Story: France, Where Life Imitates Art

What is art? Must it be limited to the narrow confines of museum walls? Can it only be appreciated in its second full century of existence? Or can it be simply observed in the moment of its birth? I once asked a friend whether a craftsman could be an artist. While a painter lies awake for hours contemplating the curvature of a single line, a craftsman must doggedly follow the rules. Blueprints predetermine the structure. His or her job is to simply bring the sketches to life. But cannot they still bring such a passion and attention to the structure to elevate it to the level of art? Is the essence of an artist the result of his work, or does it lie in the passion itself? If art is often accused of imitating life, can we too live our lives to imitate art?

If ever there was a country that embodied artistic living, it would be France. A place where cinema is a national pastime. The Venus de Milo is given the same celebrity treatment as Julia Roberts arriving on the red carpet. And museums spread like wildflower across city maps. And while you can visit the Museé de l’Orangerie to see Monet’s famous painting of the Water Lilies, a short trip out of Paris will also bring you to Monet’s Garden to view the water lilies in person.

In fact, to step foot on French soil is to be forever inspired. I needed only to pull my camera from its bag to be overwhelmed with beauty. Paris is a city where it is almost impossible to take a bad picture. It brings the words “point-and-shoot” into much sharper focus. Simply take an hour and sit in the Jardin du Luxenbourg. It’s filled with paintings and sculptures. But it’s also filled with Parisians living life as art itself. The simple beauty of a mother clearing her son’s cheek of melted chocolate. The two old friends who meet in the same spot every week to discuss politics and get fresh air. The student from the Sorbonne who came to the garden to study, but instead found favor in a quiet nap.

To walk the streets is a monument to passion. Along the Seine River, so many couples sneak off to find a moment’s bliss, that they can no longer be accused of sneaking at all. A kiss may still be a kiss, but in Paris everything seems sweeter. Hidden beneath the shadow a Notre Dame, where Quasimodo once swung from the bell tower, I take pause at the sight of a pair of pigeons who seem to be equally transfixed. The tower itself is protected by gargoyles so intricately carved that, if they weren’t on duty, they might find a home in the Louvre itself. Better still that they should maintain their perch along the Parisian skyline than to fight for space within those halls which also house the “Venus de Milo,” “Winged Victory,” and the ever-so-stylish “Mona Lisa.” For those who prefer their art to move, a short trip on the Metro will take you to the Cinematheque Francaise, the shrine to the art of motion pictures. The filmmaker’s answer to Mecca. Or maybe you prefer live entertainment and would like to visit the home of the Phantom of the Opera, the glorious Opéra Garnier.

Elsewhere, you’ll find a different art. The art of sacrifice. Beneath the famous Arc de Triomphe lies the eternal resting place of the unknown soldier. Rising above the fated underpass where Princess Diana lost her life, a golden flame reflecting her persistent spirit. And then there’s the monument to war itself, Les Invalides, the final resting place of Napoleon.

Oh, I suppose I haven’t even yet mentioned that old steel radio town which you see in all the postcards. I think it’s named after some guy named Eiffel.

To visit France is more than an opportunity to see art. It’s an opportunity to walk a mile inside its shoes. I sat on the rocky beaches of Nice, gazing across the clear blue water, completely in the moment. I stood on Omaha Beach, still rife with the memories of soldiers who offered their lives in the pursuit of freedom. I stood beneath the grandeur of Versailles. I strolled the fairy tale fortresses of The Loire Valley which served to inspire the art of “Beauty and the Beast” and “Snow White.” I observed the fine art of wine in places like Beaune and St. Emilion. I observed the fine art of food in more Parisian bistros than my beltline would’ve liked.

In short, I observed the art of life. And for a moment, I was able to live it myself.