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Dokumen - Pub - The Flaneur Abroad Historical and International Perspectives 1443860166 9781443860161
Dokumen - Pub - The Flaneur Abroad Historical and International Perspectives 1443860166 9781443860161
Dokumen - Pub - The Flaneur Abroad Historical and International Perspectives 1443860166 9781443860161
Edited by
Richard Wrigley
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives,
Edited by Richard Wrigley
All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
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Introduction ................................................................................................. 1
Fig. 1-1. Anon, frontispiece to Rétif de͒La Bretonne, Les Nuits de Paris (1789),
engraving. Private Collection.
Fig. 1-2. William Hogarth, The Times of Day: Morning, 1738, engraving, 34.1 x
23.5 cm. ͒© The Trustees of the British Museum.
Fig. 1-3. Charles-Germain de Saint-Aubin, “Bâtir Est beau, mais detruire est
Sublime,” 1761,͒ watercolour, ink and graphite on paper, 18.7 x 13.2 cm.,
Livre de Caricatures tant bonnes que mauvaises, Waddesdon Manor, The
Rothschild Collection (The National Trust), acc. no. 675.358. Photo: Imaging
Services Bodleian Library © The National Trust, Waddesdon Manor.
Fig. 3-1. Lorenzo de Quirós, Triumphal arch erected in the Calle de Carretas for
the Entry of Charles III, 1760, oil on canvas, 112 x 167 cm.. Museo de
Historia, Madrid.
Fig. 3-2. Antonio Espinosa de los Monteros, Plano Topographico de la Villa y
Corte de Madrid, 1769, 165 x 234 cm.. Biblioteca Nacional de España.
Fig. 3-3. Antonio Espinosa de los Monteros, Plano Topographico de la Villa y
Corte de Madrid, 1769, detail of the Paseos del Prado and Atocha.
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives ix
Fig. 5-2. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London,
1848), 25.
Fig. 5-3. Anonymous wood engraver, after drawing by John Leech, initial letter
from chapter 8 of the “Physiology of the London Idler,” “Of the Mooner,”
Punch, vol. 3 (January 1842), 82. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon
Collection.
Fig. 5-4. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London,
1848), 49.
Fig. 5-5 Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London,
1848), 73.
Fig. 5-6. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning,
vignette initial letter from the opening of chapter 9, The Natural History of the
Idler upon Town (London, 1848), 71.
Fig. 5-7. Ebeneezer Landells, wood engraving after a drawing by John Leech,
quarter-page illustration from chapter 8 of the “Physiology of the London
Idler,” “Of the Mooner,” Punch, or the London Charivari , vol. 3 (January
1842), 82. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.
Fig. 5-8. Ford Madox Brown, sketch for Work (1852, retouched 1864),
watercolour over pencil, 7 ¾ x 11 ins (19.7 x 28 cm.). Manchester City Art
Galleries.
Fig. 5-9. Henry Vizetelly, “France No. 3” (detail), hand-coloured chromolithograph
after a watercolour, from Dickinsons' Comprehensive Pictures of the Great
Exhibition of 1851, from the Originals Painted for H.R.H. Prince Albert by
Messrs. Nash, Haghe, and Roberts, R.A. (Dickinson, Brothers: London, 1854).
Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.
Fig. 5-10. Henry Vizetelly, “France No. 4” (detail), hand-coloured chromolithograph
after a watercolour, from Dickinsons' Comprehensive Pictures of the Great
Exhibition of 1851, from the Originals Painted for H.R.H. Prince Albert by
Messrs. Nash, Haghe, and Roberts, R.A. (Dickinson, Brothers: London, 1854).
Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.
Fig. 6-1. Ramón Cilla, “En la Puerta del Sol,” Madrid Cómico, no. 192 (23
October 1886), 4, 5. Biblioteca Residencia de estudiantes, Madrid.
Fig. 6-2. José Jiménez y Aranda, “El Mentidero,” La Ilustracion Española y
Americana, supplement to no. 47 (22 December, 1878). Biblioteca Virtual
Miguel de Cervantes.
Fig. 6-3. José Luis Pellicer, “Una acera de la Puerta del Sola al anochecer,” La
Ilustración Española y Americana, no. 17 (8 May 1876), 304/305. Biblioteca
Virtual Miguel de Cervantes.
Fig. 6-4. “High Life”, El Solfeo, no. 183 (2 March 1876): “And how is Mrs X’s
salon this year?” “Admirable (etonant) [sic], the most select people of
Madrid’s society gather there.” “Then I must be there this evening.”
Hemeroteca Municipal de Madrid.).
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives xi
Fig. 6-5. José Luis Pellicer, “En la Puerta del Sol. High-Liffe”, Madrid Cómico,
no. 270 (21 April 1888), 4. Biblioteca Residencia de estudiantes, Madrid.
Fig. 7-1. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I. A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (St Isaac Square, right side of the street), paper
mounted on linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-2. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P. S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Palace Square, left side of the street), paper
mounted on linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-3. The Panorama of Nevsky Prospect, rolled in marbled paper tubes with a
printed label of Prévost’s shop, h. 21.6 cm., d. 7.6 cm. The Getty Research
Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-4. Mikhail Makhaev (drawn by), Yu. Vasiliev (engraved by), Plan of St
Petersburg with the Representation of its Most Significant Prospects,
engraving, 1753-61. Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library,
Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.
Fig. 7-5. Nicolas de Fer, Plan de la Nouvelle Ville de Petersbourg, 1717, 48 x 38.5
cm., engraving. The National Library of Israel, Eran Laor Cartographic
Collection, Shapell Family Digitization Project and The Hebrew University of
Jerusalem, Department of Geography, Historic Cities Research Project.
Fig. 7-6. Nevsky Prospect, View to the Admiralty, ca. 1890-1900, photomechanical
print, photochrome, colour. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs
Division, Washington, D.C.
Fig. 7-7. Mikhail Makhaev (drawn by), Yu. Vasiliev (engraved by), View of
Nevsky Perspective Road from the Admiralty towards East, engraving, 1753-
61. Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox
and Tilden Foundation.
Fig. 7-8. John Augustus Atkinson (made and published by), Panoramic View of St.
Petersburg dedicated by permission to His Imperial Majesty Alexander I, c.
1805-7, aquatint, 438 x 810 mm., plate 1 of 4. Library of Congress Prints and
Photographs Division Washington, D.C.
Fig. 7- 9. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P. S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Police Bridge, left side), paper mounted on
linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-10. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I.A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Police Bridge, right side), paper mounted on
linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-11. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P. S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (New Street across from Michael Palace, left
side), paper mounted on linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute,
Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-12. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I.A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Anichkov Palace, right side), paper mounted on
linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-13. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I. A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Cathedral of Our Mother of Kazan, right side),
xii List of Illustrations
paper mounted on linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los
Angeles.
Fig. 7-14. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P.S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (St Catherine’s Church, left side), paper mounted
on linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-15. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P.S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Café Volf and Béranger, left side), paper
mounted on linen, 914 x 15 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-16. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Police Bridge, detail), paper mounted on linen,
914 x 15 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 7-17. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P. S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Anichkov Bridge, left side), paper mounted on
linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
Fig. 9-1. František Kupka, L’Argent, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 41, 11 January
1902, cover, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University
Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-2. Théophile-Alexander Steinlen, Hiver, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 1, 4 April,
1901, n.p., photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-3. Georges Dupuis, La Hurle, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 153, 5 March 1904,
cover, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-4. Théophile-Alexander Steinlen, La Foule, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 13, 27
June 1901, n.p., photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University
Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-5. Charles Huard, Parisiens! L’Assiette au beurre, no. 1, 4 April 1901, 19,
photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-6. Théophile-Alexander Steinlen, Représentation gratuite, L’Assiette au
beurre, no. 15, 11 July 1901, 256, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection,
Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-7. Théophile-Alexander Steinlen, Tout ça, c’est-il pour manger? L’Assiette
au beurre, no. 4, 25 April 1901, 76, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection,
Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-8. Hermann Vogel, VIII. Danse Macabre. L’Eau de vie, L’Assiette au
beurre, no. 16, 18 July 1901, n.p., photoengraving. Rare Book Collection,
Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-9. Fernand-Louis Gottlob, Le Snob charitable, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 20,
15 August 1901, 322-3, photoengraving of original lithograph. Rare Book
Collection, Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Fig. 9-10. Caran d’Ache (Emmanuel Poiré), Les démarches, L’Assiette au beurre,
no. 40, 4 January 1902, 622, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana
University Library, Indianapolis.
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives xiii
Richard Wrigley
INTRODUCTION
the abyss.”
Themes that emerged in discussions on and between papers included
the relative status of the city’s visual appearance and character in writing –
be it journalism, literary chronicles, or legislation. What did it mean to try
to capture or trace the outlines and contours of the city’s fabric and spaces?
Is textual visualisation a particular genre, with its own history and changing
conventions; or does it constitute a specialised form of narrative? From the
eighteenth century onwards, one solution to this is to make the narrator a
mobile spectator.
It is obvious that one should not casually easily equate prints,
photographs and film with written descriptions and evocations. Yet it is
striking that early versions of the flâneur are quick to call on graphic
illustration to flesh out and add a sense of observational detail to different
kinds of discursive account. Indeed, Jonathan Conlin suggests that Gabriel
de St-Aubin was an artist-flâneur almost a century before Baudelaire came
up with his own formulation of what a “painter of modern life” should do
and why it was Constantin Guys who fulfilled this programme. While St-
Aubin’s images are meticulously notated and empirically grounded, they
are characteristically often somewhat fantastical. This might seem to chime
in with a personalised, episodic form of vision and transcription which can
be thought of as corresponding to a flâneur’s outlook, but he operated in an
essentially private register, in which his sustained scrutiny and reinvention
of scenes from Parisian life becomes part of an introverted palimpsest.
In the later eighteenth and early nineteenth century, attention given to
daily life as a symptom of the state of a city became a familiar theme in
journalism in the form of descriptive vignettes, sometimes accompanied by
prints. Christian Deuling’s chapter gives an account of a journal whose sole
concern was to provide reportage on London and Paris for an audience
based in Germany. However, the fact that the journal existed at a time
when the impact of the French Revolution was working its way through
European social and political systems provided an urgent demand for news
and comment. The prints which were part of this journal can be seen as
sharing a satirical vocabulary which crossed frontiers between Germany,
France and Britain. This imagery is evidence of an appetite for imaginative
travel narratives and anecdotes, and the well-established role of comparison
in making sense of the unfamiliar. Such an outlook was indeed germane to
reflecting on the transferability of homegrown forms of pedestrian
observer. Interestingly, the prints oscillate between being plausibly
descriptive and obviously satirical, thus nicely illustrating the way
reportage was an eclectic, indeed heterogeneous discourse which required
attentive decoding.
