May is, quite often, a month in France in which a spate of public holidays carve up the work schedule. This opens up possibilities—to enjoy extended weekends and to stay out late into the night, with no worries about showing up to the office, the next day, as one of the living dead.

May also seems to be the month when a number of studios (ateliers) start flinging open their doors, allowing the public in on their activities. So, last month, I attended a screening of films held in a large artists squat that was once an abandoned factory at La Forge, in the colorful area of Belleville. The film highlighted work done by the different artists in the squat.

I received an eMail—the sender, unknown to me. There was no flyer, just an invite to the concert, which coincided with a cheap bar and the possibility of food, including crepes. The space was very confined, both inside and out. When I arrived, everything was very civilized—a row of seats, a small gathering of people sitting patiently. It felt as though the audience was encroaching on someone’s living room. The band had no stage, but was placed on a patch of carpet, where papers—maybe lyrics, poems, the long set?—were strewn randomly. A festive mood was in evidence. Children abounded—some squashed among the crowd, some lofted high on their parents' shoulders so as to gain an improved vantage point. When the concert got underway, the increased crowd meant that chairs had to be taken out and people vied for the best spots.

•••

Now, there are those passionate singers who appear possessed when they perform (think Iggy Pop, Nick Cave, Jim Morrison). And there are those who seem to adopt different personae. Of both varieties, I recently came across one, in this far-from-standard gig spot. He had a theatrical, rodent-like face; his raffish moustache and prominent nose brought to mind Cyrano de Bergerac. With the ease of somebody changing a shirt, he would trade languages—English, French, various Latin tongues—in a schizoid fashion. His vocal range was wide, seamlessly shifting from falsetto to a harsh, deep growl. This lead singer and double bass player, fronting a band called Fantazio, was initially accompanied by two other accomplished musicians—one with a homemade drum set, stabilized by a suitcase and breeze block. (There's as much ingenuity in assembling a lot of musical and non-musical apparatuses to make music as there is in devising the songs they support.) The drummer/percussionist kicked off the concert by hitting a metal rod on concrete. The group then started what was to be a long, haphazard set.

I'd seen Fantazio's elephant symbol, picture, and posters scattered about Paris and had been curious about how they might sound. Their style encompasses a pastiche of others—jazz, reggae, rock and roll—breaking down barriers, throwing away rule books, becoming something utterly uncategorizable, existing on its own charm.

The lead singer was ably assisted by this drummer/percussion/multi-instrumentalist, who used a kit made up of a salmagundi of makeshift items as well using a wide range of instruments that included a mbira and a saw. The drummer was given free reign to play whatever he thought appropriate at any given moment. His timing was impeccable.

A guitarist completed the trio. Later, other musicians were added—an Irish banjo player…a fiddler, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Occasionally a cover tune would creep into the set (i.e., Blondie’s "Heart of Glass", a touch of Elvis); however, all were played in a marked and inimitable way. I left before things ended, but felt I'd witnessed something special, something original.

It was a national holiday and I received a friend’s tip-off phone call, setting me off to Le Divan du Monde to see a band called Apéro Tsigane. I arrived late and, when I finally got in, the place was packed. Le Divan du Monde is, in fact, in an historically notable site once known as Le Divan Japonais and frequented by the seething poet Baudelaire and painter Toulouse-Lautrec (infamous for his antics at the nearby Moulin Rouge). The style of music played at du Monde is, principally, jazz manouche— popularized by Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli. It revolves around an acoustic (Selmer-type) guitar, a violin, a double bass, an accordion and a clarinet. Apéro Tsigane has all of these elements (less the accordion), but significantly adds unexpected ingredients: Roland drum machine beats, a Dj scratching, and acid-like synth sounds.

The musicians are enthusiastic, grinning, crowd pleasing, and clad in that classic jazz musician attire—suits. Some wear hats and sport fulsome sideburns. For me, everything lifted when a flirtatious, curvaceous singer, heavily and meticulously made up, entered dramatically. She contributed significantly to the sound and ambiance. Instrumentals transformed into recognizable songs and the audience became involved, singing along, with gusto, on numbers such as "Minnie the Moocher". I was completely taken by the singer’s energy and crazy facial expressions, her sense of fun. She also had an accomplished jazz voice. Coquettish and whimsical, she would do little dances and led the musically-endowed group behind her with vim. Le Divan du Monde was the fitting venue for Apéro Tsigane, who left the stage to ringing applause.

Later, I turned up at a rare gem of a concert at Le Triptych, a fairly new locale, as the legendry record label, Trojan, played their first ever concert in Paris. The wait to get in was long and resulted in a crush. I arrived as a warm-up Dj was playing to an already full house. (Afterwards, I heard that over a thousand people were present.) Some of my friends gave up and went home, but persistence rewarded me with a memorable night.

