Martine was a self-confessed vernissage addict. This was something she admitted to me, matter-of-factly, over croissants and a cup of steaming cafe-au-lait at one of her haunts in the 14th. Martine didn’t seem to evidence any sense of shame or regret because you see she was hooked on an activity that, for many Parisians, is easily habit-forming, indiscriminately striking both young and old alike. She told me that after you attend your first “vernissage” and before you can say art exhibit, by weeks-end your eyes are bloodshot, you’re cranky, you’ve lost weight, you’ve read every single quotidian, every Parisian blog and website in order to hunt down your next vernissage. You begin to make friends with certain people who are, well, “in the know” if you get what I mean; people who just happen to have “an address”. Martine confessed that she goes to a vernissage at a minimum, five times a week. It has taken over her life and her latest handheld phone quizmo now buzzes incessantly relaying new and updated information from around Paris – what to do, what to see, where to go. Martine excuses herself for a moment and clicks on a map link for the best Metro route. It’s not pretty and I’m worried. So young.
Inevitably it would come down to this as I knew it would because this is how they operate, drawing you in with a sweet smile and then… Martine invited me to go with her to a vernissage. I think she expected me to do a somersault with excitement right there on the avenue but because she is a foodie-friend of mine who also happens to have some great connections to the culinary underworld of Paris, I decided to go along. I asked her if I should go all in black with a beret and fake goatee or shave my head and wear a yellow toga of some sort and bring a tambourine. I received a smirk and “oh que tu est drôle mon amour.” I decided I would bring garlic and a miniature crucifix instead both of which were easily explainable if I was searched by one of “them.”
You see in Paris, if you have an ounce of creativity to your name or some appreciation of the creative arts, then you can easily see why “art” and Paris go together like Champagne and a beautiful woman. A vernissage, pure and simple is an invitation-only or private viewing of an art exhibition before it opens for public viewing. It’s used as a clever marketing tool to promote an exhibition, to introduce the artist(s) and their work to important figures in the art establishment, art collectors, and sometimes celebrity guests (like me) and of course journalists in the hopes of getting some media coverage. Naturally, what one sees as art can be another person’s idea of a trashcan liner. The term of art (so to speak) comes from the French word vernissage, which literally means “varnishing”, and the tradition in centuries past was for artists to use the day before an exhibition opened to put finish touches to their paintings and/or varnish them, once they had been hung. Interestingly enough the word has found its way into daily use for example “if I see no evidence of vernissage around the house you’re fired.” You get the picture.
I met Martine at the entrance to the Metro. And she looked good which was a blessing to me because I looked and felt like hell still nursing an hangover. Our first address was a trendy atelier in the Marais district where we “admired” the work of a Brazilian artist, I forgot his name. A combination of abstract oil and water color paintings depicting hometown scenes from Sao Paulo Brazil. There was of course an obligatory water color of the Eifel Tower and one of the Arc de Triomphe – both painted with a judgment day slant to them if you can ever figure that one out. Enough already with that. One coupe de champagne and a couple of pieces of sushi later, it was time to leave for another one.
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To soothe the savage beast, Martine took me over to the Mairie. I asked if we were getting married that evening because it would have been nice to have gotten some advance notice like 24hrs and time enough for me to buy a plane ticket out. But true to her word, the Mairie du 5°Arrondissement featured some exceptional works by contemporary artists from the US, Germany, Chile, and the UK. No champagne of any real sort, so we left. That was short and sweet. I could get into this but touched my garlic and crucifix just in case. The last vernissage, the best one, hands-down, was at L’Atelier on the Avenue Girard, in the 14th. The collection, by a young Japanese photographer, Takisha Morouwas, was a series of black and white photos of moody, slightly bored looking young Parisian women in various stages of undress lounging and waiting for something to happen in smoky empty cafés with too many empy glasses; some were lounging about (all in black) in drab little side streets of lost hope. You get the general idea. Wonderfully depressing perhaps but not enough to dislike. By the way, the champagne, Veuve Cliquot, was cold and crisp and the assortment of finger foods was to beat the band. I took notes. We drank. I poured Martine into a cab. I drifted away into the night.