6 Introduction
The flâneur travelled as much, if not more so, on the page, as on foot.
Huart’s Physiologie du flâneur (Paris, 1841) has long been a classic text, if
tending to be referred to in passing, or as an obligatory, if somewhat
decontextualised, reference. Jo Briggs explores this canonical monograph
in detail, by means of an analysis of the degree of dependence on or
deviation from it found in Albert Smith’s The Natural History of the Idler
upon Town (London, 1848). She addresses the way both texts rely on a
steady sequence of prints, in varied formats – chapter headings, vignettes,
full-page ‘portraits’ – to accentuate distinctions between flâneur, musard,
and mooner. Her particular thematic focus is the relation of these observers
to work as an urban spectacle, which offers a precise antithesis to the
leisured observers who circulate or drift between such points of visual
curiosity. Briggs places imagery in the foreground, asking how this
corresponds to text, while also highlighting different graphic idioms, in so
far as Smith is palpably a variant form of Huart, but with its own
independent, local outlook and attitudes. Their strong connections add to
the argument that the flâneur was not a Parisian monopoly, and neither was
there any means to constrain its adaptation. The logic and identity of
flâneur and idler is set against attitudes to the visibility of work in public
places. Nonetheless, as Briggs underlines, for all the Idler’s repackaging
and relocating in a London context, Smith borrows wholesale from the
Parisian prototype, marrying mimicry with chauvinism.
The political status of the flâneur was a primary concern of certain
papers across a range of periods and locations. Deuling notes how
“Winckler's reports from Paris lack the aimless searching movement of the
casual stroller. His flâneur is a political analyst.” As a witness to the
unfolding events and conflicts of the Revolution, this was inevitable, but
such an outloook was not automatic, being entwined with preconceptions
about Paris as capital of luxury and vice, literary and theatrical culture.
Deuling’s aperçu in fact highlights the very limited degree to which such a
reading of the flâneur has been considered previously, in so far as
Benjamin’s alienated consumer strolling through passages, or the flâneur
as gendered observer have been taken to be the most substantive critical
revisions to the stereotype and its meaning. Indeed, as Laurent Turcot
points out, when the flâneur crystallised in the mid-nineteenth century, it
was explicitly identified with forms of public life which were detached
from institutionalised political culture – an aspect also underlined by Jo
Briggs in her comparison of texts by Louis Huart and Albert Smith from
the 1840s. Commentators on Benjamin’s idiosyncratic reconstruction of the
flâneur such as Susan Buck Morss have of course related flânerie to matters
of political fragmentation in the early twentieth century, the context which
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives 7
Notes
i
Paris au cinéma: lieux, personnages, histoire. Au-delà du flâneur, part of the
research programme on City and Cinema, Institut National de l’Histoire de l’Art,
Paris, 6-7 December 2012. A similar sense of exegetical exhaustion was expressed
in Tom Gretton, “Not the Flâneur again: reading magazines and living the
metropolis around 1880,” in Aruna D’Souza and Tom McDonough (eds), The
Invisible Flâneuse? Gender, public space, and visual culture in nineteenth-century
Paris (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006), 94-112. A variant on this
is the idea that the flâneur became extinct; see Elizabeth Rechniewski, “When and
why did the flâneur die? A modern detective story,” Literature and Aesthetics, 17:
2 (2007): 91-104.
ii
Notable critiques of Benjamin are Martina Lauster, Sketches of the Nineteenth
Century. European Journalism and its Physiologies, 1830–50 (London: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2007), Martina Lauster, “Walter Benjamin’s myth of the flâneur,” The
Modern Language Review, 102: 1 (Jan. 1, 2007): 139-56.
iii
See Ting Chang, “Disorienting Orient: Duret and Guimet, Anxious Flâneurs in
Asia,” in D’Souza and McDonough (eds), The Invisible Flâneuse?, 65-78, a topic
further developed by the same author in Travel, Collecting, and Museums of Asian
Art in Nineteenth-Century Paris (Ashgate: Farnham and Burlington, VT, 2013).
iv
Anna-Louise Milne, “From Third-Worldism to Fourth-World Flânerie? François
Maspero’s Recent Journeys,” French Studies, no. 60 (2006): 492-502.
v
“In the Waiting-Room of History,” London Review of Books, 26: 12 (24 June
2004): 3-8. See also Adebayo Williams, “The postcolonial flâneur and other
fellow-travellers: conceits for a narrative of redemption,” Third World Quarterly,
18: 5 (1997): 821-41, and Liesbeth Minnaard, “The Postcolonial Flâneur: Ramsey
Nasr’s ‘Antwerpse Stadsgedichten’,” Dutch Crossing: Journal of Low Countries
Studies, 37: 1 (March, 2013): 79-92, in which postcolonial flânerie refers to “a
particular way of processing the, at times, overwhelming experiences of the
increasingly globalized metropolis” – in this case Antwerp, by Ramsey Nasr, a
writer of PalestinianǦDutch background who was appointed “City Poet of
The Flâneur Abroad: Historical and International Perspectives 13
Antwerp” in 2005. See also Hazel Hahn, “The Flâneur, the Tourist, the Global
Flâneur, and Magazine Reading as Flânerie,” Dix-Neuf (special issue: ‘Rethinking
the Flâneur: Flânerie and the Senses’, guest editor Aimée Boutin), 16: 2 (July
2012): 193-210.
vi
Robert Adlington, Composing Dissent: avant-garde music in 1960s Amsterdam
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).
vii
Susan Buck-Morss, “The Flâneur, the Sandwichman and the Whore: The
Politics of Loitering,” New German Critique, no. 39, Second Special Issue on
Walter Benjamin (Autumn, 1986): 99-140.
8
Pamela Parkhurst Ferguson, Paris as Revolution. Writing the Nineteenth-Century
City (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: California University Press, 1994), 80-114.
Symptomatically, she reproaches Christopher Prendergast (in his Paris and the
Nineteenth Century (Blackwell: Cambridge MA. and Oxford, 1992), 102-25) for
accounting for Flaubert’s treatment of flânerie “entirely in political terms” (242
note 8).
9
See Julie A. Buckler, Mapping St Petersburg: Imperial Text and Cityshape
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 99-100.
10
Vanesa Rodriguez-Galindo notes the following studies: Dorde Cuvardic García,
“El flâneur y la flâneire en el costumbrismo español,” Filología y Lingüistíca,
XXXV (1) (2009): 23-38; Edward Baker, Materiales para escribir Madrid:
Literatura y espacio urbano de Moratín a Galdós (Madrid: Siglo 21 de España
Editores, 1991), 26-32; Vicente Pla Vivas, La ilustración gráfica del siglo XIX
(Valencia: Universitat de Valencia, 2010), 123-42; Dorde Cuvardic García, El
flâneur en las prácticas culturales, el costumbrismo y el modernismo (Paris:
Éditions Publibook Universitaires, 2012).
CHAPTER ONE
JONATHAN CONLIN
In his book Imagining the Modern City James Donald discusses the
modern city as at once a text and a built environment. The city is made up
of both bricks and mortar and that imagined city that we all carry around
with us in our imaginations. The city of the imagination weaves its web of
metaphors, associations and fantasies around the actual buildings, streets
and spaces. Meanwhile the buildings’ design shifts to reflect those
fantasies, in turn spawning new ones. Crucial to this mutually-reflexive
evolution is the city’s “textuality.” This textuality is confirmed, Donald
writes, by the fact of the city's “representative figures.”1 Chief among
these figures is the flâneur. The flâneur “embodies a certain perspective
on, or experience of, urban space and the metropolitan crowd.” He sells
the city to a bourgeois audience as a set of vignettes, characters and
caricatures.2
The figure of the flâneur has (as Donald himself notes) become
something of a cliché, a stereotype. The word itself was first defined by
the newspaper Figaro in 1831 as a male who visited all free spectacles,
who made the street his salon and shop windows his furniture. But it does
not seem to have been much in use in Paris until the 1840s, when Louis
Huart published his Physiologie du flâneur (1844), part of the fad for such
physiologies of urban types.3 Writing in 1843, Jules Janin seems to have
been the first Frenchman to claim that one could only be a flâneur in
Paris.4 Historians, art historians and literary scholars have repeatedly
drawn on two essays: one by Baudelaire (“Le Peintre de la vie moderne,”
1845) and one by the Frankfurt School sociologist Walter Benjamin
(Paris, capitale du XIXe siècle, 1935). The flâneur has been canonized as
the patron saint of the nineteenth-century city and of modernity itself, all
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 15
The crowd is his element, as the air is that of birds and water of fishes. His
passion and his profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the
perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up
house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in
the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to
feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the
world, and yet to remain hidden from the world... The spectator is a prince
who everywhere rejoices in his incognito.6
The flâneur is a solitary walker who patrols the city with a certain
hauteur. One might define him thus: a solitary, disembodied being of the
masculine gender who roams the streets in silence, gathering impressions
in order to relay them later on to his peers. The adjective “solitary” is
important. Though it is possible to find earlier texts celebrating urban
walks (by John Donne, for example), those walks are in company - a
profoundly different and by its very nature more social proposition.7
The flâneur is characterized as a quintessentially Parisian figure, a
product of the nineteenth century. Benjamin states clearly that “the flâneur
is a creation of Paris.”8 Benjamin is willing to contemplate the hypothesis
by which the flâneur might have emerged in other cities, but Rome is the
only apparent contender. To continue quoting from one of his index cards
on “Der Flaneur”:
The striking thing is that it didn’t happen to Rome. Why? Do not one’s
very dreams follow the streets there? Why, is not that city so crammed
with temples, quiet squares and folk idols that every paving stone, shop
sign and entryway affords the passer-by such stuff as dreams are made of?
