Paris - Photography of David Allan Barker

Continuing with the month of May’s theme of “what was but is no more” I offer a wide shot inside Notre-Dame de Paris beneath the site of the former spire. On April 15, 2019, the roof caught fire during renovations and, among other damages, this caused the central spire to collapse. Because it is a building of both religious and national importance, the French legislature resolved that, instead of modernizing the building, it should be restored to its former glory as a preeminent example of French Gothic architecture. Hopefully, the workers who perform the next renovation have better luck than the previous workers.

This calls to mind the Ship of Theseus paradox. First proposed by ancient Greek philosophers, the paradox asks what would happen if you replaced each piece of Theseus’s ship, board by board, until none of the original boards remained. Could you call the resulting ship the Ship of Theseus? Or would it be a new ship? We can pose the same problem in relation to the human body which is “refurbished” every 7 years. Can we say that we are the same person we were 7 years ago when our present body shares none of the physical material that comprised our former body? Memory gives us a sense of continuity, but memory may have no bearing on the problem of identity.

As for the Cathedral that stands on the Île de la Cité, I’m inclined to think it ceased being the Notre-Dame de Paris years ago, back when French society determined that it was a secular society that, among other things, would forbid Moslem women from wearing hijab in the public sphere. Theoretically, the same rules apply to the Cathedral at least to the extent that the Cathedral is a symbol of national secular pride. This makes for a very different building than the building which figures in Victor Hugo’s novel. If all it’s good for is to rouse politicians like Emmanuel Macron into fits of patriotism, why not burn it to the ground?

I suppose you’re going to call me a philistine or a dilettante because I go to museums not to look at the works of art but to look at the people looking at the works of art. And maybe you’re right. But to my mind, people are infinitely more interesting than works of art, especially if those works of art are hundreds of years old and commissioned by powerful people or institutions as a way to celebrate the fact that their social station granted them such power. In polite moments, I’d call this tautological; in blunter moments, I’d call this masturbatory.

Now, we hang these works in galleries that are accessible to humbler sorts like you and me, but in a way the message remains the same. We allow these paintings to persuade us that there is an official Art with a capital “A” that is worthy and valuable, and then there is the pedestrian stuff that humbler sorts like you and me produce that, however, compelling, is not so valuable.

We come into the presence of these works like travellers on a religious pilgrimage, and we abase ourselves before them mostly by photographing them as a sign of our absolute belief that nothing could be a worthier subject matter for our cameras. Outside these walls there may be people and traffic and gardens and birds winging through the sky, but who are we to decide that such things deserve our attention? We are mere worms, unable to decide for ourselves what is beautiful or stirring.

To be honest, I have no idea what people are thinking when they whip out their cameras in the Louvre. All I know is what I am thinking when I catch them in the act. I laugh and cringe in equal measures.