triangular shapes at each end of the structure formed by the roof (called pediments), represent the starting point of what has become the world’s most prominent, long lasting, and varied architectural language: the language of CLASSICISM… the predominant visual language of the Parisian street.

Classical Doorway of the Church of St Gervais

Beautified, stylised, distorted and glorified, over the centuries, these primitive wooden columns, beams, and pediments, became sanctified, canonized, and immortalised in stone and marble. The hand of man made them into stunning sculptural works, rich in subtlety and well proportioned harmony. Countless generations of architects have learned to use the Classical architectural grammar to express the mood, feeling, or spirit of their age, and often to portray the power of the State in symbolic form, as the Imperial Romans and the kings of France did for so many years. Imposing, majestic, and sober…or possibly refined, elegant, and exuberant…if not delicate, subtle, and poetic; all the moods of mankind have found expression through the language of Classical architecture. With that said, it is clearly appropriate that we begin our newsletter with the Greek origin wooden temples of Paris; for we will start to see just how rich the architectural dialogue in the Parisian street truly is.

by Louise Taylor

L’Ebauchoir
45, Rue de Citeaux, 75012
01.43.42.49.31

Warm, bright and friendly, this large bistro located in the heart of the old furniture quarter was a chance discovery through a local I met recently who actually lives in a studio across the road. Arriving just before opening time, the queue of locals waiting in the cold to get in was a sure sign of a restaurant extraordinaire…and we weren’t disappointed.

L’ebauchoir is a bijoux in the Paris bistro crown. Serving hearty yet inventive cuisine at moderate prices, seasonal treats include swordfish in a white chocolate sauce with black olives, thyme infused lamb chops drizzled with sweet lemon sauce and venison with foie gras served with a truffle puree…the results are simply luscious. Even traditional desserts such as Poire Hélène and Gateaux au Riz are given a cheeky twist with the rice cake served in its actual baking tin!

But aside from the cuisine, perhaps the thing that impressed me most about this restaurant is the attitude; easy going, relaxed and 100% authentic…not only are the staff tres cool and helpful but you can go home and download the recipes for l’ebauchoir’s culinary delicacies from their website at www.lebauchoir.com…. Now that’s what I call open-minded!

THE PARISIAN SCAVENGER : PART IX
Most people come to visit Paris with glamour and romance in mind. They come for the culture, the beauty, and the undisputed charm of the world’s number one urban tourist destination. For these visitors, even when it rains in Paris, no matter where they find themselves in the city, it is as romantic a scene as seeing a sopping wet Gene Kelly singing and dancing around like a nincompoop in the streets of Paris. Not one of these starry eyed visitors stops to consider that Gene could become deathly ill if he stays out there dancing around like that. Such is the lovely vision presented by rose tinted tourist glasses!

Yes, the vast majority of these short term visitors and tourists prefer seeing only the superficial beauty of Paris. They come to Paris from all corners of the earth to escape their humdrum daily routines if not the horrors of the world. To be sure, for stays of such short duration, these visitors barely even have time to commune with Mona and they clearly do not have time to think of what makes this city tick, to say nothing of taking notice of the seamy underside of her soft underbelly (except, or course, for those who intentionally come to seek out Pig Alley); but just below the surface charm of Paris, their lies a nebulous underworld of street people: pickpockets, marauders, panhandlers, streetwalkers, and scavengers. I fall into this later category (which is, by the way, the high end of the bas-fonds hierarchy), a category better known as “The Parisian Scavenger Club”, of which I am the founder and presently, the only dues paying member. This group is generally composed of psychologically stable, well balanced individuals who have ordinary lives and who are not criminals; yet they often remain somewhat discontent with constantly keeping their hands clean, so they do a little scavenging on the side. Besides, they cannot help themselves for what appears to be something akin to a disease when it comes to salvaging refuse from ruin.

Just imagine a group of those starry eyed tourists on their way to see the treasures in the Louvre, walking past a man in a dumpster who is fiendishly sifting through the layers of trash in search of lesser treasures that will never make it to a museum. You might ask yourself, who is doing more for the betterment of mankind – the lazy tourist spending money, or the hard working Parisian Scavenger who is doing his utmost to rejuvenate ancient items that are destined for destruction? If you do not know what the difference is, then I suggest you head for I.M. Pei’s glass pyramid and leave me be.