... It was not the foreign visitor but the Parisians themselves who made it
16 Chapter One
the promised land of the flâneur, that “landscape made of life itself,” as
Hoffmannsthal once called it. A landscape: that is exactly what the city is
for the flâneur.9
Paris created the flâneur, and in so far as Paris is the capital of the
nineteenth century, so the flâneur is, ipso facto, a phenomenon of the
nineteenth century. This city is his aquarium, and anywhere else at any
other historical period he is, as it were, a fish out of water. As Théophile
Gautier himself claimed: “The flâneur is a being unknown in London.”9
This essay proposes to seek the flâneur in the wrong place (London) and at
the wrong time (the eighteenth century). Far from being a product of the
nineteenth century, of Benjamin's arcades and Haussmann’s boulevards,
this apparently eccentric exploration discovers the solitary urban
promenader walking the streets more than a century before his supposed
birth - and not in Paris, but in London.
In the fourth issue of his journal, The Spectator, Joseph Addison’s Mr
Spectator strikes a familiar pose:
One would think a silent Man ... should be very little liable to
Misinterpretations; and yet I remember I was once taken up for a Jesuit, for
no other Reason but my profound Taciturnity. It is from this Misfortune,
that to be out of Harm's Way, I have ever since affected Crowds. He who
comes into Assemblies only to gratifie his Curiosity, and not to make a
Figure, enjoys the Pleasures of Retirement in a more exquisite Degree,
than he possibly could in his Closet; ... To be exempt from the Passions
with which others are tormented, is the only pleasing Solitude. I can very
justly say with the antient Sage, I am never less alone than when alone...
There are so many Gratifications attend this publick sort of Obscurity, that
some little Distastes I daily receive have lost their Anguish; and I did the
other Day, without the least Displeasure, overhear one say of me, That
strange Fellow; ... There are, I must confess, many to whom my Person is
as well known as one of their nearest Relations, who give themselves no
further Trouble about calling me by my Name or Quality, but speak of me
very currently by Mr. What-d'ye-call-him.10
editors, artists and latter-day historians’ obsessions than it does about the
city itself.
and in the first quarter of the eighteenth century the developers behind
large West End estates such as the Bedford Estate laid down rules
governing paving and street cleaning (scavenging).20 The 1762
Westminster Paving Act transferred responsibility for paving from the
individual proprietor to a body of paving commissioners with the authority
to impose a rate on the parish as a whole. French visitors wondered at the
resulting streetscape even as they struggled to make readers understand
just how pavements, gutters and roadways were laid out. There is a sense
of wide-eyed wonder at something which seems so commonplace to us
today, but which was then so foreign to the Parisian experience. Such
descriptions put paid to the theory that the Pont Neuf (constructed 1578-
1607) saw the introduction of the pavement (as in a sidewalk or trottoir) to
Paris. Those raised platforms were primarily intended for shops, and so
were not imitated. The first trottoirs only appeared in the 1780s, with
Donald Olsen citing the Rue de l’Odéon as the first example (1781).21
Priorities seemed to be topsy-turvy in London. In his Parallèle de
Paris et de Londres (c. 1780) Mercier wrote of how much more pleasant it
was to walk in the suburban villages of London than in the banlieues of
Paris.
Going for a walk outside the city is even more agreeable. Thanks to the
sidewalks you can walk there without any trouble or exertion. Should it
have rained you won’t get yourself coated in mud travelling round the
edges of town the way you will at the customs barriers of Paris. Walking
from one village to another you always find thousands of little sidewalks,
well-maintained, with barriers and bollards to keep the coaches and horses
from infringing them. The pedestrian can promenade everywhere.22
Rather than having a single gutter in the centre of each street the Paris
authorities should, Mercier insisted, order it so that there were “none of
those smelly little streams running down the middle of the street, but
rather one running down each side, along the sidewalks… Widen its
streets, at whatever cost, or London will forever shame Paris.”23
The mud of Paris was proverbial in seventeenth- and eighteenth-
century France, and even today the flâneur’s pleasure is compromised by
the need to always keep an eye out for dog excrement. The bourgeois of
former times avoided the streets as much as they could, travelling
everywhere by coach. In his 1640 manual Les Lois de la Galanterie
Charles Sorel noted that the first question asked of any entrant to society
was “does he own a carriage?” To walk was tantamount to lowering
oneself to the level of the mob, to encanaillement.24 It was, oddly perhaps,
only by entering a carriage that one could form part of the scene, could
20 Chapter One
Once inside the complex carriages and pedestrians alike went round in
circles, the latter by means of a sort of roundabout or gyratory. After 1660
Cours-la-Reine was linked to the Tuileries to the northeast, the latter
having been redesigned by Mollet, again with a large central allée 300
metres long. As with the Cours, there were only two entrances to the
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 21
We took a boat across the Thames to see two gardens to which the
fashionable world repair in order to promenade and enjoy the refreshments
served in little cafés found scattered around the place… I admired the
beauty of the allées that were turfed, and the gentility of those which were
sanded. The resort is divided up into a number of square plots 20 or 30
paces across, enclosed by hedges of blackcurrant bushes, planted with
strawberries, rose bushes and other small trees, herbs and vegetables… The
allées are all lined with lilies, gilly-flowers or jonquils.30
As in Paris lackeys and those in livery were excluded, and there were rules
governing the correct hours at which it was fashionable to be seen
promenading there. The most famous of these was that which determined
the direction of travel in the rotunda at Ranelagh. Here the crowd
circulated clockwise in the morning; at noon a bell was rung, at which the
crowd changed direction, and began walking counter-clockwise. Such
pleasure gardens were planted with French-style allées on a grid that
would survive well into the nineteenth century (Vauxhall closed in 1859),
even as the flowing lines more commonly associated with English
landscape gardening came to predominate elsewhere. Carefully-arranged
displays of patriotic sculpture and painting by Louis-François Roubiliac,
Francis Hayman and others encouraged patrons to experience the mingling
22 Chapter One
Owl! How often your cries have sent a thrill down my spine, in the
shadows of the night! Solitary and sad, like you I wander alone amid the
shadows of this immense capital. The réverbères shape, but do not
eliminate these shadows, they make them even more striking: it's the
chiaroscuro of the Old Masters! I wander alone, to know Man ... How
much there is to see, when all eyes are shut! Good citizens, I kept watch
for you, I patrolled the night for you! I was resolved to see everything - for
you!38
Night after night Rétif’s “Nocturnal Spectator” paces the city streets,
revelling in the contrast between the daytime and nighttime faces of the
city. Where Mr Spectator usually keeps such detail to a minimum Rétif’s
accounts indicate his route in such detail that it is possible to retrace his
steps. Rétif has more of the detective about him than Mr Spectator. On any
one night he has several unexplained “cases” underway; a character first
encountered several nights before reappears, only to vanish again.
The cafés and “idle spectacles” of the boulevards have a special appeal
for Rétif, and inspire that sort of alienated attentiveness characteristic of
the nineteenth-century flâneur:
24 Chapter One
Fig. 1-1. Anon, frontispiece to Rétif de͒La Bretonne, Les Nuits de Paris (1789),
engraving. Private Collection.
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 25
I … took boat for London, with a Resolution to rove by Boat and Coach
for the next Four and twenty Hours, till the many different Objects I must
needs meet with should tire my Imagination, and give me an Inclination to
a Repose more profound than I was at that Time capable of… The Hours
of the Day and Night are taken up in the Cities of London and Westminster
by Peoples as different from each other as those who are Born in different
Countries. Men of Six-a-Clock give way to those of Nine, they of Nine to
the Generation of Twelve, and they of Twelve disappear, and make Room
for the fashionable World, who have made Two-a-Clock the Noon of the
Day.42
26 Chapter One
Fig. 1-2. William Hogarth, The Times of Day: Morning, 1738, engraving, 34.1 x
23.5 cm. ͒© The Trustees of the British Museum.
28 Chapter One
family coming back to the Livre, adding layer upon layer, from the 1740s
up until the 1780s.
Folio 358 of the Livre (attributed to Charles-Germain), entitled “les
enseignes de Paris abattües” (Fig. 1-3), shows the suppression of signs à
potence (i.e. those signs which hung out over the street, rather than being
mounted flat against the building’s facade) under a police ordonnance of
1761. An archer or constable staggers under the weight of an immense
sword, while another attacks the sign of the “Great Boot.” Other signs and
over-size shop symbols lie around. Clearly the Saint-Aubin were struck by
the uncanny nature of such signs. The Westminster Paving Act of 1762
required the same suppression in the City of Westminster, and with the
same justifications: the signs were accused of blocking the circulation of
air and of squeaking loudly in the wind.48 The signs’ destruction takes its
place in the Livre alongside the arrival of the penny post and the
réverbères as landmarks in the history of the Parisian flâneur.
In The Spectator, in Lord Shaftesbury’s philosophical treatise
Characteristics (1711), as well as in later novels by Henry Fielding, signs
had been celebrated, somewhat ironically, as an English art form that
broke all the proprieties. The signs’ monstrous proportions, kaleidoscopic
bestiary and ludic (or simply incoherent) juxtapositions were celebrated as
just one part of the urban uncanny. Like the vocabulary of hand gestures
which Mr Spectator observes in use among hackney coachmen (by which
they silently signal their destinations and expected fares to each other), this
is a sign language. Hackney coachmen and signs both served to guide
residents and visitors alike through a maze of streets, but they encoded the
city in a language all their own, one impenetrable, shocking or uncouth
(very uncouth, in the case of coachmen, known for their “saucy, impudent
behaviour”) to outsiders.49
These are urban languages that the flâneur respects, even if he is not
fluent in them. For his part Hogarth believed shop and inn-signs to be a
“genre” at which the British excelled, and he may have been involved in
helping organize a satirical exhibition of shop and inn signs staged by a
fictional “Society of Signpainters” (in reality, the journalist Bonnell
Thornton) in 1762. Thornton displayed more than 110 shop and inn signs
in rented rooms in Bow Street between April 22 and 8 June, charging
members of the public one shilling on the door. Although some signs may
have been altered by Hogarth himself, otherwise these signs were typical
of those which could be seen for free on any street, signs in danger of
being taken down as a result of the 1762 Westminster Paving Act. Those
who paid their shilling apparently believing that they were going to look at
an exhibition of “real” art reacted strongly - some applauding the organisers’
30 Chapter One
Fig. 1-3. Charles-Germain de Saint-Aubin, “Bâtir Est beau, mais detruire est
Sublime,” 1761,͒ watercolour, ink and graphite on paper, 18.7 x 13.2 cm., Livre de
Caricatures tant bonnes que mauvaises, Waddesdon Manor, The Rothschild
Collection (The National Trust), acc. no. 675.358. Photo: Imaging Services
Bodleian Library © The National Trust, Waddesdon Manor.
