You gotta love a good mix of the sacred and profane. Which you can find in Montmartre, an artistic, hilly part of Paris. It’s a butte. And it’s a beut.
The “sacred” is obvious. Overbearing, even. It is Sacré-Cœur, also known as “Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris,” or just…Sacred Heart.
The place has a complicated history, despite the fact that its construction began not that long ago, in 1875, and was completed just over a hundred years ago. It's tied up in religious shame, military defeat, and political uprisings. Zut alors!
Inside this holy place, amid the quietness and body-covering (no lady shoulders may be visible, for…reasons), amid lit candles and earnest prayer, under the watchful eyes of statues of Jesus and Mary and their golden hearts, you can really feel…how the church said “Baise-le” and put in a gift shop. Gotta get that dank commerce, amiright?
(Also, Camille starfished me in the middle of our time there. Add Sacré-Cœur to the list. Also also, there’s something sacred and a little secular about your child falling asleep on you in church.)
The clash of sacred and profane continues outside of Sacré-Cœur. There are just throngs of people, all tourists, all looking to gawk at the religious stuff and then go get some grub. And there was a guy doing acrobatic tricks for money at the bottom of the church’s steps, like it was a boardwalk.
Regardless, let the record show that he was really good. Climbed up that sucker like the friggin’ Cirque du Soleil, and then juggled a soccer ball while doing it. Sacré Bleu!
This wasn’t my only visit to Montmartre. The previous night, rather late in the evening, I met up with an old friend who lives in Paris, and we went out to see and do some things. He took me up to Montmartre.
This holy mountain was formerly the spiritual home of many artists, like Van Gogh and Matisse, who angrily departed the area for good when they were building the church. But their spirit remains; it’s still very much an artistic area. This includes historic places of arts and entertainment that are still kicking around, like the Moulin Rouge and Au Lapin Agile, as well as more obscure art houses and the like.
My friend is into the Parisian street art scene, which is vibrant up on the butte. We strolled the incredibly quiet streets of Montmartre late at night, with only moderate streetlamps to light the way. He showed me the otherwise invisible–street art hiding in plain sight, competing with and complementing other art. He told me who was cool, and who sucked, and who was great.
We planned to put up some of our own that night. It was a bit of work, as we (well, he) had to mix up some glue. And we had company: In an alleyway where we planned to do our work, some fellow was busy tearing apart a metal-framed print that was easily three by four feet, maybe larger. He was interested in the print, and made it seem like this was trash and he was actually doing someone a favor.
But he left both the destroyed frame and the print in a pile on the ground. And then he was very interested in us and what we were doing. I think the distraction proved fatal, because my friend soaked his paper too much with water and the glue, and it tore as he gingerly picked it up, and it crumpled into a soggy mess. Mon Dieu! I was so close to participating in the Parisian street art scene!
So profane, to put our mark on these old walls. So sacred, to participate in the hallowed traditions of the artists of this hill.
This piece is part of a series of pieces around our recent trip to Paris. There’s more to come, but you can catch up to where we are so far by reading these. In chronological order: