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Articles tagged "France"

On Angoulême and Control

Illustration accompanying call for boycott. © Julie Maroh. The furor over the list of nominees for the Grand Prix of the Angoulême International Comics Festival (FIBD) should be understood as a typical example of a number of societal phenomena. I mean by this that the comics world is no more or less sexist than other communities: it’s just the same. But I also mean that this controversy was a gift for the media and for those who love to dig into such a juicy morsel since...

Saad

Saad bursts into the bedroom, where David is resting after lunch, and declares: “They’re coming! Quick, Monsieur David, let’s go see them!” The whole town seems to race toward Ambado. A cloud of dust rises into view in the distant haze between Tadjoura and the palm grove. David and Saad, on their mules, are the first to reach them. Hemmed in by around twenty armed horsemen, they’ve been marching like this for months. A thousand people of all ages, from the...

International Graphic Novels at New York Comic Con: Brazil and France

On October 8-11, 2015, the Javits Center hosted the tenth edition of the New York Comic Con, gathering a crowd of 170,000 fans, many in costume, eager to meet creators and characters. Among so many masks, tights, and capes, there was also space for international comics, discussed on two panels during the event.   Different is Cool: Gabriel Bá & Fábio Moon The 39-year-old twins from Brazil who write and draw graphic novels—sometimes in collaboration, other...

Cinépanorama

“My son can ensnare you, you know. It comes right out of his eye.” —Edith Arnold-Delon   1954 Service number T 1023 T53. You board in Toulon, headed for Indochina. Another move—just farther this time. You’ve been racking them up ever since Edith and Fabien divorced when you were four. A foster family in Fresnes, by the prison where Laval was waiting for the firing squad—you just can’t make this stuff up. They invite you to lunch. You pick a...

Where the Sidewalk Bends: Interview with Luciana Hidalgo

It should come as no surprise that walking and yoga—one of which propels her outside, letting her feet and thoughts wander her current city, the other which forces her to slow down, turn inward, and put her “constant circulation of ideas” on hold—are of equal importance to Luciana Hidalgo’s creative process. The Brazilian writer, journalist, and essayist frequently explores opposing forces in her work.  A two-time winner of Brazil’s most prestigious...

A Relentless War

There is an atmosphere of intense concentration around the solid wood table. General Makhloufi, Commander in Chief of the Royal Gendarmerie, Tangier Province, stands in front of a giant map of the region outlining the tireless battle that the police—under his leadership—are waging against the growing and trafficking of cannabis in the Rif. He pinpoints each operation on the map. Facing him, three senior officials from the US Drug Enforcement Agency in staid suits are propped up...

The Opposing Shore

The room is covered in dead leaves. Two benches are placed just so, conjuring up a bucolic garden scene, in the first days of fall, in the countryside, waiting for the season to roll by and take our memories with it. And yet we’re a mere stone’s throw from the Place de Clichy in Paris, in the eighteenth arrondissement, and it’s spring. On a small stage, a young performer from Toulouse, the twenty-eight-year-old AJ Dirtystein, is naked and covered in white rice powder....

Wild Daffodils

It was only during our first weekend together in the Vosges Mountains that I noticed how in tune we were. Before that, whenever we met I felt as if the city, the noise, and other people were preventing us from being completely ourselves. For our first evenings out we went to restaurants recommended by Sunday magazines, and these were often alike, with the stark lines of their décor, their brightly colored walls, geometric plates and expensive wines. There was nothing to tell us...

Is This How Women Grow Up?

It is all a matter of décor Change your bed change your body What’s the use since it is still Me betraying myself Indolent and scattered And my shadow undresses In the arms of girls, all alike, Where I thought I’d found a country —“Is this how men live” Louis Aragon August 1994. The afternoon seemed endless, the heat relentless. She was stretched out on the bed, hardly dressed, reading, smoking, splashing herself with water, dropping off...

from “Daewoo”

Daewoo in Lorraine: Landmarks The blue building was empty, the name of the factory had been changed, and tough shit for the men and women who had been tossed out—"report to the occupational reclassification department," which wouldn't reclassify many people. (I'm writing in March 2004: this reclassification task, which began fifteen months ago, was finished three months ago and still no statistics are available.) Layoffs continue, and if we're talking about...

from “Diary”

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The following article contains scenes depicting nudity and sexual situations. Reader discretion is advised.