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 31
These signs are for the most part of colossal proportions. They afford the
most stunted people in Europe the prospect of a race of giants. You can
find a scabbard six feet high, a boot as big as a barrel, a spur the size of a
carriage wheel, a glove which could house a three-year old child in each
finger, monstrously distended heads, sword-wielding arms which traverse
the width of the street. Rid of these gross appendages the city shows, as it
were, a new face, genteel and clean-shaven.55
There the crowned heads of all the earth slumber side-by-side: Louis XVI
and George III give each other a fraternal kiss; the King of Prussia sleeps
with the Empress of Russia, the Holy Roman Emperor is on a level with
the Electors, there at last the [Papal] tiara and the [Islamic] turban mingle.
A café-owner walks up, pokes about among their majesties with his foot,
picks up the King of Poland, hangs him up outside his establishment and
scrawls underneath: The Mighty Conqueror.59
Mercier even imagines what these signs might say to one another, were
they able to speak. High and low, allies and enemies, conquerors and
conquered swop places and single images do double or even triple duty,
ending up “performing their final task, that is guiding the stumbling steps
of drunkards.”60 The King of Poland, recently robbed of his realm by the
Partition of Poland, is reborn as a triumphant hero.
Before the numbering of buildings and the standardisation of street
signs merchants and strangers alike were directed “to the sign of the x” or
“opposite the sign of the y.” Of course, these signs served as advertising
for an enterprise, but they also functioned as aids to navigation. In the
wake of their suppression Londoners and Parisians founds themselves lost,
strangers in their own home cities. It would take another ten or twenty
years for house numbering to be introduced in Paris and London.61 In the
meantime their passing was lamented as an impoverishment of the urban
palimpsest. These isolated, nostalgic responses would grow into a chorus
around the time of the Haussmannian percéments of the following century.
New boulevards such as the Avenue de l’Opéra left Parisians feeling
unsettled, ill at ease. As Benjamin would later write, they were becoming
more and more conscious of the inhuman character of the city.62
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 33
Notes
1
James Donald, Imagining the Modern City (London: Athlone, 1999), 44.
2
Donald, Imagining the Modern City, 45.
3
Margaret Rose (ed.), Flâneurs and Idlers (Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 2007), 2, 17.
4
Claire Hancock, Paris et Londres au XIXe siècle: représentations dans les guides
et récits de voyage (Paris: CNRS, 2003), 221.
5
Griselda Pollock, Vision and Difference: Feminism, Femininity and the Histories
of Art (London: Routledge, 1988), 94.
6
Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life” [originally published in Le
Figaro, 26 and 28 November, 3 December 1863], in Charles Baudelaire, The
Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, trans. Jonathan Mayne (London:
Phaidon, 1964), 1–40 (9).
7
For such texts (and a claim that they in fact represent flânerie) see Karen
Newman, Cultural Capitals: Early Modern London and Paris (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2007), 63.
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 35
8
Walter Benjamin, Das Passagen-Werk, ed. Rolf Tiedem, 2 vols (Frankfurt a. M.:
Suhrkamp, 1983), 1: 525.
9
“Dass nicht Rom es war, ist das sonderbare. Und der Grund? Zieht nicht in Rome
selbst das Träumen gebahnte Strassen? Und ist die Stadt nicht zu voll von
Tempeln, umfriedeten Plätzen, nationalen Heiligtümern, um ungeteilt mit jedem
Plasterstein, jedem Ladenschild, jeder Stufe und jeder Torfahrt in den Traum des
Passanten eingehen zu können?... Denn Paris haben nicht die Fremden sondern sie
selber, die Pariser zum gelobten Land des Flaneurs, zu der ‘Landschaft aus lauter
Leben gebaut’, wie Hoffmannsthal sie einmal nannte, gemacht. Landschaft - das
wird sie in der Tat dem Flanierenden’’ (Benjamin, Passagenwerk, 1: 135). There
are indications in the Passagenwerk that Benjamin recognized that London might
have been more of an influence. He suspected, for example, that Poe and
Baudelaire's image of Paris as coloured by the anxieties of industrialisation may in
fact have reflected London more than the French capital; see Passagen-werk, 1:
566. On flânerie in Rome, see Richard Wrigley, Roman Fever: influence, infection
and the image of Rome (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013),
26.
9
“Le flâneur est un être inconnu à Londres” (cited in Hancock, Paris et Londres,
170).
10
Spectator 4, 5 March 1711.
12
Baudelaire, Painter of Modern Life, 9.
11
Spectator 1, 1 March 1711.
12
Spectator 455, 11 August 1712.
13
See Jonathan Conlin, Tales of Two Cities: Paris, London and the Making of the
Modern City (London: Atlantic, 2013).
14
Here my argument builds on Elizabeth Wilson, “The Invisible Flâneur,” New
Left Review 191 (1992): 90-110 (109).
15
Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man (London: Penguin, 2002), 298.
16
Adam Smith, Lectures on Jurisprudence, ed. R. L. Meek, D. D. Raphael and P.
G. Stein (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 486.
17
Tim Hitchcock and Heather Shore, “Introduction,” in Tim Hitchcock and
Heather Shore (eds), The Streets of London: from the Great Fire to the Great Stink
(London: Rivers Oram, 2003), 1-9 (7).
18
Hester Piozzi, diary entry for 23 October 1775. Hester Lynch Thrale, afterwards
Mrs Piozzi, The French Journals of Mrs Thrale and Dr Johnson, ed. Moses Tyson
and Henry Guppy (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1932), 137.
19
“Chien enrag[é], d”où-vient nous couvres-tu de boue?” [Rétif de la Bretonne],
Les Nuits de Paris, ou le Spectateur Nocturne, 14 vols (London: n.p., 1788-89),
vol. 10, 2365; see also [Caraccioli], Dictionnaire critique, pittoresque et
sentencieux, propre à faire connoître les usages du Siècle, ainsi que ses
bisarreries, 2 vols (Lyon: Benoît Duplain, 1768), vol. 1, 33.
20
Daniel Cruickshank and Neil Burton, Life in the Georgian City (London: Viking,
1990), 13-18.
21
Donald J. Olsen, The City as a Work of Art: London, Paris, Vienna (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1986), 229.
36 Chapter One
22
“La promenade pour sortir de la ville est d’autant plus agréable, que les trotoirs
[sic] vous conduisent dehors, sans fatigue ni embarras. Aus extrêmités de la Ville,
lorsqu’il a plu, vous ne vous trouvez pas enseveli dans les boues comme aux
barrières de Paris; et pour aller d'un village à un autre il y a toujours de toutes parts
mille petits trotoirs [sic], bien soignés, avec des barricades et barrières pour que les
voitures et chevaux ne les gâtent; partout l'homme de pied va promenant”
(Mercier, “Des environs de Paris. Et des environs de Londres,” in Louis-Sébastien
Mercier, Parallèle de Paris et de Londres: un inédit de Louis-Sébastien Mercier,
ed. Claude Bruneteau and Bernard Cottret (Paris: Didier, 1982), 114-15 (114)).
23
“point de ruisseaux puants, au milieu de la rue, mais coulants de chaque côté des
trotoirs [sic]. Elargir les rues à quel prix que ce soit, ou Londres fera toujours honte
à Paris” (Mercier, “Position et forme de Paris et de Londres,” in Mercier,
Parallèle, 60). See also Jacques Gury (ed.), “Journal du marquis de Bombelles,”
Studies in Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 269 (1989): 300.
24
“a-t-il carosse?” (Laurent Turcot, Le Promeneur à Paris au XVIIIe siècle (Paris:
Gallimard, 2007), 34).
25
“une grande place ou campagne ... où se fait le Cours” (Balthasar Monconys,
Journal des Voyages de Monsieur de Monconys, 3 parts (Lyon: Horace Boisat and
George Remeus, 1665-6), part 2 (1666), 19).
26
“Le cours se fait en rond; ainsi on ne voit pas tous les carrosses si l’on ne change
son tour” (Monconys, Journal, part 2, 21).
27
“Les Allées dans les Jardins sont comme les ruës d'une Ville, elles servent de
communication d’un lieu à un autre, et sont comme autant de guides et de routes
pour conduire par tout un Jardin. Outre l’agrément et la commodité que les Allées
offrent sans cesse pour la promenade, elles sont une des principales beautés des
Jardins, quand elles sont bien pratiquées et bien dressées” ([Antoine Joseph
Dézallier d'Argenville], La Théorie et la pratique du jardinage (The Hague: Pierre
Husson, 1711), 39).
28
Turcot, Promeneur, 84.
29
Turcot, Promeneur, 72.
30
“nous fusmes dans un Bot de l'autre costé de la Tamise voir deux iardins, où tout
le monde se peut aller promener, et faire collation dans des cabarets qui y sont, ou
dans les cabinets du jardin.... J’y admiray la beauté des allées de gazon, et la
politesse de celles qui sont sablées. Il es di[v]i en une grande quantité de quarrez
de 20. ou 30. pas en quarré, clos par des hayes de groselliers, et touts ces quarrés
sont plantés aussi de framboisiers, de rosiers et d'autres arbrisseaux, comme aussi
d'herbages, et de légumes... Toutes les allées sont bordées ou de jonquilles ou de
geroflées ou de lis” (Monconys, Journal, part 2, p. 17).
31
Jonathan Conlin, “Vauxhall on the Boulevard: pleasure gardens in Paris and
London, 1764-1784,” Urban History, 35:1 (May 2008): 24-47.
32
“Je pris un goût très-vifs pour cette promenade,” he notes in Night 117, “où je
trouvai beaucoup d’avantures” ([Rétif], Les Nuits de Paris, 6: 1257).
33
“une promenade vaste … ouverte à tous les états” (Mercier, “Boulevards,” in
Tableau de Paris, 1:168-9 (168)).
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 37
34
Belanger was Premier Architecte to the Comte Artois, a noted Anglophile. For
his 1783 “Londres” scheme see Rachel Alison Perry, “François-Joseph Belanger,
Architect (1744-1818),” 2 vols, Ph.D. thesis 1998, Courtauld Institute of Art, 1:
167-8.
35
Turcot, Promeneur, 185.
36
Turcot, Promeneur, 157.
37
Turcot, Promeneur, 153.
