put anything on paper—you just learn to move creatively.”
“I noticed that one too. But she’s busy through next summer.”
“And this! ‘Seamus O’Finnegan, author of Learn to Love Your Novel , offers his workshop on advanced creative techniques.’ Have you seen this? He suggests you buy a soft toy or a pillow and give it the name of your project. When work is going badly, you should cuddle it or talk to it.”
“Oh, Seamus. Yes. We had him two years ago.”
“You’re not going to tell me anyone would pay good money for that!”
“We were turning them away, John! I’d use him again, except he’s booked solid. All the best people are.”
O’Finnegan’s shenanigans particularly irritated me. Writing shouldn’t need all this voodoo. Did Hemingway cuddle a cushion called The Sun Also Rises ? Did Fitzgerald surreptitiously squeeze his teddy bear Gatsby? (On the other hand, Henry Miller fondling a doll called Sexus did make a certain amount of sense.)
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tag along with your literary walk. Like to give me a clue about what I’m looking for?”
“I prefer you keep an open mind.”
Walking back home up rue de l’Odéon, I remembered a walk I’d taken at a festival in Kuopio, Finland. It wasn’t actually a walk but a work of conceptual art called Windwalk , created by the British artist Tim Knowles. He was obviously a fan of the 1950s French theorist Guy Debord, one of the inventors of psychogeography . Like surrealism, psychogeography meant pretty well what you were pointing to when you said it, though one brave soul defined it as “a whole toy box full of playful, inventive strategies for exploring cities. Just about anything that takes pedestrians off their predictable paths and jolts them into a new awareness of the urban landscape.”
Our Finnish group met in the town square and were each handed a bicycle helmet with a small triangular sail attached. The sail swiveled as the wind took it, and each of us headed in the direction it pointed. At the first corner, an eddy of wind sent half the group in one direction, the rest in another. By the end of the morning, we’d been scattered all over town. A conventional walk had become an adventure.
I’d almost reached our building when someone at my elbow said, “Excusez-moi. Je suis . . . I mean, nous sommes . . .”
“It’s okay. I speak English.”
They looked just like the hundreds of other couples who passed me every week: Burberrys, sensible shoes, distracted expressions, and a much-folded map.
“We’re trying to find the Luxembourg Gardens.”
I pointed to the colonnaded Theatre de l’Odéon at the top of the street.
“They’re on the other side.”
They stared at me suspiciously, then back at their map. They’d have preferred me to be French. Then they could be sure I wasn’t making it up. For all they knew, I might just be another tourist, as lost as they were.
“Try turning the map around,” I suggested. Perversely, Paris street maps put north at the top, but they were walking south. Cautiously, they did so.
“You’re here.” I indicated rue de l’Odéon. “There’s the theater. And these are the gardens.”
“Right!” said the husband. “You see, honey. I told you.”
The wife’s self-control was admirable. Instead of kicking him in the shins, she just narrowed her eyes.
“We’re looking for the outdoor café,” she said. “It’s supposed to be very nice.”
“There are three, actually,” I said. “The best one is near the bandstand. On the upper level.”
The wife looked around uncertainly. “And that would be . . . ?”
“I’ll show you,” I said.
We walked up to Place de l’Odéon and waited for a bus to maneuver its way into the street without scraping the cars illegally parked outside the Méditerranée restaurant on the corner. By folding back the glass doors along Place de l’Odéon, the owners gave the diners incomparable access to this amusing piece
“I noticed that one too. But she’s busy through next summer.”
“And this! ‘Seamus O’Finnegan, author of Learn to Love Your Novel , offers his workshop on advanced creative techniques.’ Have you seen this? He suggests you buy a soft toy or a pillow and give it the name of your project. When work is going badly, you should cuddle it or talk to it.”
“Oh, Seamus. Yes. We had him two years ago.”
“You’re not going to tell me anyone would pay good money for that!”
“We were turning them away, John! I’d use him again, except he’s booked solid. All the best people are.”
O’Finnegan’s shenanigans particularly irritated me. Writing shouldn’t need all this voodoo. Did Hemingway cuddle a cushion called The Sun Also Rises ? Did Fitzgerald surreptitiously squeeze his teddy bear Gatsby? (On the other hand, Henry Miller fondling a doll called Sexus did make a certain amount of sense.)
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tag along with your literary walk. Like to give me a clue about what I’m looking for?”
“I prefer you keep an open mind.”
Walking back home up rue de l’Odéon, I remembered a walk I’d taken at a festival in Kuopio, Finland. It wasn’t actually a walk but a work of conceptual art called Windwalk , created by the British artist Tim Knowles. He was obviously a fan of the 1950s French theorist Guy Debord, one of the inventors of psychogeography . Like surrealism, psychogeography meant pretty well what you were pointing to when you said it, though one brave soul defined it as “a whole toy box full of playful, inventive strategies for exploring cities. Just about anything that takes pedestrians off their predictable paths and jolts them into a new awareness of the urban landscape.”
Our Finnish group met in the town square and were each handed a bicycle helmet with a small triangular sail attached. The sail swiveled as the wind took it, and each of us headed in the direction it pointed. At the first corner, an eddy of wind sent half the group in one direction, the rest in another. By the end of the morning, we’d been scattered all over town. A conventional walk had become an adventure.
I’d almost reached our building when someone at my elbow said, “Excusez-moi. Je suis . . . I mean, nous sommes . . .”
“It’s okay. I speak English.”
They looked just like the hundreds of other couples who passed me every week: Burberrys, sensible shoes, distracted expressions, and a much-folded map.
“We’re trying to find the Luxembourg Gardens.”
I pointed to the colonnaded Theatre de l’Odéon at the top of the street.
“They’re on the other side.”
They stared at me suspiciously, then back at their map. They’d have preferred me to be French. Then they could be sure I wasn’t making it up. For all they knew, I might just be another tourist, as lost as they were.
“Try turning the map around,” I suggested. Perversely, Paris street maps put north at the top, but they were walking south. Cautiously, they did so.
“You’re here.” I indicated rue de l’Odéon. “There’s the theater. And these are the gardens.”
“Right!” said the husband. “You see, honey. I told you.”
The wife’s self-control was admirable. Instead of kicking him in the shins, she just narrowed her eyes.
“We’re looking for the outdoor café,” she said. “It’s supposed to be very nice.”
“There are three, actually,” I said. “The best one is near the bandstand. On the upper level.”
The wife looked around uncertainly. “And that would be . . . ?”
“I’ll show you,” I said.
We walked up to Place de l’Odéon and waited for a bus to maneuver its way into the street without scraping the cars illegally parked outside the Méditerranée restaurant on the corner. By folding back the glass doors along Place de l’Odéon, the owners gave the diners incomparable access to this amusing piece
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