Since its creation in 1968, Trojan Records has been at the forefront of classic Jamaican music—from the rocksteady and early reggae sounds that dominated in the years of its launch to the modern styles of dancehall and jungle. The company, which had its first British number one with Dave (Barker) and Ansel Collins' "Double Barrel", has an impressive roll call of Jamaican talent, with the likes of Bob Marley & The Wailers, Dennis Brown, John Holt, Ken Boothe, Toots & The Maytals and The Inner Circle part of its formidable roster. To think of many great ska or reggae tracks is to, more than likely, think of a Trojan track: Desmond Dekker, The Melodians, Bob & Marcia, Nicky Thomas, Freddie Notes & the Rudies, Horace Faith, and Jimmy Cliff all enjoyed commercial success. The evening and music had special significance for me, a guy who can actually brag about having attended a Bob Marley concert at the Crystal Palace Bowl, a few years before that great man's death.

Two white and wizened Djs showed up with traditional Rastafarian colors. They were, clearly, aficionados and longtime exponents of Jamaican music. Some of their records were scratchy and crackly, betraying the truth of how many years they'd been played. Well known songs were cheered and sung with. The intensity grew as two authentic Mcs (one of whom was blind; it must have been hell for him under the glare of the stage lights!) came and further animated the event. I say 'authentic', because I once experienced a French wannabe rasta, a pale shadow of this real deal—performers of a different class, their movements, the quality and range of their voices, their voluminous spirits, and the positive vibrations flying off of them. It was a rare privilege to be present at that event.

•••

I usually associate Asian art—and, in particular, Japanese art—with delicate images, refined lines, detailed wood cuts. I'd never thought of Cubism being linked to Asiatic art. Consequently, my recent visit to a show at the Japanese cultural center proved somewhat of a revelation. Seventy Cubist paintings had been shunted around Asia before arriving in Paris, and included works from eleven different countries.

This distinctive style of painting, formulated in France under the direction of Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso, arrived in Japan in 1910. Having been fused with Italian futurism and German Expressionism, it found its way to the urban metropolis of Shanghai. Cubism was uncomfortably welcomed into Korea, due to its lack of refinement and "incapacity to express poetic emotions". India received the form with more enthusiasm, as it's akin to some of that country's more traditional painting. Cubism lifted off in Southeast Asia, spanning the 1940s and '50s. In comparison to Western culture, there are similarities but also noted variations on subject matter. Landscapes, architecture, politically-motivated pieces, as well as two stark images of crucifixion scenes emanating from the Philippines, where real, gruesome crucifixion enactments take place as part of Lenten rituals, even to this day. The crucifixion scenes are some of the most enduring images, but I really enjoyed some of the depictions of woman. Having done an exhibition on "Woman", I was intrigued by how a few of the artists on display did the same. Some works seemed to shamelessly replicate painters' styles—one looked exactly like a Léger, while other artists managed to broaden and stretch the Cubist language. My enjoyment of this show was only mildly spoiled by the lighting—too clinical, too bright, making the paintings come off rather superficially.

It was in Paris, in the first decade of the 20th century, that African sculpture was first recognized as a powerful art form, and African masks have always held a real fascination for me. But what of their meaning?

Masks can be traced back to well before the Paleolithic era. Masking ceremonies in Africa have great cultural and traditional connotations and perform different functions—religious, ceremonial—to venerate initiations, crop harvesting, war preparation, and other aspects of life. Ritual ceremonies generally portray deities, spirits of ancestors, mythological beings, good and or evil, the dead, animal spirits, and other beings believed to have power over humanity. Masks are a form of protection; are used to tell stories, impart wisdom; and ask for spirit blessings or a way of communicating with ancestors. They are worn, while music and equally symbolic dance are being carried out, the dancer sometimes entering a trance-like state.

Masks, however, aren't only found in Africa; indeed, they have universal significance, being an integral part of, for instance, carnival,s which are held all around the world. I recently went to a show titled "Mascarade", at La Galerie Les Singuliers, Paris. It was put on by an art group named Dix10, comprised of Roma Napoli and JJ Dow Jones. Dix10 has been in existence since 1982 and this exhibition coincides with their twenty-fifth anniversary. The group's philosophy originated with creating not only pictoral experiments but by confronting the many issues of how art objects are conceived, viewed, and purchased; in effect, they were examining the relationship between art producer, art product, and art consumer. The viewer is compelled to reassess how s/he sees art. The materials with which the exhibit's well-executed masks were constructed include fine pieces of wood, tin, glass, and glistening gold.