38
“Hibou! combien de fois tes cris funèbres ne m'ont-ils pas fait tressaillir, dans
l’ombre de la nuit! Triste et solitaire, comme toi, j’errais seul, au-milieu des
ténèbres, dans cette Capitale immense: la lueur des réverbères, trenchant avec les
ombres, ne les détruit pas, elle les rend plus saillantes: c’est le clair-obscur des
grands Peintres! J'errais seul, pour connaître l'Homme ... Que de choses à voir,
lorsque tous les yeux sont fermés! Citoyens paisibles! j’ai veillé pour vous; j’ai
couru seul les nuits pour vous!” ([Bretonne], Les Nuits de Paris, 1: 2).
39
“Je ne cherchais rien; j’abandonnais mes regards où ils voulaient errer, et
toujours ils tombaient sur des scènes variées, plus ou moins divertissantes. C’était
un tableau changeant, toujours le même, et toujours diversifié. Cet endroit n’était
pas propre à penser; mais il saturait l’âme de sémences d’idées et de faits, qui
revenaient ensuite dans la solitude” ([Bretonne], Les Nuits de Paris, 6: 1257).
40
Benjamin, Das Passagen-werk, 1: 538.
41
'Louis-Sébastien Mercier, “Promenades publiques,” in Mercier, Tableau de
Paris, 5 vols (Amsterdam, 1782-3), 5: 212-17 (212).
42
Spectator 454, 11 August 1712.
45
For an example, see [Anon.], Les Sultanes nocturnes, et ambulantes de la Ville
de Paris, contre les réverbères (Paris: à la petite vertu, 1768).
46
Cited in Pierre Rosenberg, “The world of Saint-Aubin,” in Colin Bailey, Kim de
Beaumont et al. (eds), Gabriel de Saint-Aubin, 1724-1780 (Paris: Louvre, 2008),
11-17 (13).
47
Thirty-seven such catalogues have been identified, though a posthumous
inventory refers to one hundred. Suzanne Fold McCullagh, “The development of
Gabriel de Saint-Aubin as draughtsman,” in Bailey et al., Gabriel de Saint-Aubin,
59-69 (78-9).
48
Having recently heard in a street in Rye just how much noise two modestly-sized
enseignes à potence could produce in a relatively light wind, the author is
persuaded that the signs would indeed have contributed to the eighteenth-century
urban soundscape.
49
Daniel Defoe, The Great Law of Subordination Consider'd (London, 1724), 125.
50
For this exhibition see Jonathan Conlin, “‘At the expense of the public’: the Sign
Painters’ Exhibition of 1762 and the public sphere,” Eighteenth-Century Studies
36: 1 (2002): 1-21.
51
Molière, Les Fâcheux (Paris: Libraire des Bibliophiles, 1874), 66 (III, ii).
Addison was probably developing an idea found in Steele’s Tatler 18 of 21 May
1709 (Donald F. Bond (ed.), The Tatler, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), vol. 1:
144-7).
52
The Spectator 28, 2 April 1711.
38 Chapter One
53
Tatler 18, 21 May 1709. Bond, The Tatler, 1: 145.
54
Julie Ann Plax, Watteau and the Cultural Politics of Eighteenth-Century France
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 163. See also Richard Wrigley,
“Between the Street and the Salon: Parisian shop signs and the spaces of
professionalisation in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries,” Oxford Art
Journal, 21:1 (1998): 43-67.
55
“Ces enseignes avoient pour la plupart un volume colossal et en relief. Elles
donnoient l'image d'un peuple gigantesque, aux yeux du peuple le plus rabougri de
l'Europe. On voyoit une garde d’épée de six pieds de haut, une botte grosse comme
un muid, un éperon large comme une roue de carrosse; un gant qui auroit logé un
enfant de trois ans dans chaque doigt, des têtes monstrueuses, des bras armés de
fleurets qui occupoient toute la largeur de la rue. La ville, qui n'est plus hérissée de
ces appendices grossieures, offre, pour ainsi dire, un visage poli, net et rasé”
(Mercier, “Enseignes,” in Tableau de Paris, 1: 215-16).
56
“de créer sérieusement un censeur qui rectifiât ces fautes grossieures” (Mercier,
“L’Orthographe publique,” in Tableau de Paris, 1: 107-110 (107-8).
57
“L’ignorance produit quelquefois des rapports bizarres, et dont on s’amuse,
parce que les riens ont droit avant tout d’intéresser le Parisien” (Mercier, Tableau
de Paris, 1: 108).
58
See Jennifer Uglow, Hogarth: A Life and a World (London: Faber, 1997), 518.
59
“Là tous les rois de la terre dorment ensemble: Louis XVI et George III se
baisent fraternellement; le roi de Prusse couche avec l'impératrice de Russie,
l’empéreur est de niveau avec les électeurs; là enfin la thiare et le turban se
confondent. Un cabaretier arrive, remue avec le pied toutes ces têtes couronnées,
les examine, prend au hasard la figure du roi de Pologne, l’emporte, l’accroche et
écrit dessous: au Grand Vainqueur” (Mercier, Tableau de Paris, 5: 123-6 (123)).
60
“à leur dernier emploi enfin, qui est de guider les pas chancelans des ivrognes”
(Mercier, Tableau de Paris, 5: 123-6 (125)).
61
Heather Shore, “‘At Shakespear's-Head, Over-Against Catharine-Street in the
Strand’: Forms of address in London streets,” in Hitchcock and Shore (eds), The
Streets of London, 10-26. In Paris, as Mercier noted, street numbering had stopped
when owners of large hôtels particuliers objected to the levelling tendency of
giving all houses a number, regardless of the importance of the people inhabiting
them. See Mercier, “Les Ecriteaux des rues,” Tableau de Paris, 2: 202-4 (203).
62
Benjamin, Das Passagen-Werk, 1: 57.
63
For an example of early mock-heroic accounts of the city as obstacle course see
Clare Brant and Susan Whyman (eds), Walking the Streets of Eighteenth-century
London: John Gay's Trivia: or, the art of walking the streets (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007).
64
“C’est ordinairement un Gascon qui mange ses cents pistoles de rente, tant
qu'elles peuvent s’étendre; qui dîne à la gargote, soupe avec une bavaroise, et plein
de vanité, se carre aux promenades, comme s'il avoit dix mille écus de rente: il sort
dès le matin de sa chambre garnie, et le voilà errant dans tous les quartiers jusqu’à
onze heures du soir. Il entre dans toutes les églises sans dévotion; fait des visites à
des personnes qui ne se soucient point de lui; est assidu aux tribunaux, sans avoir
The Origins of the Flâneur in London and Paris, 1660-1780 39
de procès. Il voit tout ce qui se passe dans la ville, assiste à toutes les cérémonies
publiques, ne manque rien de ce qui fait spectacle, et use plus de souliers qu’un
espion ou qu’un agent de change” (Mercier, “Batteur de pavé,” Tableau de Paris,
1: 250-1).
65
Wilson, “Invisible flâneur,” 106.
66
Janet Wolff, “Gender and the haunting of cities (or, the retirement of the
flâneur),” in Aruna D'Souza and Tom McDonough (eds), The Invisible Flâneuse?
Gender, public space, and visual culture in nineteenth-century Paris (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2006), 18-31 (24).
67
“Quand un de ces batteurs de pavé décède on pourroit lui mettre pour épitaphe:
cursum consummavit” (Mercier, Tableau de Paris, 5: 251).
CHAPTER TWO
LAURENT TURCOT
fortunate individual delights of the cityscape and the perhaps even greater
pleasures of suspended social obligation.”3 It seems to me that we too
often take the flâneur as a simply identifiable urban type, who has his own
manners, habits, dress code, style, usefulness and function. Yet nothing is
less clear. In another essay in this volume, Jonathan Conlin has rightly
questioned its function while trying to minimise its place in the
superstructure of Parisian modernity: “It is high time that the flâneur
withdrew into the obscurity which he so likes, and that we turn out
attention to other figures, other voices.”4 However, it seems to me that
Benjamin, as many of his successors, has a tendency to adopt shortcuts to
affirm that the flâneur alone embodies resistance to changes wrought by
the industrial revolution. Furthermore, it is commonly asserted that the
flâneur has a unique identity which gave to those who claimed to fulfil or
inhabit this role a singular, particular, and typical significance.
Manuel Charpy’s recent thesis emphasises the context and above all
the social, economic and cultural conditions of the flâneur’s emergence in
the nineteenth century.5 Charpy reveals the forms of “collective production
of fashions through his focus on the urban locations where they were
visible, the emerging figures of taste, and the new forms of publicity and
advertising which were employed in the city.”6 The flâneur is embodied in
the dense mass of industrial production; the city becomes a shop window
and the flâneur a window-shopper; but there are also more and more
individuals who adopt the flâneur’s attitude to wandering through the city.
Charpy shows a whole social and economic context which allowed the
flâneur to make Paris its playing field. Haejeong Hazel Hahn has also
followed this route in underlining how the flâneur is, in fact, a kind of
consumer of everyday city life : “This culture of the spectacle, increasing
apace at the end of the century, little by little included new forms of street
advertising which addressed the inhabitants of the crowded pavements”7 –
an idea not dissimilar from T.J. Clark’s account of nineteenth-century
painting in Paris.8
It remains striking that the majority of studies on the flâneur, at least
the most significant to date, have been produced by anglophone
researchers working outside French universities. Yet it was Alain Corbin,
in an interview given as part of the Foire Internationale du Livre de Tokyo
in January 1997, who recognised the primordial interest of the subject:
“The development of flânerie, as opposed to ‘promenade bourgeoise,’ with
its precise rituals, is thus linked to a new way of looking at the city, a
mobile gaze, spatially and olfactorily close up. The flâneur’s gaze, a
myopic form of attention, attentive to details and signs, is linked to the
microevent which is constituted by the ‘fait-divers,’ and to the new
42 Chapter Two
played out on your paving stones, your granite, your tarmac, or your
asphalt!”.37 To be a flâneur requires a real profession of urban faith, only
Paris is capable of accommodating this being who never fails to discover
and rediscover the capital’s changing and moving spectacle. On the other
hand, little is needed: “good legs, good ears and good eyes – such are the
principal physical advantages which must be enjoyed by any Frenchman
truly worthy to be a member of the club of the flâneurs.”38 At each
moment the flâneur is but an identity, above all an attitude which allows
the city to be savoured.
