what is soft, what is rough, what has paint that never dried, what has paper torn apart, what is see-through, what is coincidental, what is not
The walk through Belleville was one of touch – I could have extended my hands to the walls and read the streets like braille. Soon enough there was wind and I found myself being almost pushed down the tilted streets. There was air
filling up my lungs in my hair, between my fingertips, all the way behind my eyelids. Everything became a blur – there were colors, surfaces, lights, feelings. It was as if the space itself was vibrating under the pressure of the wind, revealing some sort of crack or unseen world behind reality that held passion, meaning and soul. It was like being hooked on oxygen, having my head unsure of the world spinning around, but also like reaching some higher level of consciousness, unveiling the hidden layers of experience.
It is strange to begin that way, as my memory of the place is quite sharp. I can remember textures grabbing my eye as I felt myself disappear. I can remember the sense of reality that they brought. I can remember plants against concrete, the green transparent plastic of a trash bag revealing a pink mass, mosaics of colored little squares, the red raincoat of a woman gracefully floating. I can remember voices in written form – from “I love you” to “abolish states and frontiers” – for Belleville is a place of expression, from tenderness to social engagement – from carefully crafted graffiti to words hastily traced in marker. Textures and their alignment were what kept me anchored there. I was not anymore; my frenzy of thoughts, my every-day anguish, all of that had disappeared into a full-mind consciousness of a place and its surfaces, a place of a reality so strong it would overpower my whole self.
what is broken, what is new, what is old, what is washed off, what is reflection, what is set apart, what is real, what is not
I can’t really map or quantify anything. If some street names come back to mind – like Rue des Couronnes, or Rue de la Mare, they do so in flashes and I could not tell for how long I strolled through them, or which intersection I took at which point. I saw people wearing colors, so I followed them quietly and photographed them. They reminded me of the walls’ colors that were parading before my eyes, like a looped movie with no beginning nor end. Maybe they were the color itself – I could never tell. It was something I had too rarely experienced in any other part of Paris – the feeling of a place so alive that its vibrations almost ascended to the people passing through it, and nearly eclipsed them. Elsewhere, people were caught and dragged by the city through the city, their faces becoming a haze from the speed at which they paced. In Belleville, there was something that brought everything together, like a carefully crafted composition.
what is sacred, what is known, what is mended, what is created, what is stone, what is glass, what is neutral, what is not
What was I doing, if not reading? I was strolling through streets like jumping from a line to another, discovering elements and what they had to say. Belleville, maybe even more than any other part of the city, was made up of textures. It was made up of bits and pieces which people passing by would add or destroy, admire or act upon – all of it adding up to a sort of story. Nothing was really without meaning – it was a matter of realizing what a tenacious act of audacity it was to write on a wall, to rip off a poster, to grow a plant, to paint a street. Modifying the city is never hollow or futile – it may seem insignificant but it is, without a doubt, a doing of intention – there I was part of something bigger, being utterly connected to people offering their self for the world to see. The magic was made up of stories, people, voices – wordless writing. Textures were a memoir in themselves. They were a way of projecting the individual in the collective, of regaining presence and molding the city into an identity that holds and projects ours. Belleville, being as a free-spirited as it was, embracing as much youth as it did, was nothing but symbols yearning to be uncovered. Reading streets is a delicate endeavor, however, as the line between reading and writing is infinitely wavering – it is a matter of trying to remain as loyal as possible to what symbols want to tell you, and to stay as far away as you can from a subjective interpretation. There were poems, injunctions, poetic injunctions (look at the clouds!), signs of social protest (talk to your neighbors, not to the police), there were drawings, plants on balconies, political posters torn apart, advertisement posters torn apart, information posters torn apart. There were signs of people living, sharing opinions, battling egos, and making the city theirs.
and suddenly
time
slowed
down
I could not really say where all of this ended. I simply remember arriving to an open and grand boulevard (Ménilmontant?), where crowd and cars were an indication that the haze of textures, colours and people was over.
what is it that I am left with?
maybe the sense of a place so real it filled up my mind for hours after. maybe countless stories made of torn apart paper and painted stones on walls. maybe an infinite resonance of voices and their stories. maybe an invaluable memory made of senses and sensitivity, which were so present they would never fade away – and never leave me alone.
“what is there under your wallpaper?”1
1 Georges Perec, The Infra-Ordinary, 1973
