Chapter #5 Outline
"THE WORK FORCE"
This chapter describes the preparation for my first art exhibit in Paris, focusing on Parisian street life. I begin with the subject of “ladies” (putes, or prostitutes), in the most expensive areas. I tell of spending many hours in cafes, spying on (mostly from behind potted palms), and sketching these infamous Parisians and their “suitors.” I mention my first meeting with one, elegant, but long in the tooth pute in the toilet at the Café de la Paix, asking with a look of concern, if my book is in order. The “book” she is referring to, is a health book required by all Parisian prostitutes. Without hesitation, coming right to the point, she firmly suggests I work a different area ... far from hers! I can tell her English is more of the boudoir variety, when I say, “Oh no, I’m just an artist,” and her snappy reply is, “Well, so am I!” That is when I knew the time had come to stretch out the canvas, finish painting these street ladies, and high tail it off in search of a safer subject. I also learn (often from experience), the huge difference between American and French men in their opinion of desirable women. With Frenchmen, the attraction (besides not looking like a mud fence), is her appearance, and femininity ... not her age! This explains the popularity of the Parisian, over fifty, pricy putes!
I mention my startling, unexpected encounter with a sleazy young Pigalle pute, wearing lethal, thigh-high, stiletto boots. Unlike the high-class “ladies,” this one looks terrifying, with a stinky, Gaitanes cigarette dangling from her full (or swollen), smudged lips, causing a threatening squint. With Sport tucking his tail between his legs guarding his manhood, the well-nourished pute grabs my coat by the back of the collar, bringing me to a screeching halt. I finish this subject telling how I dangle with my head pulled in resembling a strawberry blond tortoise! As with the Café de la Paix pute, this one also has the wrong impression of my occupation, swinging the massive fist on her free hand, searching for a good place to land a punch. With my hysterical babbling in English, she throws her arms up in disgust, and swaggers away mumbling, “Crazy American ... phooey!”
I finish the chapter with wandering up the hill in search of my new Parisian subject to study, and finding an out-of-the-way artist’s café in Montmartre. Time has stopped here somewhere in the nineteenth century, during the years of Renoir, Monet, and Toulouse-Lautrec. I spend endless hours sketching these feisty men and women discussing their art while drinking cheap, red wine ... laughing, drinking more, cheap, red wine ... disputing, drinking even more, cheap, red wine ... fighting, and finally, being laid out on the sidewalk with bloody noses and worse. As a regular, I tell of seeing these same people returning when sober, and repeating this over and over, as Sport and I always enjoy the spectacle, from our usual table behind another “potted palm!”
Who We Are |
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Our History |
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