Themes such as the walk, contemplative observation, and seeking
extraordinary stories are proclaimed as especially privileged topics by
many nineteenth-century writers. The promenade as a guarantor of
individuality is insisted upon as an absolute necessity; as Huart put it:
“Stick to being a flâneur – go out alone.”39 Yet one dimension seems to
elude the figure of the flâneur – politics. For example, as the author of “Le
Flâneur à Paris” noted: “political events have little relevance for the life of
a flâneur; although he might take advantage of the revolutions which
renew his field of vision, he is not sufficiently egotistical to like them.”40
Marked by a romanticism which favoured individualism over the common
good, the figure of the flâneur detaches itself from current affairs.
According to commentators on the topic, this is explained by the dilettante
character which is required of the flâneur.
These different theories can easily be illustrated and explained by the
work of various nineteenth-century authors, journalists and social
commentators. According to Victor Hugo in Les Misérables: “To wander
is human; to be a flâneur is Parisian.”41 In 1867, Charles Vitremaire
affirmed: “To write on Paris is a tempting thing for an observer. In this
great circle, one never tires of walking. One comes, goes, turns, one
ploughs in every direction, and one always finds something new. The mine
is inexhaustible.”42 For Victor Fournel, “it was from strolling in Paris that
Balazac made so many precious discoveries, heard so many words,
disinterred so many types.”43 In the Comédie humaine, there were
countless opportunities to write about this representative of individuality.
In the Théorie de la démarche, he puts into play an observer whose
purpose is to track and reveal social characters.44 In Ferragus, Balzac
mobilises the figure of the flâneur who, elided with that of the observer,
reveals himself to be the quintessence of Parisianness in a century of
acceleration and movement.45
abundance of fleeting joys found within its walls. … There are a small
number of amateurs, people who never go walking while empty-headed,
who savour their Paris, who grasp its physiognomy so well that they notice
a bolt, a button, a blush. For the others, Paris is always this monstrous
marvel, an astonishing mass of movements, of machines and thoughts, the
city of a hundred thousand novels, the fountainhead of the world. But for
these people, Paris is sad or gay, ugly or beautiful, alive or dead; for them,
Paris is a living creature; each man, each part of a house is a lobe of
cellular tissue of this great courtesan whose head, heart and fantastical
habits they know so well. So it is that these are the lovers of Paris.46
that which eludes the hurried passer-by,”57 exemplifies the kind of novel
where literature and walking form a seamless couple.
A final voice needs to be considered in order to understand the degree
of interest which the figure of the flâneur has attracted in the literature of
nineteenth-century Paris. In his poems and prose, Charles Baudelaire, the
epitome of the nineteenth-century flâneur, recounts the foundation of this
inherited urban being.58 Walter Benjamin has analysed better than anyone
else the behaviour of this flâneur whose purpose is “to botanise the
tarmac,” for “it is the flâneur’s gaze which conceals in a reassuring halo
the future distress of the inhabitants of great cities.”59 Baudelaire is the
man of the crowd, as evoked by Edgar Allan Poe, the detective in search
of poetic matter, of the sudden approach of a passing woman, of an
invitation to journey across the cobbles or into the evening twilight.
Baudelaire, whose collection Spleen de Paris might have been called
Les Nocturnes or Poèmes nocturnes, gives to the reader a figure who
engages minds and bodies, that of a flâneur poet, but equally a man
profoundly rooted in his epoch, in his city, who meanders in order to
discover, to appreciate, to contemplate, and finally to commit to paper his
impressions as well as his observations. In Le Peintre de la vie moderne,
the author of Les Fleurs du mal explains better than anyone the
implications of flânerie, but above all how to be a flâneur in the city:
The crowd is his dominion, as the air to a bird, and water to a fish. His
passion is his profession, which is to be as one with the crowd. For the
perfect flâneur, for the impassioned observer, it is a tremendous pleasure to
set up his home in the mass, in the flow, in movement, the fleeting and the
infinite. To be outside one’s home, and yet to feel at home everywhere; to
see the world, to be at the centre of the world and to remain hidden from
the world, such are some of the least pleasures of the independent,
passionate, impartial spirits, whom language can only imperfectly define.60
not read more than a few words without my heart beating so strongly that I
had to put the book down. … The first notes for Passagen-Werk date from
this time.”64
An account of Parisian wanderings, but more specifically in the
Passage de l’Opéra, Le Paysan de Paris is, with Breton’s Nadja, the work
which best expressed the figure of the flâneur’s individuality.65 To this we
could add Apollinaire’s Le Flâneur des deux rives or Le Piéton de Paris
by Léon-Paul Farge, which celebrates the figure of the man who devours
Paris with his eyes, but even more with his legs.66 Jean-Christophe Bailly
would also develop this idea in his “Grammaire générative des jambes”
(“Generative Grammar of the Legs”).67 In his L’Invention du quotidien,
Michel de Certeau was one of the first to think about the epistemological
significance of types of pedestrian mobility in the city. In relation to urban
habits, the promenade is associated with the “practices of space”68 which
allowed inhabitants to appropriate space by regular daily movements, in
short, by a “specific form of operations (‘ways of being’) on ‘a different
form of spatiality’ (an ‘anthropological,’ poetic, and mythic experience of
space), and an obscure, blind mode of movement within the city’s
inhabited spaces.”69
Today, personal experience of the city is the corollary to a written
practice defining the urban type of the Parisian flâneur. Recent works by
Éric Hazan, L’Invention de Paris, il n’y a pas de pas perdus and Thomas
Clerc’s Paris, musée du XXIe siècle, provide fine examples of the itinerant
scholar in search of a personal experience of space whose purpose is to
relate the meanings which each location and building has acquired over
time.70 In what he intended to be a travel journal of contemporary Paris,
Edmund White offers a personal vision; this conveys a sense of a city
which he has lived in rather than being the description by a flâneur
sensitive to the “moral” state and “character” of the capital.71
In her Wanderlust: A History of Walking Rebecca Solnit has written an
essay which is in fact more about man’s pedestrian behaviour (as the title
of the French edition, L’Art de marcher, suggests); she speaks of an
aesthetic of observation and physical stance which defines the “modern
flâneur.”72 Pierre Sansot describes the behaviour of the walker in Poétique
de la ville, where he qualifies the flâneur as an urban being characterised
by a personal, singular, and fleeting relation to the city. Urban space
encourages walking and inflects particular types of movement. The flâneur
appropriates places while endowing them with his contemplative presence:
“across the streets and boulevards that the city traverses, it allows periods
of concentration and expansion, rhythms both hurried and slower and
broader.”73 A sociological interpretation of walking in the city is provided
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 53
city as simple walkers, suggest that the acts of walking or flânerie are
subject to official instructions intended to increase, if not to force
inhabitants to use the city in certain ways.
The promenade is an ordinary practice in space and allows the meeting
and movement of individuals. It is no longer a matter of inhabitants’
choice to do this, but has become an administrative policy aimed at
maximising enjoyment of the city. Will the urban walk become a
consensual act? Will its deployment in contemporary society become the
sign of a major transformation of cities which are claimed to be abandoned
by their populations in favour of private space? Will the individualised
figure of the flâneur become a relic of the past where public space was the
site of ordinary confrontations or the proof that some kind of urban
lifestyle, rooted in citydwellers’ customs, survives despite everything?
It seems to me that the 1950s are marked by the use, or reinvention, of
the act of walking as a collective practice. The Situationist International,79
founded by a group including Guy Debord, author of La Société du
spectacle, aimed to “reappropriate the real.” He had several targets – we
will focus on those relevant to walking. Debord conceived of the dérive as
a form of displacement capable of generating new ideas as regards
urbanism; he explained that “the concept of dérive is indissolubly linked to
the recognition of psychogeographical effects, and the affirmation of a
constructive-ludic behaviour, which is entirely opposed to classic notions
of travel and walking.”80 Psychogeography, a new notion whose purpose is
to understand men’s actions on space “proposes the study of exact laws
and precise effects of the geographical milieu, consciously organised or
not, acting directly on the affective behaviour of individuals.”81
Guy Debord proposed the dérive, a form of flânerie with a further
urban function, whose purpose was to walk together in the city: “one or
more people engaging in the dérive renounce, for a variable duration,
reasons for movement and action that they are familiar with, relations,
work, leisure which they are used to, to allow them to be open to the
solicitations of the location and corresponding encounters.” To let
themselves respond to the terrain, enter new spaces, reinterpret the city by
walking was a programme that the International proposed to initiate. Some
examples are enough to illustrate how the urban dérive worked:
Thus, a few pleasantries of dubious taste, which I have always very much
enjoyed in my entourage, for example, to enter at night the floors of houses
being demolished, to cross Paris without stopping by hitchhiking during a
transport strike, under the pretext of aggravating confusion by having
oneself transported anywhere, to wander underground in the catacombs
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 55
closed to the public, share a general feeling which is nothing other than
that of the dérive.82
The form taken by the Situationist dérive is directly linked to the figure of
the flâneur. Yet the approach taken is a fundamental transformation of the
idea of the promenade or urban flânerie. The intention was to move as a
group, and to use a kind of individual movement in order to produce and
make sense of real urban identities. It seems to me that this idea is not in
conflict with the larger activities referred to earlier.
In order to show that the two are not so far apart, let us consider some
examples. According to the Mairie de Paris’s own website: “The Festival
of Music is not a festival. It is a great popular, free event open to all”; and
“its particular location is the open air, the streets, the squares, the gardens,
the courtyards, the museums, or châteaux.”84 As regards the Nuit Blanche,
the Mayor of Paris wrote: “Nuit Blanche is an astonishing itinerary which
combines the nightwalker (noctambule) with artistic experiences.” His
assistant, Artistic Director for 2008, added that: “Nuit Blanche is a
invitation to a journey on one’s front door step, an adventure in the world
of the city of art, a promenade in a three-dimensional film with no scenario
or projection but with light, sound and a cinematographic climate.”85
These statements amount to an injunction to walk in the city, that this is
how it should be used. The aim is to require the inhabitant, claimed to be
inward-looking and shut up in private space, to discover, or rediscover
their own urban space. We have here the overused idea of giving Paris
back to the Parisians. Almost as if the collectivity had lost contact with its
home environment, and collective walking could re-establish a degree of
social cohesion. To achieve this, the public was asked to engage in a
genuine dérive, but in which the itineraries were fixed, as for the Nuit
56 Chapter Two
From the nineteenth to the twenty-first centuries, we have seen how forms
of appropriation of the “pavé de Paris” (the streets and walkways of Paris)
have diversified: night walks, art in and of the street (theatre, poetry,
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 57
music) - there is no longer a single form of promenade but many. Each has
its own rationale and meaning, each answers people’s desire to know the
space which they inhabit in more detailed and more subtle ways. Walking
has generated a particular form of writing. It offers a point of view on the
city which allows it to be seen in completely new ways. So it is that one
could say that in some respects at least the individualised figure of the
twentieth-century flâneur is not fundamentally different from its
nineteenth-century antecedent, as championed by contemporary writers.