Without a doubt, I will never even be able to put my hands on any of the items in the Louvre Museum; but I can still dig out antique treasures from a bin or on a sidewalk in Paris just a few blocks away from that illustrious royal palace…items that many well-heeled folks would be proud to own, provided that they don’t have to dig them out themselves. Darwinian theory says something about starting at the bottom of the food chain and bootstrapping yourself up as dog eats dog (not his exact words). This is what I have done for years and what I am still doing today. One day, when all is said and done, when I have hung up my Parisian Scavenger suit for good, I will look around at my domestic surroundings and say in satisfaction, “A scavenger’s home is his low cost, treasure filled castle.”

The tourists can have the Louvre, I will be content to stay with my more humble, sweat equity estate. In a way, my home is a modest museum of my life: full of my creations, my children, and my legitimately scavenged loot (the children are legitimate as well, by the way).

While other kids from the east and west coast were studying calculus in grade school, I was learning the finer points of how to handle a pick and shovel in the outback of Alabama (not to say that I did not get a good education nevertheless). I took great pride in my ability to wield a pick as well as any man out there, letting the pick do the work while my back simply gave the necessary thrust and guidance. Another one of the outdoor handyman skills I learned as a boy was how to use a post-hole digger in order to build fences and string barbed wire. When you had a lot of holes to dig, you rented a special, heavy-duty machine, with a huge augur bit, that took two people to handle and hold while it screwed into the ground and dug a nice clean, deep hole in the dirt to put the post into. On a lesser scale, when you only have a few post holes to dig here and there, you use a manual post-hole digger, which only needs one person to get the job done. For the life of me, I have not been able to find one of these manual contraptions in France for 24 years now. Finally, I recently decided to ask my mother’s new husband, who is 81 years old now (but spry as can be) to bring me a post hole digger in his luggage the next time he comes over to France. Since he is an engineer, I knew that he would rise to the challenge. After all, how do you go about getting a posthole digger into an airplane these days?

Well, first of all, I decided that I did not need the long wooden handles. Those can be found, or made, here in France. That left the metal base mechanism which consists of two narrow, curved shovel-like elements facing one another with a hinge joining them. It may set off the metal detectors in the airplane, but I did not foresee my father-in-law being taken into custody as the first posthole digger terrorist. In fact, my stepfather not only rose to the challenge, he managed to bring the post hole digger in it’s entirety, handles and all!

The days when someone like my real father (back in the 1980′s) could carry in his luggage all kinds of garden tools and other familiar items (including some sapling trees) are probably long gone. To this day, I have a well worn double edged swing blade for cutting grass that is probably the only one in the entire country of France. Every time we get it out to cut weeds and such, the country neighbors start gawking at those crazy Americans, flailing there arms about and just doin’ things different. We are also probably among the few people in France who have two dogwood trees (native to the southern United States) thriving in our yard, thanks to my father’s desire to put down American roots in France.

There are numerous familiar items that Americans have a hard time finding or cannot find when they move to France, or any other country for that matter. For instance, every time I go back to the USA, I stock up on men’s mid-calf dark socks because I cannot find the quality that I like in France, not to mention the outrageous prices that the French charge for what they think are quality men’s socks. Good quality permanent press shirts are also hard to come by in France. For some reason, the French feel that 100% cotton shirts are the only shirts that are worth buying, so there are almost no comparable permanent press alternatives. I just wonder who does the ironing for these guys. My wife marvels at the space taken up by all of the socks (winter, summer, and heavy sports socks separated into three categories) that I have in my dresser, or rather, she complains about not having enough space for her clothing. I have never even shown her the 10 year stock of dental floss that I have accumulated (but fortunately, it doesn’t take up much space).

Yes, having the best of both worlds, as an American living in France, is an impossible dream; but with foresight, you can at least maintain a stock of imported familiar items that make you feel a little closer to home. Unfortunately, you cannot import many of the less tangible things that you cherish as an American: fundamental values, flexible thinking, entrepreneurial concepts, a different understanding of freedom; but at least, a little American dental floss can go a long way to comfort you. With just a bit of thin wax coated string, no matter where you are in the world, you can maintain at least one American standard that you are accustomed to: good dental hygiene.

Honestly, I just went out for a late night walk on the streets of Paris, after spending several hours hovering over my computer. It was a lovely mid-August evening on some of the most elegant and exclusive streets of Old Paris and I was simply taking a breather. I had no intention of reverting to my disgustingly dirty Parisian Scavenger mode. After all, all of France is on vacation at this time of year and even I have to take a break from time to time. I have lived in France long enough now to adapt to the traditional seasonal rhythm…that is, to go with the flow of French life. Besides, all of the major renovation projects that kicked off in early July are now well on their way to completion. You must keep in mind that it is only during the early phases of renovation projects that the antique building materials and other encumbrances (like broken antique furniture and ancient attic inventory) are thrown out onto the streets or into dumpsters. Like we say down South, “The pickin’s are slim” towards the end of the summer.

