In the afternoon of that Paris day I went to the Centre Pompidou to see a large André Breton exhibition that was actually, I believe, an excuse to deploy a vast surrealist imagery rarely seen in one place. I was accompanied by friends I was staying with, a young couple, heterogeneous in more than one sense, for it combined two races, two faiths and two arts, but what’s more, two extremely contrasting countenances. Hers was the face I was watching reflected by the glass over some Delvaux, and she seemed to belong right there, organically surrounded by blond and naked women waiting (for whom?) in a deserted railroad station.
She looked just like them except for her hair violently shorn at the nape. And, naturally, her clothes, which included the proverbial man’s black shirt I’ve seen her most often in throughout the week of my stay. How on earth has a Romanian lass from Sibiu found this Algerian she was living with, I haven’t the faintest. My connection was, of course, with her, via a mutual woman friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber, proud of his ancestry, as betokened by the velvet skullcap with dark-cherry shimmers and blue sateen top, which, as far as I know, never left his head. Otherwise, he was like her fun, carefree, somewhat indolent…Impossible to tell how he made his living. I doubt it was by acting, as he (hasn’t even) pretended: it was unlikely that the only part I could vaguely see him in – Othello – was staged in Paris often those days…
In the entire exhibition, just one painting lingered in my memory. I think I am cracked: sometimes I love a painting so much that I feel literally like breaking into the museum and carrying it off. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe,” “Evening Falls:” a broken window, long shards disposed upright underneath, refracting the twilight sun under various angles…
From “Evening Falls,” a short story by Mircea Cărtărescu .“Why Do We Love Women,” Humanitas Publishing House, 200

During that afternoon in Paris, at the Pompidou Center, I had just seen a major André Breton show, in fact a pretext for a display of surrealist imagery rarely captured under one roof. I went in the company of the friends I was staying with, a young couple, mixed in more than one sense, since it blended two races, two religions and two arts, but more specifically two sets of extremely contrasting features. She, I would look at her face reflection in the Delvaux glass and she seemed to have always been there, surrounded naturally by blond naked women waiting (for whom?) in a deserted train station. She was just like them, except the crudely cut hair on her neck. And, of course, her clothing, like the famous men’s black shirt, which I had seen her wearing most of the times during the week I stayed with them. No idea how this Romanian woman from Sibiu had met the Algerian she was living with. My connection had been of course, she, through a mutual friend, also a musician. He was a Berber proud of his own origin, marked by the purple hued velvet hat with blue silk top which he never seemed to part with. This way, just like her, he was, funny, nonchalant, rather lazy… Hard to tell how he made a living. I doubted it was acting, as he (not even) pretended: I don’t think Othello– the only part I could imagine him play – would run too often in Paris during those days... One single painting stuck with me of the entire show . I think I am crazy: sometimes I fall so madly in love with a painting, I feel like literally breaking into the museum and snatching it. This time it was Magritte’s „Le soir qui tombe”: a shattered window, long glass shards standing underneath and setting sun covering them with its reflection at myriad angles...

From „Seara care cade”, a short story by Mircea Cărtărescu. „De ce iubim femeile”, Humanitas Publishing House, 2004.

That Parisian afternoon I had gone to the Pompidou Center to see a big André Breton exhibition, a pretext, in fact, for a display of surrealist imagery that one can rarely see all in one place. I was accompanied by the friends I was staying with, a young couple, mixed from multiple points of view, for they brought together two very different races, religions, and arts, and especially two very contrasting physiognomies. I was looking at her face reflected in the glass of a Delvaux, and she looked like she belonged there, naturally surrounded by naked blonde women waiting (for whom?) in a deserted railway station. She looked just like them, except for her hair, violently cut at the base of her neck. And of course, except for her clothes, among which the famous men’s black shirt, which I had seen her wear for most of the week I was staying with them. How this Romanian girl from Sibiu had found the Algerian guy she was living with, I have no idea. My connection to them was, of course, her—through a mutual friend, also a musician. He was a Berber, proud of his origins, marked by his velvet fez with burgundy waters and Indian satin lining, with which I believe he never parted. Otherwise, he was, just like her, carefree, and a bit lazy… Impossible to figure out how he made a living. I doubt it was from acting, as he (not even) pretended: I don’t believe Othello, the only role I could picture him in, was staged too often those days in Paris… From the whole exhibition, only one painting stuck with me. I think I’m certifiable: sometimes I love a painting so much that I literally want to break into a museum and steal it. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long shards standing underneath it, and the twilight sun reflected in them from different angles. From “Evening Falls,” a short story by Mircea Cărtărescu. “Why We Love Women,” Humanitas Publishing House, 2004.

On the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen a big André Breton exhibition at the Pompidou Centre. This was actually a pretext for a presentation of surrealistic imagery you can rarely see in a single place. I was accompanied by the friends who were hosting me, a young couple, a mixture from various points of view, as they represented two races, two religions and two arts, but especially two highly contrasting physiognomies. I looked at her face, reflected in the glass of some Delvaux and it seemed that she was from the place, naturally surrounded by naked blond women, waiting (for whom?) in a desert station. She was just like them, except for her hair that was violently cut at her nape. And of course, the clothes, among which the famous black male shirt I had seen her wearing most of the times during the week I had been spending with them. How had this Romanian woman from Sibiu found the Algerian she lived with? I have no idea. My connection was her, of course, through a common friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber and he was so proud of his origin, marked by the velvet cap with dark red touches and a bottom of blue atlas. I guess he always wore that cap. Thus, he was funny, indifferent, quite lazy, just like her… I can’t say what he made a living out of. I doubt it was acting, as (he hadn’t even) pretended: I don’t think Othello – the only part I could see him in more or less – was very acted in Paris those days… Of all the exhibition, one single painting has remained in my mind. I think I must be nuts: sometimes I love a painting so much, that I literally feel like breaking into the museum and go away with it. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long pieces of broken glass standing under it and the setting sun reflecting in them under different angles.

In the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen, at the Pompidou Center, a great exhibition of André Breton, a pretext, in fact, for a display of surrealistic imagery as you can rarely see in a single place. My friends, who put me up, accompanied me, a young couple, mixed in several ways, as it brought together two races, two religions and two arts, but above all two extremely opposite physiognomies. I looked at her face as it reflected in the glass of a Delvaux and it seemed to belong there, naturally surrounded by blonde female nudes waiting (for whom?) in a deserted train station. She was their living image, except for the hair, brutally cut at the nape of her head. And, of course, for the clothes, among which the famous black men’s shirt, that I saw her in most of the time in the week I had stayed with them. How that Romanian girl from Sibiu had managed to find the Algerian she lived with, I didn’t have the slightest idea. My connection was, of course, her, through a mutual friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber proud of his descent, showing it by the velvet cap with cherry shades and blue satin bottom that I believe he never separated from. Thus he was, just like her, funny, nonchalant, a little lazy... It was impossible to tell what he lived of. For I doubt it was acting, as he (hardly) claimed: I didn’t believe Othello – the only part I could have imagined him playing – was staged very often these days in Paris... Out of the entire exhibition there was one painting that stayed in my mind. I must be crazy: sometimes I love a painting so much that I literally want to break into the museum and take it away. It was Magritte’s „Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long shards of glass standing underneath and the setting sun reflected in them under different angles...

That afternoon in Paris at the Pompidou Centre, I visited a spectacular André Breton exhibition that was merely an excuse for a display of surreal imagery that can only rarely be gathered together under the same roof. My friends, where I stayed, joined me: a young mixed couple in more than one way, as it blended together two races, two religious beliefs, as well as two artistic expressions, but most of all, two extremely contrasting countenances. I watched her face mirrored in the pane of a Delvaux: she seemed part of it, genuinely surrounded by naked blonde women waiting (for whom?) in a forlorn station. She seemed one of their own, excepting the saveage haircut at the back of her neck. And of course, the clothing, with the invariant masculine black shirt that I've seen her wearing most of the time throughout my week with them. How on earth did this Romanian woman from Sibiu meet the Algerian man she was living with, beats me! My relationship to them was she, of course, via a mutual friend, a musician herself. He was of Berber origin and very proud of it, and manifested it by means of a velvet cap in shades of cherry red with blue satin top he never parted from. Thus, he was, just like her, funny, carefree, a bit lazy... It was impossible to tell how did he earn his living. I doubt it was acting - as he would (not quite) claim. I really doubt that Othello - the only part I could match him to - was on often enough those days in Paris... My memory retained only one painting out of the entire exhibition. I think I'm not in the right mind: sometimes I fall in love with a painting so hard that I literally feel like breaking into the museum and take that away. This time it was Magritte's "Le soir qui tombe": a broken window, long vertical fragments of glass beneath and bits of the setting sun lingering in them under various angles...

During the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen a great André Breton exhibition at the Pompidou Centre, a pretext, in fact, for a display of surrealist imagery one can rarely witness in a single location. I had been accompanied by the friends I lived with, a young couple, mixed under several meanings of the word, for it reunited two races, two religions and two arts, but foremost two extremely contrasting physiognomies. It was her face I was looking at, reflected in the glass of some Delvaux and she seemed to really belong there, naturally surrounded by naked blond women waiting (for whom?) in an empty train station. She was just like them, except for the hair violently cut at her nape. And, of course, except for the clothes, among which the famous manly black shirt in which I had seen her most of the time during the week I had stayed with them. How this Romanian girl from Sibiu had found the Algerian she lived with, I haven’t got a clue. My connection had obviously been her, by way of a common girl friend, also a musician. He was a Berber proud of his origin, which was marked by his velvet cap of cherry-coloured waves and blue satin bottom that I believe he never parted with. Otherwise, he was, like her, indifferent, a bit lazy... Impossible to say what he made a living from. For I doubt it was from his acting, as he (hadn’t even) pretended to: I don’t think Othello – the only part I saw him play to some extent – was on too often in Paris in those days... Out of the entire exhibition only one painting lingered in my mind. I must be crazy: I sometimes love a picture so much that I literally feel like breaking into the museum and running off with it. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long pieces of glass standing underneath it and the sun in the twilight reflected in them under various angles...