In conclusion, we may note that the history of the flâneur and flânerie
has been a topic of growing interest in recent years. Yet there remain
extensive sources still to be taken account of in order to establish a history
of the promenade, whether considered from the point of view of the
walker, the flâneur, or public promenades. To achieve this, a combination
of sources, such as treatises on civility, royal and municipal archives,
police reports, travel guidebooks and journals, novels, poems, plays, maps,
paintings, as well as prints and drawings would need to be involved as
befits a topic which engages several disciplines. Comparative studies
ought also to address exchanges between different cities and their
influence. Flânerie is a phenomenon which crosses frontiers and which
gives to Europe shared cultural characteristics.
Notes
1
Walter Benjamin, Paris, capitale du XIXe siècle (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1997).
See also Walter Benjamin, “Le Flâneur,” in Charles Baudelaire, un poète lyrique à
l’apogée du capitalisme (Paris: Payot, 2002 [1955]), 57-100.
2
Richard E. Burton, The Flâneur and his city, patterns of daily life in Paris 1815-
1851 (Durham: University of Durham, 1994); Keith Tester (ed.), The Flâneur
(London and New York: Routledge, 1994); Jeffrey Robinson, The Walk: Notes on
a Romantic Image (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1989); Joseph A.
Amato, On Foot: A History of Walking (New York: New York University Press,
2004); Catherine Nesci, Le Flâneur et les flâneuses: Les femmes et la ville à
l'époque romantique (Grenoble: Université Stendhal, 2007).
3
Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, Paris As Revolution: Writing the Nineteenth-
Century City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 80. See also
Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, “The Sensualization of Flânerie,” Dix-Neuf, 16: 2
(July 2012): 211-23 (213), David Harvey, Paris, Capital of Modernity (New York:
Routledge, 2003) and Mary Gluck, “The Flâneur and the Aesthetic. Appropriation
of Urban Culture in Mid-19th-century Paris,” Theory Culture Society, 20 (2003):
53-80.
4
Jonathan Conlin, “Mr. What-d'ye-call-him: À la recherche du flâneur à Paris et à
Londres au 18e siècle,” in Laurent Turcot and Thierry Belleguic (eds), Les
58 Chapter Two
27
“c’est une plante que la serre tuerait, et qui ne prospère qu’en plein vent. …
Quand il a touché le sol de la rue, humé la poussière du boulevart ou le brouillard
de la Seine, il entre en action, et c’est là que nous nous en emparons” (ibid., 100).
28
“rien n’échappe à son regard investigateur … tout l’intéresse, tout est pour lui un
texte d’observations”; “aussi, comme sa marche est lente, comme il revient sur ses
pas, comme lui seul est là pour y être, tandis que les autres n’y sont que pour se
rendre ailleurs” (ibid., 101).
29
“les Tuileries, le quai Voltaire, celui du Louvre et le Luxembourg abondent en
flâneurs que j’estime, le boulevart, entre la rue du Mont-Blanc et la rue de
Richelieu, où je suppose que vous avez laissé le nôtre, est proprement sa patrie”
(ibid., 104).
30
“Nous ne reconnaissons pour flâneurs que ce petit nombre privilégié d’hommes
de loisirs et d’esprit qui étudient le cœur humain sur la nature même, et la société
dans ce grand livre du monde toujours ouvert sous leurs yeux” (Auguste de
Lacroix, “Le flâneur,” Les Français peints par eux-mêmes (Paris : L. Curmer,
1841), vol. 3, 66).
31
“marche comme vous et moi … qu’il chemine plus lentement et passe pour y
voir beaucoup mieux” (ibid., 66).
32
“le flâneur est un être essentiellement complexe, il n’a pas de goût particulier, il
a tous les goûts; il comprend tout, il est susceptible d’éprouver toutes les passions,
explique tous les travers et a toujours une excuse prête pour toutes les faiblesses”
(ibid., 67).
33
“l’auteur du Tableau de Paris a dû flâner énormément. Quel plus grand flâneur
que La Fontaine? Rousseau à flâné pendant les deux tiers de sa vie” (ibid., 69).
34
“Paris appartient au flâneur par droit de conquête et par droit de naissance”
(ibid., 67).
35
“Des gens qui s’intitulent très-faussement flâneurs”; “Où l’on prouve que le
flâneur est un mortel essentiellement vertueux”; and “Conseils à l’usage des
flâneurs novices”; “ce qui fait de l’homme le roi de la création, c’est qu’il sait
perdre son temps et sa jeunesse par tous les climats et toutes les saisons possibles
… l’homme s’élève au-dessus de tous les autres animaux uniquement parce qu’il
sait flâner” (Louis Huart, Physiologie du flâneur (Paris: Aubert, 1841), 7).
36
“connaître la jouissance que procure une simple promenade faite pédestrement
dans les boues de Paris” (ibid., 13-14).
37
“O trottoir, asiles de la boue et des flâneurs, je vous salue; tous les moments les
plus heureux de ma jeunesse très-blonde se sont écoulés sur vos dalles, votre
granit, votre bitume, ou votre asphalte!” (ibid., p. 75).
38
“bonnes jambes, bonnes oreilles et bons yeux – tels sont les principaux
avantages physiques dont doit jouir tout Français véritablement digne de faire
partie du club des flâneurs” (ibid., 53).
39
“Tenez-vous à flâner – sortez seul” (ibid., 113).
40
“les événements politiques ont peu de prise sur la vie du flâneur; il pourrait
même faire son profit des révolutions qui viennent renouveler son champ
d’observation; mais il est assez peu égoïste pour ne pas les aimer” ([Anon.], “Le
flâneur à Paris,” Paris ou le livre des cent-et-un, vol. 6, 107).
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 61
41
“Errer est humain; flâner est parisien” (Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (Paris,
1862), vol. 1, 780).
42
“Écrire sur Paris est toujours une chose tentante pour un observateur. Dans ce
grand cercle, on ne se lasse pas de marcher. On va, on vient, on tourne, on le
sillonne en tous les sens, et c’est toujours du nouveau qu’on y rencontre. La mine
est inépuisable” (Charles Vitremaitre, Les Curiosités de Paris (Paris: Lebigre-
Duquesne, 1867), VII).
43
“c’est en flânant dans Paris que Balzac a fait tant de précieuses trouvailles,
entendu tant de mots, déterré tant de types” (Victor Fournel, Ce qu’on voit dans les
rues de Paris (Paris: Dentu, 1867), 268).
44
Honoré de Balzac, Théorie de la démarche, in Œuvres complètes (Paris: Conard,
1938 [1830-1835]), 627.
45
See Christophe Studeny, L’Invention de la vitesse. France XVIIIe-XXe siècle
(Paris: Gallimard, 1995).
46
“Ces observateurs, incompréhensibles au-delà de Paris, seront sans doute saisies
par ces hommes d’étude et de pensée, de poésie et de plaisir qui savent récolter, en
flânant dans Paris, la masse de jouissances flottantes, à toute heure, entre ses
murailles. … Il est un petit nombre d’amateurs, de gens qui ne marchent jamais en
écervelés, qui dégustent leur Paris, qui en possèdent si bien la physionomie qu’ils y
voient une verrue, un bouton, une rougeur. Pour les autres, Paris est toujours cette
monstrueuse merveille, étonnant assemblage de mouvements, de machines et de
pensées, la ville aux cent mille romans, la tête du monde. Mais, pour ceux-là, Paris
est triste ou gai, laid ou beau, vivant ou mort; pour eux, Paris est une créature;
chaque homme, chaque fraction de maison est un lobe de tissu cellulaire de cette
grande courtisane de laquelle ils connaissent parfaitement la tête, le cœur et les
mœurs fantasques. Aussi ceux-là sont-ils les amants de Paris” (Honoré de Balzac,
Ferragus, chef des dévorants (Paris: Gallimard, 2001), 48-9).
47
“C’est un daguerréotype mobile et passionné qui garde les moindres traces, et en
qui se reproduisent, avec leurs reflets changeants, la marche des choses, le
mouvement de la cité, la physionomie multiple de l’esprit public, des croyances,
des antipathies et des admirations de la foule” (Victor Fournel, Ce qu’on voit dans
les rues de Paris, 268).
48
“en pleine possession de son individualité” (ibid., 270).
49
“livre urbain,” “lire les occupations quotidiennes,” “les professions variées, la
vie intime et domestique dont chacun porte l’empreinte en quelque sorte affichée
sur son front, dans ses allures et le ton de sa voix, comme sur l’enseigne d’un
magasin; de rechercher le caractère qu’indique une démarche ou une
physionomie” (ibid., 277).
50
Paul Féval, Nuits de Paris, drames et récits nocturnes (Paris, 1851), I.
51
“J’éprouve, moi qui vous parle, en rôdant la nuit dans nos rues mornes et
solitaires tout ce que j’ai ressenti au milieu des ruines” (Jules Lefèvre-Deumier,
Promenade nocturne dans les rues d’une grande ville (Paris, 1842), cited Simone
Delattre, Les Douze Heures noires, la nuit à Paris au XIXe siècle (Paris: Albin
Michel, 2000), 59).
62 Chapter Two
52
“J’ai rôdé longtemps par les halles et les marchés de Paris, et toutes mes
croyances de jeune homme se sont évanouies en présence de ce livre
vivant” (Anon., “Halles et marchés,” Nouveau Tableau de Paris au dix-neuvième
siècle, 7 vols (1834-18355), vol. 5, 235).
53
“Il s’agit de peindre la ville comme elle est, et de la mouler avec ses bosses et
ses creux, ses reliefs de chair et de bois, sans trier les glorieux et les parias… Ainsi
nous parcourons le Paris amoureux et blagueur tout comme le Paris héroïque et
social, et nous nous promenons le sourire aux lèvres et la passion au cœur” (Jules
Vallès, Tableau de Paris, réunis et présentés par Marie-Claire Bancquart (Paris:
Éditions Messidor, 1989), 32).
