Montmartre, Paris: Tales of art and decadence

Rita Hayworth stars in the Je T'Aime graffiti and calligraphy in the Place des Abesses

It was almost like I had landed straight from London to Montmartre. I could hardly remember anything else on the way. With a Modigliani biography in hand, this trip’s sole purpose was to walk the hill - la Butte - that was once home to the painter’s famous ilk – imaginative geniuses by day, cacophonous drunkards by night, accommodating their celebrated vices.
  The old scenic mills, the vines and the sheep have now given way to the army of souvenir shops and tourist cafés of the modern Montmartre, beckoning the visitor to rest with a croque-monsieur and a café noisette after a laborious day of sight-seeing. The breathtaking Basilica de Sacré Coeur, queen of the hill with its dominant white dome, welcomes its exhausted children in pilgrimage – the religious and the rebellious, the manic photographers and the explorers in boots.

At 12-14 rue Cortot the Musee de Montmartre celebrates art and pleasure.

 Culture and excess have traditionally gone hand-in-hand in Montmartre. Humble museums (like the adorable Musée de Montmartre , former home of Renoir, Utrillo and Valadon, among others) and neon-crazy sex shops, serene white dwellings (like the one of composer Erik Satie) and noisy boîtes, cozy family taverns and naughty cabarets. Strolling along the history-ridden streets I bump into the former home of Vincent Van Gogh, shortly before the good old saucy bohemian hangout Moulin de la Galette lures me in for a sleazy winking snapshot. King of the square Emile-Goudaud, the Bateau-Lavoir and its maze of shabby, run-down studios were once home to various painters and poets (Modigliani, Soutine, Picasso, Guillaume Apollinaire etc.), who knocked on each other’s doors to exchange ideas, lovers and wine bottles.  Picasso said it’s here he had the best of times, and somewhere in the corner of fun and famine, he came up with the classic Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon.

 Those same ladies and gents that would brainstorm some of our most spectacular artistic legacy by day, would flock to the seedy neighbouring cabarets by night. Montmartre was never one to shy away from those... Buses full of tourists still park today outside the flirtatious façade of the Moulin Rouge, teasing the eye from a distance. I ultimately walk up towards the more homely part of the hill to the Lapin Agile, a euphoric niche with an intimate atmosphere of French chanson. The wretched Bateau-Lavoir troupes would migrate here for a cheap drink (or two), exhausted from a day’s (and probably an extra night’s) work. Apparently the owner at the time had an eagle eye for artistic talent and would accept donations of original drawings in exchange for shots of absinthe. Had he lived on, he would have by now been the richest decrepit bar owner in history.

 After two days of meandering, through cinematic alleys and creative deja-vus, I walk down the hill towards the Gare du Nord. I take the first Eurostar train back, my mind restlessly wandering in history and time. Walking out the bustling streets of King’s Cross I abruptly land on my own reality, looking something like a confused Owen Wilson in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. Elated, I glimpse back and grin…

Tourists flock to the all-time cabaret classic Moulin Rouge

Soundtrack:
Le Parc de Plaisir by Francois Parisi  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87mCgrKe0rA
Gnosiennes by Erik Satie  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP6pMGOFN3o

Words and photography by Danai Molocha