Paris #4 - Paris . . . A "rose" from the street . . .

I put this piece together from images that I shot mainly in and around the Marais district of Paris . . . street art, graffiti and signage, all telling a small tale of Paris and the things that have inspired me here . . .

The song accompanying the images is "Mon Amie La Rose" by Francoise Hardy . . . she has a beautiful voice and this is a beautiful song, which I think must have been inspired in part by Le Petit Prince, (see "Rose" in http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/littleprince/canalysis.html ). The lyrics are below in the original French and in translation.

To download or view at best quality, go here: http://gallery.me.com/david_j_robinson#100366

Mon Amie La Rose (Francoise Hardy)

On est bien peu de chose 
Et mon amie la rose 
Me l'a dit ce matin 

A l'aurore je suis née 
Baptisée de rosée 
Je me suis épanouie 
Heureuse et amoureuse 
Aux rayons du soleil 
Me suis fermée la nuit 
Me suis réveillée vieille 

Pourtant j'étais très belle 
Oui j'étais la plus belle 
Des fleurs de ton jardin 

On est bien peu de chose 
Et mon amie la rose 
Me l'a dit ce matin 

Vois le dieu qui m'a faite 
Me fait courber la tête 
Et je sens que je tombe 
Et je sens que je tombe 
Mon cœur est presque nu 
J'ai le pied dans la tombe 
Déjà je ne suis plus 

Tu m'admirais hier 
Et je serai poussière 
Pour toujours demain. 

On est bien peu de chose
Et mon amie la rose
Est morte ce matin

La lune cette nuit
A veillé mon amie
Moi en rêve j'ai vu
Eblouissante et nue
Son âme qui dansait
Bien au-delà des nues
Et qui me souriait

Crois celui qui peut croire
Moi, j'ai besoin d'espoir
Sinon je ne suis rien

Ou bien si peu de chose
C'est mon amie la rose
Qui l'a dit hier matin 

TRANSLATION:

We are truly insignificant
And that's what my friend the rose
Told me this morning

I was born at dawn
Baptised in dew
I blossomed
In the rays of the sun
Happy and in love
I closed my petals at night
And when I awoke I was old.

Yet I had been beautiful
Yes, I was the most beautiful
Of all the flowers in your garden

We are truly insignificant
And that's what my friend the rose
Told me this morning

See, the God that made me
Now makes me bow my head
And I feel I'm falling
And I feel I'm falling
My heart is almost bare
I have a foot in my grave
Already I am nothing

You admired me only yesterday
And I shall be dust
Forever, tomorrow

We are truly insignificant
And my friend the rose
Died this morning

Last night the moon
Kept vigil over my friend
And in a dream I saw
Her soul, dancing
Dazzling and naked,
Above the heavens,
Smiling on me.

Let those who can, believe
But I need Hope
Or else I am nothing 

We are truly insignificant
And that's what my friend the rose
Told me this morning

Paris #3 - Carte Postale

Roller-bladers - one obviously still learning as he wobbles and weaves nervously - skate past on a semi-deserted avenue pavement...

A crazy man tears up rubbish and spreads it across the road with intensity and purpose, but only he knows why...

An obviously bored American waits patiently while his wife seeks directions to any shops that are upon, but it is Sunday and his patience will be tested some more...

Couples stroll hand-in-hand, their gaze wandering alternately here and there, only to momentarily return to each other every few paces...

A man struggles in the chilly breeze to light the cigarette of his beloved. A strange act of gallantry as he assists her in acquiring terminal disease or at the very least discomfort and pain...

"Les motos" buzz energetically as they strain away from the traffic lights like urban bumble bees searching for flowers to settle on at some point down the road...

The breeze ruffles hairstyles and stylish ladies frown with anxiety as their locks are tortured gently by the wind...

The grey sky sits above like a mildly threatening blanket, undecided as to whether it will darken or not, perhaps to cry some heavenly tears. Perhaps not...

A young man walks with pride in his formal cashmere overcoat half covering his tracksuit trousers and worn out trainers, a silk scarf knotted round his neck...

Coffee spills on a trouser leg, a sudden reminder of the here & now, but it's cold and no damage is done...

Buses pass with anonymous passengers heading somewhere at the mercy of a driver whose direction is mapped out with certainty not hope...

Endless troupes of suitcase wheeling travellers filter through the pavements as though part of some secret Sunday celebration of the necessity of luggage...

Parisian housewives in diamonds and fur coats match them with their shopping baskets on wheels, their elegance refined, their pragmatism defined, their destinations aligned...

I sit and watch, recording with amusement and curiosity - wondering about their lives for just a few brief seconds of ephemeral concentration...

...