Catalan


Basque


French


The Front

"The Front" is taken from Not-Quite-Botched Dispatches (But a Hard Sell for the Nightly News), a series of fictional reportages; as satire, they take for their target the trumpery and fabrication inevitable whenever "the news" is the product of an industry. Delivered in a faux-objective style, it presents the reporter as unreliable narrator: blithely and steadfastly oblivious to the increasing absurdity of the events he covers, but always possessed of the common sense that...

The Man in the Travel Trailer

"Impossible" must be eliminated from our vocabularies! —Napoleon Bonaparte Professor Pizier lives in a trailer. In order to be prepared, as he says. He's set for his getaway. His bags are packed. He has ten canisters of gasoline and if need be, could escape to North Africa via Malaga and Algeciras without stopping at a pump. If "they" come, they won't catch him. They caught him forty times. They locked him up in a camp forty times—but he always managed to slip out....

From “Paris–Athens”

To my father I. Silence I don't know when I started to write this book. I know that today is the 9th, I'm looking in my datebook: Sunday, November 9th, 1986, St. Theodore's day—no, I'm off by a week, today is only the 2nd, All Souls Day. I would have preferred to start on the 9th—Theodore is a Greek name. Oh, well; the Day of the Dead isn't bad, either. Actually, I didn't begin this book today. A year ago, perhaps. Perhaps twenty-five years ago,...

The Black Marne

When she hugged me from behind and put her cold hands on my chest, my own hand holding the razor twitched. I'd thought she was at her parents', but in her haste to see me she had bolted out to catch the bus in the middle of her mother's sentence. We had said eight o'clock, so I wasn't expecting her before nine, and though I was barely out of the shower and only half dry, I suddenly felt her against me, cold from the chill of the outdoors, her lips also cold as her...

The Trial of Jean-Marie Le Pen

By the time it starts the Blistier trial has already been known for months as "the trial of Jean-Marie Le Pen." Civil rights groups were the first to call it that, but by now the phrase, borne along on waves of public indignation, is showing up in all the headlines. Shouldn't the leader of the National Front be held responsible for the murder committed by one of his brainwashed teenaged supporters? Shouldn't Le Pen appear before the court, at least as a witness? Pierre Mine is...

Blue, White, Red

At the beginning, there was the name. A humdrum name. A two-syllable name: Moki... At the beginning, there was that name. Moki is standing in front of me. I see him again. He's talking to me. He is giving me instructions. He tells me to take care of the rest with Préfet. Don't ask him any questions. Just do what he asks me to do. Moki is there, his gaze turned upward toward the sky. He rarely takes a good look at his go-betweens. I listen to him. Continuously. Rapt. Am I...

A Bomb in the Family

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from “The Lost Cause: A Memoir of My Life with Gabriel García Marquez”

Whenever he comes to Paris, he calls immediately. "My friend,'' his voice explodes, "Why don't you come have lunch with me?" Now he's the owner of a neat, tranquil apartment right in the heart of Montparnasse. Inside, everything's dressed in light colors and seems to be organized with order and taste: English leather chairs, Wifredo Lam's engravings, a magnificent stereo, and always, always, a crystal vase in the library, with recently cut yellow roses. "They...

Making of Paris

Rogelio arrived in Paris at dawn. He was in a car accompanied by three girls; two were in charge of the wheel. Quite a feat for Sabina and Jenny, they'd never driven so much. They drove a 1990 Volkswagen with great dexterity, and on occasion they went over 150 kilometers per hour. From Berlin they never stopped harboring a doubt that, upon crossing the border between Germany and France, they wouldn't be detained even though Rogelio was carrying a visa that had expired in...

The Neighbor

All of us-myself, my children, and the friends who now and then drop to see us-are scared stiff of our neighbor on the floor below. Our life as expatriates in Paris is full of hidden anxieties and emotions. There is, first of all, a feeling of guilt for having come as strangers from across the border to encroach upon the rights of the native inhabitants. Underneath this guilty feeling lurks a silent, seething rage that must be suppressed, and a nagging sense of humiliation waiting for...

from Framed

Thirty-five paintings, practically all the same: indescribable black scribblings on a black background. Obsessive, sick. The day they arrived at the gallery I unpacked them one by one, going faster and faster, wanting to see the surprise and the splash of color. At first glance everyone thought they were sinister. Even Jacques, my colleague. He's the master picturehanger; I'm just his apprentice. "We're pushed for time, kid. Doors open in twenty-five minutes!" The...

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