There's also another motivation behind this show: Dix10 are artists of conscience and consideration for civilizations that are under attack. One of works shown will be given to Ben Henry, an Iroquois sculptor of the Onondaga Nation, citizen of the Six Nations (North America), emissary of the Iroquois Indians of Canada. The Onondaga Nation is embroiled in legal action to assert its lawful rights to its homelands in Central New York, with the principal goal of achieving legal recognition of title to its homelands. The small nation has long been engulfed by the large nation, its rights to exist, its identity, its traditions being whittled away. The Onondaga’s artifacts have been relentlessly transported miles away to be gawped at in modern art galleries. Claims of cultural patrimony and calls for the repatriation of antiquities arose with the inauguration of Le Musée du Quai Branly, intended to be seen as part of Jacques Chirac’s legacy. Some historians and human rights groups say the display perpetuates the old colonialist view of African and Asian culture as more primitive than European civilization. It's also been argued that the museum doesn't do enough to explain to visitors the damage done, by colonialism, to many cultures; that it doesn't face up to the dark side of its imperial history. There's been an obvious abuse of such civilizations, in acquisition and wanton take of these thousands of objects now arrayed for public comsumption, just as there was a ravishing of those cultures' natural materials—palm oil, petroleum, copper, chromium, platinum and, especially, gold from Africa. (Only South America, at the zenith of its silver mining, ever surpassed Africa's contribution to the growth of the global bullion supply.) Such exploitation has been crucial to the later world economy. The point made by Dix10 is that while people wander around Le Musée du Quai Branly, their thoughts should turn to civilizations such as those of Congo, Brazil, or Guinea, which are slowly and surely being obliterated. The private view incorporated speeches by the artist and experts on ethnicity. A longish explanation was read, stating that the Onondaga had lost their sovereignty and passports were now considered invalid by most countries; entry into France was, for sure, denied. The chance to give the Indian from Onondaga a gift of reconciliation and appeasement was, thus, removed.

Currently, in the enchanting L'Usine Galerie, are works by Tristan Bastit. Born in 1941, he's had a long career of international exhibitions. His subject matter is varied, although it frequently features animals. I like his philosophy:

The curator of this gallery—in operation since 1979 and seeming a hive of activity, promoting contemporary artists of different disciplines, as well as publishing books and a tri-annual magazine Empreintes—is Claude Brabant, herself a painter. Her aim is to promote "artistes maudits", she owns the place for the sheer joy of taking risks with the shows she puts on.

A friend of mine describes The Usine as "sort of mythical...one of the last bastions of free expression". The same friend thinks of Brabant as a wild anarchist and "hard-headed". She was certainly a character when I met her.

•••

I never expected the city of Chartres to hold so much meaning for me. Of course, I knew of the cathedral and the burg's historical importance. After an exchange of eMails and using my Web site and examples of my work as a calling card, I managed to secure a one-man show in a Chartres theatre, with the prerequisite that all the works, strictly of "Woman", were to coincide with a theatre piece on the same subject. Women have featured a lot in my work, but usually shadowed by men, with some kind of allegory and interaction between the two genders. The buildup to this exhibition was long, so I had time to think about the direction and composition of the show. As time drew closer, I deliberated about my depiction of Woman. I didn’t maneuver away from my usual style; I'm still fixated on recycling objet trouvé—discarded items found on the streets of Paris—and Cubist forms and shapes tinged by African and other ethnic influences. But should the woman I depict be vaunting beauty? My images are overridingly brusque and primitive, but women come in many forms—not only the idealized Western image of comeliness and, just maybe, my images of woman celebrate those in far-off lands, in other cultures. I didn’t draw on any women for reference, or use photographs as stimulus; I went with what organically flowed through my mind.

It's strange that despite the fact that Chartres is a mere 80 km southwest of Paris, and the language, the shops, are the same, I feel as though I've entered another country, there. The town is dominated by its famous cathedral, one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in Europe and built between 1194 and 1260, a relatively short time for that sort of thing (Notre Dame, in Paris, took a hundred years to build!). It's also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I was impressed by its exterior, awash with gargoyles—some destroyed by the elements or possibly by human hand—but when I finally was ale to go inside I was even more impressed by the strange aura, the unearthly radiance of the stained glass—the glowing "Chartres blue"—that fills the entire church. It seemed very dark when I first stepped inside the sizable gloam to awe-inspiring small chapels and glowing candles.

The theatre where my work is to be shown for over a month (Le Théâtre de Poche) isn't situated near the cathedral; rather, it's near a retirement home. It has a compact but ample space for showing artwork—an area for theatre goers to peruse before entering the to watch a show. Assembling a one-man show is a different experience to participating in a group show, and I'm feeling, to some extent, in the dark. I have to make visits to Chartres to assess the space; then a burdensome, grueling trip to transport the work and hang it; then arrange for the private view, or "vernisage", as they say in French. I have to fill up a space with works (some I'm still feverishly working on) to wow an unknown audience who will filter into the theatre. I've never really warmed to the idea of a private view; they don’t hold the dynamism of a concert or correlate with the original process of creating the work. It's all glasses of wine in a sterile environment, set to looks of bemusement and polite commentary. One simply plays the part, plays the game. Nonetheless, it's great to see the work up and out of my cramped Parisian apartment, allowed to discover a new town that happens to be rich with history. This project is partly about endeavor, but it also has something to do with soul searching. I tried to crystallize my thoughts in a poem: