Martine

(Rather than write about everything I did in Paris, I wanted to focus on a very special French woman whom I met. Her name is Martine, and these are my thoughts about her as they relate to a film and an inveterate art critic.)

Upon our return to New York from Paris I made my way through the pile of mail on the dining room table that had amassed over ten days. The amount of paper was unfathomable. How many trees have been destroyed to get me to make donations to the ACLU? In the mix of letters and bills was a red envelope that cried out: “Netflix!” I’d forgotten what was on our online queue and when I opened it I was happy to see that the DVD inside was “The Triplets of Belleville”.

I’d first seen the film upon its initial release in 2003. Without any dialogue, only with music and sound effects, the movie is incredibly expressionistic and atmospheric, something that the current Pixar milieu isn’t always able to create for me. The story taps into the sublime humanity that we sometimes overlook in the throngs around us.

In the film, the loose plot sets up the relationship between a grandmother and her orphaned grandson. The young boy is sad, listless, and shows no interest in anything until the grandmother discovers his passion for bikes and buys him a tricycle. The torpid boy finds his raison d'être and grows up to be a cyclist (not a very good one), and the twist is when he’s kidnapped by chain-smoking gangsters during the Tour de France and taken to the mythical city of Belleville. The fearless and myopic grandmother undertakes a perilous journey across the ocean and through a foreign city of fat people consumed by consumerism to find her grandson. For me, the plot of the film is irrelevant. It’s filled with sublime interludes and moments of what it means to love and to share the human experience with others. It evinces the undying and unconditional love that a person can have for another in the face of all obstacles.

Along the way, scenes unfold that develop and underscore the deep love and sacrifice that this woman makes for her beloved grandson. Every expression and impeccably wrought emotion in the film is a matter of nuance. You’re not beaten over the head with all this. The emotions are not schmaltzy or derivative, but genuine and evolutionary in the characters and relationships. The real purpose of the film is to present love and humanity as a saving grace. Everything is understated and absolutely perfect in this gem.

I write all that to bring you to a woman who epitomizes the perfect love of the grandmother, and that woman is a French lady I met underneath the portal of Notre Dame, and her name is Martine.

Martine is the Sister Wendy of France. If you’re not familiar with Sister Wendy, then you should be. She’s a nun from England who lives in a caravan in daily prayer, meditation, and silence. She also happens to be a world-famous art historian and critic who came out of her caravan to host an acclaimed documentary series on the BBC. I remember watching her as a teenager, being fascinated with her ironic points of view, sharing her love for art, wearing her habit and coke-bottled glasses in black frames, speaking with a delightful little lisp through teeth that would make a beaver shudder. Sister Wendy takes on any piece of art and looks at it with fresh, sparkling eyes. To hear a nun talk about the firm buttocks and chiseled chest of a Michelangelo sculpture is quite a hoot, but also very endearing.

Martine is a secular Sister Wendy. A former communist and educator, she is now retired. Her passion is Paris. She knows it inside and out, upside-down, and you can walk up any street, point to a church or museum and ask, “What’s that?” and she’ll offer a dissertation. In her 60s, she was the perfect tour guide for two days, and also a dear friend of F.’s, whom he met at the American Church of Paris ten years ago. They’ve traveled together in France, she’s stayed with him at his apartment when he lived there, and they’ve engendered a warm and endearing friendship over the years.

So why is Martine a combination of Sister Wendy and the grandmother from “The Triplets of Belleville”? Besides holding an unparalleled knowledge of the art, architecture, and history of the city of Paris, she’s also a faithful mother who has raised a mentally handicapped daughter named Valerie. She’s done this on her own because her husband left her when she refused to put Valerie in a home. If that wasn’t enough, two years ago she was diagnosed with cancer, but is doing well with her treatments. At the time of our visit, she shared with us that she had an upcoming operation to remove a tumor. In spite of all this, she is an indomitable force of pure love and “joie de vivre”. She's candidly honest and fascinating. I’ve never met any person like her and when I watched “The Triplets of Belleville” with F., I turned to him and said, “She’s Martine.”

