A Joycean Stroll Through Paris

A couple of years ago after being a researcher on a documentary in Berlin and before heading to the Edinburgh festival, late summer days were spent in a cramped bohemian apartment a stones throw away from Père Lachaise hosted by some anthropology students.  In balmy summer evenings, they would take us to off the beaten track night panorama`s looking across multiple arrondissements, whilst playing chess and drinking Bordeaux.  Other evenings were spent discovering Jazz bars. One night Marianne Faithfull sat behind us chatting about her latest script before we listened to to a phenomenally powerful, yet intimate set from Brian Blade and his fellowship band.  Curious to explore 1920`s Paris (before I´d seen Woody Allen`s Midnight in Paris) I asked my father, an avid Joyce reader to give me some tips.  To my delight, it was delivered tout de suit and in true Joycean style.  Exploring the works of interdisciplinary artist Tony Clarke, that modernist amble through Paris suddenly seems real once more....let his line take you for a walk and enjoy the dynamic with Tony Clarke's work that just fit so well.
Engravings Tony Clark
The route through Paris is very simple: you go round and round the Péripherique until your head it simply swirls and then all daze head straight for the James Joyce pub.

Whatever you do, don’t use a sat nav to head for Shakespeare & Co as it’s not where it is, or rather, where it sat. Instead, turn left at the Sylvia Beach, go through the Ezra Pound and straight on to the Heming Way. You’ll find yourself at Les Deux Magots (pronounce Ma! Go!) which is two wormholes in disguise. Wriggle out of paying l’addition there (unless in haste you left bank with lots of common cents), subtract service (attacks you first thought of when you were nose-high to a gracehoper) and e-merge with the whirled-whiled web at the point where the goggle map is short-sited. You’ll recognize the spot by the key doorsay dourman who won’t let in the Scots terriere, saying out dimmed Spot, and by the great Dane who suffers these licks and a rose of outrageous fortune and, by all pausing, hounds them.
Tony Clark
 Then you’ll know you’re in the Monet, although Manet others dispute this over déjeuner sur herbe (don’t let the grassy knoll fool your eye am a camera lookalike just because you’ve said goodbye to Berlin, wondered through the Esher Wood (where leaf is a cab oreille – listen to the sound of follyage as you taxi along life’s runaway and come out the other inside smelling of rosses (their bark is better than bight), for after all arroser is much ado about nothing more than odour vie) or possibly you’re closed by the gendarmes of Looks-on-bored. This might be just as you like it, when arose by any other gnome smells a sweet, especially on the rude ravioli (next to the Boulevard Marks & Spencer, also known as Common Scent Michelle). Don’t forget to wear your let-in quarter hat where the Latin quartermaster (he’s an aquaholic!) stirs, war within if not without you can collect your provisions by e-male (there is no text outside, unfortunately, unless you put Descartes before Dehors, as Monsieur Jacques Derriére was fond of texting out of his voluminous derrida) in time (don’t lose it, Marcel!) for your bon voyeurge to Edenburger land (it used to be Edam Cheeseburgerland but no-one goes Dutch these days, even though it’s bad for your wealth).

I hope that’s éclair, and if it isn’t then the online chat (that’s French for Poussin boots, or possibly re-boots: see Farcébook for regular frenchfried phrases and mangetout downdates, all virtually stuffed courtesy of a celebrity Michelin chef who’s who à la carte is so much easier on the eyes than that of choux-off Gogglemonde) must have consumed la cream de la crème (it’s a reversible phrase, like the tram of a dream) along with the shock au là, which is another way of saying there’s no there there (calm down, dear, it’s only the jam’s joys, and that’s all too easily freudened).

Bon appétit, as the chef of the McDonald’s clam (phone Ma Bell, that’s Michelle in the soup!) used to say as he tried his Danish on Prince’s Way before it was ex-Humed (read sceptically in his Treat Teas Off Humean Nurture how at the end of awake he foils the pastry cook and takes a leaf he feuilles out of her pastyface book when he sees her salad daze) to make way for a Traumline.

Tony Clark

Couch, Ma!
The rest is silence.

For now.


I. White