I’m so glad to help out a little bit and meet a few photographers I’ve worked with in this beautiful city.
“As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.”
I Felt a Funeral in My Brain – Emily Dickinson
Someone said that the most fun things in life are either immoral, illegal or they make you fat.
There are a few rules of social conduct once you enter the Catacombs of Paris: Don’t reveal to anyone the point from where you got in and the point from where you’ll get out, use pseudonyms, always greet and be kind to strangers, don’t leave anything behind you, don’t steal anything, don’t keep walking if you get lost, don’t trust anyone. Self-control.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
Some, may argue the importance of respecting the dead. But why should that be an issue? Some, don’t even argue the importance of respecting the living.
Jump in the manhole! Clip-clap and…hello darkness my old friend…
On three levels, there are around 300km of underground tunnels ahead of us.
Front torch, boots and a backpack full of food and booze.
We’re dipped in water. It almost reaches my thoughts. Our guide says that all the “tourists” (new-comers) must pass through the water tunnel, in order to be baptised. The water is apparently so clean and pure that washes you off of any past-life sin. I doubt it.
We reach one of the several “lounges” as we stop to catch our breaths. We share a beer, a few words of wisdom and, out of the blue – the overwhelming silence.
Most of the silence we experience in life is tainted. We can hear birds singing, water running in the distance, foggy jazz music from a distant bar, the rustling of trees.
True silence will drive you mad. My mind is so loud, but with time, one can hear nothing but his own organs working. Absolute silence is filled by the sound of your own body. You can hear your breathing, your heart beating, you can hear the blood in your veins. You can hear your pulse, your bones rub against each other, your skin sliding over your muscles. You can hear tendons creak, organs churning…and that’s usually about the point where people start hearing things that aren’t really there, I guess. I heard that astronauts are trained to cope with the complete lack of sound they can experience.
But that’s not my case although I’d like to live it. In fact, I am sharing the silence with my companions. F. said she could hear my heart beating, but thanks to that magnificent silence, we could really hear each other talking. Every single word had importance. Every single voice was transcendental. Sound in silence, eyeless bound.
As we found our way round the labyrinthine system, it occurred to me that I am in an underground art gallery. Murals, scale model castles, carved gargoyles, mosaics, sculptures, art installations and the like.
Most of the lounges have a theme, but that’s not about it. This is a city under construction, or the remains of a lost empire.
Alright kids, it’s show-time! The cinema lounge has murals representing notorious films such as Pulp Fiction, Ghost Busters, Taxi Driver, Titanic and Metropolis. Stones are placed to create an amphitheater. Fasten your seat-belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!
There’s also a Flower room, if you feel like cutting your veins and sleeping forever next to Ophelia, but before committing suicide, you could reconsider your final act while having a drink with your mate at the Foxy Bar. Why not clear your ideas at The Beach lounge, before you write a wonderful suicide note in The Lampshade room? But even better, why not kill someone else in The Candelabra lounge instead?
We sit down for a break and to my big surprise, our guide opens his Mary Poppins magic bag, makes up a little fire and serves us fondue and wine, along with some pretty table decorations. As we dine with the dead to the sound of blues, I can’t stop smiling.
It’s strange to think that there’s a city upon us dancing Saturday Night Fever, oblivious of what’s under their heels.
When I wake up, I’ll be different.
We already reached the 3rd level. A throne made out of human bones stands still and proud. The Kingdom of the Dead holds no grudge. There’s no reason to be afraid of death if you’ve lived fully. Life is much scarier.
The truth about forever is that….whatever. I smoked too much Mary Jane. I am not going to shock you all with a last-minute discovery, but being surrounded by all those human bones makes me wonder – what makes us alive?
Desire. Desire makes a person move, create and destroy. Desire makes a person kill.
People are killers and all men are cannibals; I think as I enter a cul-de-sac corridor infested by skeletons.
All men are cannibals. I think as I have another puff.
Men eat men every day. Sometimes physically, other times emotionally. Men eat men by means of power. Men eat men’s dignity. Men eat men’s love.
Even the Sun gets smaller and smaller as the planets around it eat its energy. The Moon gets larger and larger as it eats men’s energy on Earth.
Men eat Earth. Earth eats men. Men eat men.
Enough with my foggy reverie.
We’re on our way out through the utility tunnels, climbing on an endless metal ladder, finally popping our heads out the manhole, in the sun rising street, like groundhogs.
I no longer will scratch the surface of life.
When I wake up, I’ll be different.
Bending and crawling, crawling and bending. Water. Bending. More water. Mind the head. This is my happiest memory: the six of us stumbling under Paris on the sound of communist songs.
When I wake up, I’ll be different.
(Special thanks to all my comrades and especially to our guide, for making this trip to Hell eternal in my heart)
Check out my latest pictures By Sébastien Dardare
In the middle of the journey of my life…
I was torn between two choices:
1. Watch a depressing Tarkovsky movie at cinema Reflet Medicis
2. Drink wine and smoke shisha at Passy (the best spot to get drunk in front of the sizzling Eiffel Tower)
After two cups of coffee and three cigarettes, I chose number 2. After all, Tarko will still be there tomorrow, “but I’m human and I need to be loved”.
Wine. Shisha. Last metro. Direction home.
As I’m about to get back home, I see one of the many transsexual prostitutes populating my neighbourhood: in the middle of the street, tits on air, screaming and throwing empty bottles around. Amusing. I think “ahh! Such fresh air! Life”.
It looks amazing to me, to witness such freedom, such messy, fucked-up beauty. It might be that I’m still culturally shocked from my last trip in Russia, where everything was grand and perfectly preserved, but it almost seemed like communism has never ended. It lacked of humanity. It lacked of vices, dirt and misbehaviour. I love misbehaviour.
It’s not over. I come back home and I soon discover my neighbour singing like crazy, headphones on, putting a show in front of the mirror. Little does she know that she has an audience. Me.
I love Paris at 03.03 am.
Just posed naked, wrapped up in white sheets as suspended into the void for British painter and sax player Andrew Kinsman. Feeling a little bit like a muse.
I’m fond of first times.
Looking forward to see the result.