As I wrote before, I first met her outside the cathedral of Notre Dame. She took us inside and we listened to a brief rehearsal of a children’s choir from the states. She then guided us outside. The guards at the church know her well, so when we passed through a barricade to stand directly underneath the towering portal, nobody batted an eye. For the next twenty minutes, Martine offered an illuminating history of the church and vivaciously explained all the statues and reliefs on the portal.

Afterwards, we sat for an hour in the Luxembourg Gardens before heading off across the street to the Dalloyau, a landmark pâtisserie founded in 1802. On the second floor is a formal tea room replete with steaming pots of tea and a table whose expanse is dotted with gorgeous desserts, from fruit tarts to the famouse "Opera" layer cake. We each picked out our confection, sat, sipped, and chatted. For Martine, it was a place visited only on special occasions. When it came time for the check, she insisted on paying.

A few days later she met us, with thirty-four year old Valerie, outside the Musée Rodin. Valerie was a doll. She seemed to understand Martine and us because when we flattered her or asked her questions, she offered a slight smile. Valerie’s feet tend are extremely pigeon-toed, so we had to walk more slowly than usual. Martine was there with her every step of the way, holding her arm, pointing things out to her, talking with her as if she was one of us, which she was. Behind her eyes, there is a consciousness, and I wondered: is there a person inside that wants express herself desperately, but is trapped in a body that won’t allow her to do so?

One thing you should know about Valerie: she hasn’t spoken one word in her life. When I questioned Martine on this, she replied, “Not even ‘mama’.” The sounds that emanate from Valerie’s mouth are more like grunts and mumbles. Imagine being a mother, giving birth to Valerie, and taking care of her as you would a baby for the rest of your life. Imagine refusing to put your daughter in a home for the handicapped, but knowing that you have cancer and you might die from it, wondering what would happen to your precious girl when you were gone. You would never know if these thoughts were on Martine’s mind because, as I said before – and I can’t stress this enough – she has the joy of life and love in her heart and being that transcends anything that some might deem an obstacle.

After the museum, Martine offered to drive us to Montmatre, the section of Paris that rests on top of a hill, above the windmill of the Moulin Rouge where the film "Amelie" was shot. On the way, Martine took the scenic route and gave us an encapsulated education of every building and monument we drove past in rapid succession.

At the highest point in Montmartre, outside the basillica called Sacré Coeur, we stood and looked out across the breadth of the expansive city at twilight, the magic hour when the sun has passed over the Eiffel Tower and the sky glows orange and magenta. Feeling a slight chill in the air, we went to a restaurant and enjoyed a dinner of wine, chicken with a mushroom cream sauce, and for dessert, an apple tart. “She loves to eat at restaurant,” Martine said of her daughter. Valerie ate every bite, we asked for our bill, and then walked the intrepid duo back to their car, saying our adieus until the next time we saw them in Paris.

Our days in the city were packed full of divine experiences, good food and wine, and a Paris vibe that evoked the feeling of stopped time, as if everyone there appreciated being completely in the moment. It’s a city that allows that. Paris is being where you are with the people with whom you want to be without the thought of getting to where you’re going next. It’s more about the Now. Paris is a city that moves in repose.

And within that repose is a woman named Martine, an invincible spirit that rides the crest of an electric city with Valerie in tow, grunting and pulling herself back to the safety of the sidewalk with Martine determined to get her to the other side of the street. Martine, in the midst of ushering a beautifully stubborn daughter alongside her epitomized the possibility of humanity in us all, the opportunity that the phoenix has every day to rise from the ashes.

I don’t think many people have the opportunity to have such a rich and illuminating experience of art and humanity in two days the way I did. I treasure those moments, as I cherish Martine and Valerie, as I adore the grandmother and grandson in the “Triplets of Belleville”, as I find more and more in life that the precious moments of light and love are the ones that I need to hold dear to my heart and never forget.