As I strolled down the lovely old streets, going down the rue de la Chaise, then up the rue de Grenelle, then down the rue du Dragon, I savored the distinctive architectural details of so many venerable Parisian buildings: the 17th and 18th century facades, the magnificent entrance doors, the elaborate doorknobs, and on and on. Just short of salivating, I had to reign in my overpowering acquisitive instincts in order to simply admire architecture that is not going to be dismantled anytime soon for the Paris Scavenger, I regret to say. Besides, maintaining my dignity and integrity requires me to draw distinct lines between legitimate scavenging and coveting someone else’s property.

I shall now endeavor to qualify man’s instinctive desire to acquire in the light of French socialism. Ever since the age of enlightenment when the great thinking of French intellectuals led directly to the French Revolution, a unique brand of socialism has taken root in direct response to the injustices of the past. Modern day French socialism is designed to temper the acquisitive nature of man and prevent the rise of robber barons, capitalistic cardinals, domineering dukes, and any other form of economic and social inequity.

In response to this ‘oh so French’ way of thinking, I will simply say that you should never underestimate the ingenuity of those who desire to acquire and to build up an estate. In my specific case, scavenging has proved to be a way to improve my lot in life (going from a lowly American student to a distinguished property owner). I have added to my estate without being taxed on the increase in my overall net worth by scavenging…after all, how can you determine the value of things that have been thrown out onto the streets? (I will admit to having paid for a few apartments in Paris, here and there).

All of this brings me to the foot of the former Socialist Prime Minister Lionel Jospin’s private residence, which happens to be in a building on the street where I have one of my apartments. As I was returning from my late night stroll to go to bed, I spied some large boxes placed against the wall. Since the boxes were clean (no dog urine) and appeared to have been placed there very recently, I peeked inside to see what was there: books…lots of books…leather bound books…classics by Victor Hugo, Molière and Racine… books on philosophy and books on mathematics as well as books on how to become a judge (these guys are cultured!). In short, I had stumbled upon someone’s library that was being discarded for who knows what reason…maybe the prime minister was fed up with it all? Maybe someone was just too rich and was having to comply with the egalitarian principals of the reigning Socialist ideology (in the building at least) by throwing out all that surpassed his quota of books. Whatever the reason, an overabundance of wealth is certainly the main culprit. I could not resist the literary temptation, so I proceeded to plow through the boxes of books, loading up my car with everything that was worth saving. This was about as clean and intellectually enlightening a scavenging operation as can be imagined…no dirt on my hands and the hope of improving my mind! This was highbrow scavenging at its most prominent and I felt privileged to be able to build my library at no cost…

If you are impressed by this story, just wait until I tell you the one about Catherine Deneuve’s bronze swan bathroom faucet that I scavenged out from under her pretty nose. You may remember Alain di Tuoro, the Italian origin fireplace specialist who rebuilt the International Living 18th century stone mantle on the rue de la Huchette. Well he works regularly for the actress Catherine Deneuve. Catherine had told him that she wanted a bronze swan faucet for her bathroom. Alain dutifully found her one in his used goods network and when he presented it to her, she turned up her nose at it because the bronze was too gilded looking…saying that she did not think that it was the right one. Well Alain, in an act of generosity, asked me if I wanted it because Catherine did not. Do you think I hesitated for one instant? It is a top of the line bronze faucet that most likely cost more than some people’s entire bathroom. A few weeks later, Alain told me that Catherine had changed her mind about the faucet and he told her it was too late. I just laughed. “Tough beans for La Belle!”, I said. As a general rule of thumb, once something has disappeared in the scavenging network, it does not come back. If Catherine wants her faucet back, she is going to have to come to my place to get it! I can just see her now, at my door, politely inquiring about the swan faucet…”Catherine, I’m so sorry.” I’ll say. “But the swan faucet has already been installed. I would be delighted to offer you a lovely book from Lionel Jospin’s library though!”

On an ordinary day, Parisian pedestrians probably see me as just being one of them. Nothing in my manner or dress reveals my instinct and capacity for ruthless scavenging; but in a flash, I can shift into an acute state of awareness whereby I drop whatever I am doing and proceed to sort through what appears to be trash with the utmost dexterity. Little do people realize that Trash can be Treasure to those attuned to the finer qualities of antiques and antique building materials. Yes, Parisians throw out some fabulous stuff into the streets and scavengers like me are ever ready to intervene to save these precious goods from the evil, destructive hands of the garbage collectors.

When I don my ‘Parisian Scavenger’ attire, I am virtually invincible. I carry a pair of heavy duty gloves in my car as well as some old thick blankets; but the only trouble is that I do not always have my car, nor do I have the time or place to change clothes (if I even have some work clothes with me); hence, I sometimes remain somewhat handicapped in my capacity to delve deeply into a dumpster brimming with detritus. Nevertheless, another one of my mottos is, “Forever ready.” Trying to keep myself clean while avoiding rusty nails, broken glass, and filthy dirt often obliges me to adopt some precarious positioning. The trick is to avoid getting sullied or hurt while using a maximum of finesse in the selection process.

What to take? What to discard? What has value? Where to draw the line? These are the critical questions that have to be answered on a continual basis if you want to scavenge in style, maintaining your dignity while others look on aghast at your brazen audacity for taking what often amounts to a filthy undertaking (I have had people get caught up in the feeding frenzy and join in the fray with enthusiasm on rare occasions). As a Man of Action, however, I always have to be prepared to get my hands dirty (and the city of Paris needs people like me to reduce the overall cost of their garbage collection). This is my duty as a professional Paris Scavenger and to those who doubt my purpose, I say, “Fear not the lowly trash pile, for therein lie untold treasures for he who dares to get dirty!”

Just last week, the Parisian Scavenger struck again.

I was driving along the rue de Rivoli in the Marais when I spied a dumpster overflowing with rubbish. What caught my eye were several large beige colored limestones on the very top of the heap, so I pulled my car over in front of the dumpster and hopped out to take a closer look. Sure enough, there were a number of large chunks of stone (which make beautiful walls). Once I had recuperated the stones, I then grabbed some solid oak beams that are perfectly suited for renovation work, (that is, when creating rustic ‘Old World’ charm is an aesthetic priority). At this point, the car was well weighted down; but I fearlessly moved downward into the bin, ignoring the disdainful stares of the those passing by, yet ever watchful for the callous forces of law and order who might descend on me to prevent me from saving such noble materials from destruction (digging through bins is forbidden in Paris). “Eureka!” I cried once again, as I discovered three solid oak basement doors with 17th or 18th century hand hammered hinges. Each door was so heavy that I considered leaving them all. My adrenalin was flowing, however, and with what appeared to be superhuman strength, I managed to maneuver each door into the car (it’s a big long car). The final door was a filthy reward for all of my efforts; for, hidden from my view on the underside of the door, was a lovely age old hand hammered iron doorknob. At that moment, I knew there was no point in continuing my search. I had found my treasure and I had salvaged a number of materials from dastardly destruction. As I drove away, I felt relieved to have contributed, in a small, modest way, to the salvation of the Parisian patrimony. Yet I seek no thanks, despite my heroism; for I prefer going back to being incognito, keeping a low profile while awaiting my next call to duty.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

The Paris Scavenger has struck again and again over the last few days, just as the Parisians began their annual housecleaning, attic emptying, basement regurgitation and renovation work phase. Every year, starting on the last day of school at the end of June, the renovation teams hit the city with a relish, digging into the very fabric of ‘Old Paris’ and throwing out countless treasures as they refurbish flats and shops throughout the city. This is a period when opportunities abound for ruthless scavengers who are ever ready to pounce on refuse of all sorts, provided that they are prepared to do so at a moment’s notice. The Paris Scavenger, of course, only intervenes when true treasures are on the verge of destruction. He salvages and saves these items, giving them new life and the hope of a better future!

The other night, I was dressed up and on my way out to meet friends for dinner at a fancy restaurant when I spied a dumpster brimming with enticing objects, building materials, and furniture; but there was no way I could even consider getting my hands dirty at that time, dressed in my finery, so I resigned myself to coming back after dinner, in the hopes that no one would intervene in the interim and deprive me of my just rewards as the Paris Scavenger… he who does his best to salvage the downtrodden detritus of Paris from an ignoble end.

Lucky for me, upon my return from a glorious dinner at ‘La Rôtisserie d’En Face’, one of Jacques CAGNA’s restaurants, the dumpster hoard was still intact, so I raced back home, changed into my all black, low profile, Paris Scavenger attire, and headed to the dumpster. There I began sorting and digging to discover the treasures within. Therein were numerous hand made bricks that were thrown into the dumpster in a haphazard way. I proceeded to sort the bricks and stack them neatly on the sidewalk, choosing only the ones that were in good shape. Over 200 bricks later (it was about 2 A.M. when I finished) I had accumulated a great variety of useful items, some of which had real value, that is, if I were an antique dealer looking to resell. To simply list the most important items, there were: 2 sets of antique andirons in perfect shape, one Thonet bar stool, a large buffet with the drawer and doors that had been wrenched from the main body and thrown separately in the dumpster, a heavy duty card table, and some carved marble pieces from a dismantled mantle. Fortunately, this dumpster was directly across the street from one of my apartments, where I have several basement storage areas stuffed with street treasures and whatnot. The hardest part of the job was to get my loot into the building without making any noise to awaken the neighbors. I would not advise carrying bricks after midnight; but sometimes you have to willing to push yourself to the limit and beyond, all for the sake of salvaging some choice street rubbish from the crushing indifference of the garbage collectors.

Once again, about a week later, after another delicious meal at the same Jacques CAGNA establishment (pure coincidence that I ate there twice in a week’s time), I returned to my Parisian home away from home (I live in Tours) to discover a full display of items that had been removed from someone’s basement and placed on the sidewalk, awaiting the garbage truck in the morning. Once again, I shouted ‘Eureka!’ This was not Troy, however, and there was no gold (my wife’s name is Cecilia anyway); but it was a great find on a much more modest scale. This time, I was going until 1 A.M., loading up my car with the following: 2 very large rectangular mirror frames, a lovely porcelain corner sink with its original faucet, an oak cabinet door, a small cheese cabinet door with its wooden grill, more carved marble mantle pieces, a large cast iron skillet, and bits and pieces of carved wood: from molding to cornices.

So there you have it, another heroic episode of dirty work done by the one person in Paris who, in a flash, is capable of changing his identity (and clothing) to fit the circumstances, who can go from high end to low end at a moment’s notice, who can scavenge until the wee hours of the morning. Most women would wonder what there husbands are up to when they are away from home and when they go out alone late at night. Male predators are known for their late night carousing and many wives have reason for worry. Not mine, fortunately…and I say “fortunately” for both of us. Anyway, she knows that no woman would get near me when I am rummaging through a dumpster, expending all of my energy in the pursuit of one of mankind’s more noble pleasures: scavenging!

In the world of antiques, from the pedigreed people to the junk peddlers, France is known as the ‘attic of the world’. For low life scavengers like me, this expression could be twisted into something like, ‘France is the dumpster of the world’; but this just doesn’t have the same ring to it. In any case, France is a paradise for those seeking age old treasures, furniture, building materials, etc., whether you pay for them or find them in the streets for free. As I have said before, there is nothing ignoble or inherently wrong with being a bottom feeder, scrounging in the muck at the very bottom of the food chain. Whereas some fine feathered folks do not like getting their hands dirty and prefer buying their old furniture and such in pedigreed places where the lighting is nice and the sales people with soft hands wear coats and ties on, scavengers prefer dealing with the elements and finding things in a natural state. The grimier the goods, the cheaper they are. If the goods are in a dumpster or on a sidewalk awaiting the garbage collectors, then you know you cannot lose by taking ownership. Alas, not everyone is prepared to deal with the requirements of the scavenger’s modus operandi, which is somewhat akin to ‘seizing the day’: you must seize the goods without delay, or you risk losing them to the heartless souls dressed in green suits with their lugubrious green garbage trucks (in Paris, anyway). What tragic irony, the guys dressed in the symbolic color of life, green, are the harbingers of death for old things. Once these guys get a hold of the goods, these items have no more future and you can be assured that these treasures will end their useful lives in the trash heap, a veritable cemetery of wasted value.

Like a good writer or a good photographer, a scavenger has to be ever ready to do the equivalent of noting down an observation or taking an off the cuff photo: he must recognize the potential for scavenging in some of the most unexpected places. When I am away from Paris, I am either at my home in Tours, or I am in the countryside outside of Tours, in my old farmhouse on the banks of the Loire River. There, in my 17th century barn, I keep a large stock of items of all sorts: from wrought iron to old doors, to paneling to stoneware, to furniture, and on and on. We might say that this is where the Parisian Scavenger’s buck stops.

We usually go out to the country house on the weekends when we can get away. At the end of each weekend, we drop off our garbage in the dumpsters in the small riverfront town where our house is located. The dumpsters have been strategically placed right next to the town cemetery so that the garbage trucks and individuals like myself who drop off their garbage, bottles, and junk will not disturb anyone. It is safe to say that no one in the immediate vicinity has ever complained about the noise, or the smell, for that matter. They are all sound asleep. Well wouldn’t you know it? My scavenger’s eagle eye is always attuned to new opportunities and although I would never stoop to being a grave robber (too much shoveling), I do not have any qualms about recuperating items from a dumpster where the goods therein are clearly marked for destruction. Specifically, the people who maintain the graveyard have a dumpster just on the other side of the cemetery wall where they throw all of the faded flowers and dying plants that the bereaved families have left in memory of their loved ones. Think about it: plants, many of them on their last legs, left to die of thirst in a dismal dumpster. Some of them are nice plants, or rather, if nursed back to health, they could become glorious plants once again, being rejuvenated by my tender loving care.

So there you have it, the essence of a scavenger’s mission: providing an opportunity for a new life after certain death has been programmed by heartless souls (or dead souls, as the case may be). All that is required to be a scavenger is the imagination to see how life can be restored to something that has been rejected by others and given up for dead. So is there life after death? You bet: just come see my plants.

THE PARISIAN SCAVENGER : Episode X :

There are times when I regret not being a full fledged, full time scavenger who makes a living recuperating old things and reselling them. After all, I only scavenge on the side and I am not equipped to handle certain types of scavenging opportunities. For instance, just this past week, I checked into the renovation in progress of a 17th century Convent that has been converted into a Conservatory of Music where my children go to school in Tours. They have boarded off most of the worksite so that no one can see what is going on; but I have found a way to stick my scavenger nose into the middle of the renovation from time to time by going in where the trucks enter and exit. True scavengers have no qualms about such things when they smell opportunity. The most important thing to remember is to do things as if you should be doing them, as if you should be there. You should not worry about what others think, as long as they don’t kick you out.

On the ground, stacked up in a pile, were a dozen or so huge master beams (probably 2 feet thick or more, by 18 to 20 feet long) in solid oak which had been removed from the historic structure and replaced by metal beams, no doubt. I was surprised to see that the National Historical Monument organization (which is all powerful in France) had allowed for such a deep seated gut job of a protected monument; but the reasoning goes that as long as the original outer structure is maintained, the inner structure can be radically modified. I could elaborate further; but the real question that preoccupied my thoughts is: How could I possibly get those beams into my possession? And secondly, what in the hell would I do with them once I had them? I would have to proceed with building a castle to use such beams. Right now, I cannot even seem to finish renovating my humble 17th century farmhouse.

So most likely, those beams will be dropped off at the garbage dump; but it will take a heavy duty truck with an articulated arm to lift them and carry them to their destination and somebody has to pay for such grunt work. What a tragedy and a shame …a tragedy to lose magnificent materials and a shame to have to pay for their removal (it is against the scavenger creed to pay for anything).

On a brighter note, early on in this Convent cum conservatory renovation, I did manage to act in time to recuperate a magnificent 17th (or possibly 18th) century stone staircase that had just been dismantled for some unknown reason and set aside in a pile of stones, awaiting the dumpster for removal. (I am ashamed to say that it cost me a pretty penny to get those stone delivered; but you should be relieved to hear that I did not actually pay for the staircase itself). Maybe the staircase was not original to the structure, or maybe it did not fit into the reconfiguration of the building; but all I know is that the huge chunks of stone would make a glorious staircase at my old farmhouse. It might, in fact, be too much for my modest abode; but then, this is the natural evolution of mankind, or those of us with ambition, we upgrade our lives as we go along, turning simple farmhouses into manor houses, and turning manor houses into castles. Rome was not built in a day, and a man’s castle is not built overnight. I ask you to be patient.

My farmhouse, by the way, is in the heart of the Loire Valley, better known as Castle Country where for centuries the kings of France and the descending ranks of lesser noblemen built sumptuous dwellings: from medieval fortresses to pleasure palaces. One day, when you are visiting these various castles of legendary renown, you may notice a new addition to the list of noble estates to visit. You may scratch your head in wonder because the medieval maps do not show any trace of such a place; yet there it is before your eyes, a domain full of high walls, towers, medieval door surrounds and archer windows, all assembled as if they have been there for centuries. Upon entering the courtyard, I will request that you kneel down, at which point, I will welcome you to ‘The Parisian Scavenger’s Domain’. Fear not, however, you need not pay homage to me. I expect nothing in return for my hospitality…a token item of scavenged loot, on the other hand, will always be well received.