54
“couru par la foule des flâneurs que, chaque jour, dès quatre heures de l’après-
midi, il faut sérieusement et résolument jouer des coudes pour arriver à se faire
jour à travers les allants et venants, qui vont par bancs épais comme les harengs
dans le détroit de la Manche. Les gens pressés aiment mieux faire un détour que de
s’aventurer sous ce tunnel de verre, où l’on risque à chaque instant d’écraser les
pieds de ses voisins ou d’avoir les côtes enfoncées par eux’ (Alfred Delvau, Les
Plaisirs de Paris, guide pratique (Paris: Achille Faure, 1867), “Les passages,” 53-
9).
55
“Dans ce moment qu’approche la nouvelle année, le jour des étrennes, les
boutiques des marchands se surpassent par la variété de leurs riches étalages.
L’aspect de ces merveilles peut procurer au flâneur oisif le passe-temps le plus
agréable … en contemplant l’abondance bigarrée des objets d’art et de luxe
exposés derrière les glaces miroitantes des magasins, et en jetant peut-être aussi un
regard sur le public qui se tient là à ses côtés. Les figures de ce public sont si
sérieuses, si souffrantes et si laides, si impatientes et si menaçantes, qu’elles
forment un contraste sinistre avec les objets qu’elles contemplent la bouche
béante” (Heinrich Heine, Lutèce: lettres sur la vie politique, artistique et sociale de
la France (Paris: Lévy, 1866), 11 December 1841.
56
“dédale de rues obscures, étroites et tortueuses [avec un] quartier [qui] sert
d’asile ou de rendez-vous à un grand nombre de malfaiteurs de Paris, qui se
rassemblent dans les tapis-francs” (Eugène Sue, Les Mystères de Paris (Paris:
Éditions Princesse, 1982), 7).
57
“rôdeurs doivent surprendre ce qui est interdit au regard commun, ce qui
échappe au passant pressé” (Gérard de Nerval, “Les Nuits d’octobre,” in Flâneries
parisiennes (Paris: Éditions de Paris, 2008)).
58
Walter Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire, un poète lyrique à l’apogée du
capitalisme (Paris: Payot, 1990 [1950]), 57-100.
59
“d’herboriser le bitume,” “c’est le regard du flâneur dont le mode d’existence
dissimule dans un nimbe apaisant la détresse future de l’habitant des grandes
villes” (Walter Benjamin, Passages, 42).
60
“La foule est son domaine, comme l’air est celui de l’oiseau, comme l’eau celui
du poisson. Sa passion et sa profession, c’est d’épouser la foule. Pour le parfait
flâneur, pour l’observateur passionné, c’est une immense jouissance que d’élire
domicile dans le nombre, dans l’ondoyant, dans le mouvement, dans le fugitif et
l’infini. Être hors de chez soi, et pourtant se sentir partout chez soi; voir le monde,
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 63
être au centre du monde et rester caché au monde, tels sont quelques-uns des
moindres plaisirs de ces esprits indépendants, passionnés, impartiaux, que la
langue ne peut que maladroitement définir” (Charles Baudelaire, “Le peintre de la
vie moderne,” L’Art romantique, in Œuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1961),
1160-1).
61
“Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu’il peut à sa guise être lui-même
et autrui. … Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette
universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des
jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l’égoïste, fermé comme un
coffre, et le paresseux interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes
toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui
présente” (Charles Baudelaire, “XII. Les foules,” Petits Poèmes en prose, le spleen
de Paris (Paris: Garnier, 1980), 54).
62
“la flânerie est une sorte de lecture de la ville: le visage des gens, les étalages,
les vitrines, les terrasses des cafés, les rails, les autos, les arbres deviennent autant
de lettres égales en droit, qui, lorsqu’elles s’assemblent, constituent les mots, les
phrases et les pages d’un livre toujours nouveau Franz Hessel” (Promenade dans
Berlin (1929), 145). Stefan Zweig, speaking of Paris, wrote: “Tu sais ce que
j’apprécie le plus ici? flâner dans les rues, bouquiner – je ne me laisserai pas priver
de ça par des rendez-vous et des engagements. Dieu que cette ville est belle”
(Stefan Zweig, letter to Friderike Maria Zweig, 26 January 1924, Correspondance,
1920-1931 (Paris: Grasset, 2003), 162).
63
‘ce rêve dont les plus anciennes traces sont le labyrinthe sur les feuilles de papier
buvard de mes cahiers d’écolier” (Walter Benjamin, “Chronique berlinois,” Écrits
autobiographiques (Paris: Bourgois, 1990), 249-50.
64
“le soir après m’être couché je ne pouvais pas en lire plus de quelques mots sans
que mon cœur se mette à battre si fort que je devais poser le livre […] Les
premières notes du Passagenwerk remontent d’ailleurs à cette époque” (quoted in
Susan Buck Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades
Project (Cambridge MA: MTI Press), 33).
65
Louis Aragon, Le Paysan de Paris (Paris: Gallimard, 1972 [1926]).
66
Léon-Paul Fargue, Le Piéton de Paris (Paris: Gallimard, 2001 [1932]).
67
Jean-Christophe Bailly, “La grammaire générative des jambes” (1981), La Ville
à l'œuvre (Paris: Éditions de l’imprimeur, 2001), 21-33.
68
Michel de Certeau, “Pratiques de l’espace, marches dans la ville,” in L’Invention
du quotidien, 1. Arts de faire (Paris: Gallimard, 1990), 135-64.
69
“une forme spécifique d’opérations (des ‘manières de faire’) à ‘une autre
spatialité’ (une expérience ‘anthropologique,’ poétique et mythique de l’espace), et
à une mouvance opaque et aveugle de la ville habitée” (ibid., 142).
70
Éric Hazan, L’Invention de Paris, il n’y a pas de pas perdus (Paris: Seuil, 2002).
See also Georges Perec, Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien (Paris:
Bourgois, 1982).
71
Edmund White, The Flâneur, A Stroll through the Paradoxes of Paris (New
York and London: Bloomsbury, 2001).
64 Chapter Two
72
Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking (New York: Viking Penguin,
2000); L’Art de marcher (Paris: Acte Sud, 2002).
73
“à travers les rues et les boulevards qu’elle [la ville] traverse, elle se plaît à
alterner les périodes de resserrement et d’élargissement, des rythmes plus
précipités et des rythmes plus lents et plus larges” (Pierre Sansot, Poétique de la
ville (Paris : Méridien Klincksieck, 1984), p. 159). See also Jardins publics (Paris:
Payot, 1993).
74
“mise en jeu constante’ (David Le Breton, Éloge de la marche (Paris: Métailié,
2000), 121).
75
Karlheinz Stierle, La Capitale des signes, Paris et son discours (Paris: Éditions
des la Maison des sciences de l’homme, 2001), and Simone Delattre, Les Douze
Heures noires, la nuit à Paris au XIXe siècle (Paris: Albin Michel, 2000).
76
Thierry Pacquot, Des Corps urbains. Sensibilités entre béton et bitume (Paris:
Autrement, 2006).
77
Thierry Paquot, “Le sentiment de la nuit urbaine aux XIXe et XXe siècle,” Les
Annales de la recherche urbaine, no. 87, September 2000, 9.
78
Walter Benjamin, Paris, Capitale du XIXe siècle, 434.
79
A form of experimental behaviour linked to the condition of urban society: a
technique of rapid movement through different situations. The term also
particularly applies to the duration of a continued application of this action. See
Guy Debord, La société du spectacle (Paris: Buchet-Chastel, 1967). For an
overview of Situationist activities, see Jean-François Martos, Histoire de
l’Internationale situationniste (Paris: Lebovici, 1989) and Gianfranco Marelli,
L’Amère Victoire du situationnisme: pour une histoire critique de l'Internationale
situationniste, 1957-1972 (Arles: Sullivier, 1989).
80
“le concept de dérive est indissolublement lié à la reconnaissance d’effets de
nature psychogéographique, et à l’affirmation d’un comportement ludique-
constructif, ce qui l’oppose en tous points aux notions classiques de voyage et de
promenade” (Guy-Ernest Debord, “Théorie de la dérive,” Les lèvres nues, no. 9
(November 1956): 6).
81
“se proposerait l’étude des lois exactes et des effets précis du milieu
géographique, consciemment aménagé ou non, agissant directement sur le
comportement affectif des individus” (Guy-Ernest Debord, “Introduction à une
critique de la géographie urbaine,” Les Lèvres nues, no. 6 (September 1955): 11).
82
“une ou plusieurs personnes se livrant à la dérive renoncent, pour une durée plus
ou moins longue, aux raisons de se déplacer et d’agir qu’elles se connaissent
généralement, aux relations, aux travaux et aux loisirs qui leur sont propres, pour
se laisser aller aux sollicitations du terrain et des rencontres qui y correspondent.
… Ainsi, quelques plaisanteries d’un goût dit douteux, que j’ai toujours vivement
apprécié dans mon entourage, par exemple s’introduire nuitamment dans les étages
des maisons en démolition, parcourir sans arrêt Paris en auto-stop pendant une
grève des transports, sous le prétexte d’aggraver la confusion en se faisant
conduire n’importe où, errer dans ceux des souterrains des catacombes qui sont
interdits au public, relèveraient d’un sentiment plus général qui ne serait autre que
le sentiment de la dérive’ (Guy-Ernest Debord, “Théorie de la dérive,” 8).
Did the Flâneur Exist? A Parisian Overview 65
83
“Le mardi 6 mars 1956, G.E. Debord et Gil J. Wolman se rencontrent à 10h dans
la rue des Jardins-Paul, et partent en direction du nord pour reconnaître les
possibilités d’une traversée de Paris à ce niveau. Malgré leurs intentions ils se
trouvent rapidement déportés vers l’est, et traversent la partie supérieure du XIe
arrondissement qui, par son caractère de standardisation commerciale pauvre, est
un bon exemple du paysage petit-bourgeois repoussant. La seule rencontre
plaisante est, au 160 de la rue Oberkampf, le magasin ‘Charcuterie-Comestibles A.
Breton.’ Parvenus dans le XXe arrondissement Debord et Wolman s’engagent dans
une série de passages étroits qui, à travers des terrains vagues et des constructions
peu élevées qui ont un air d’abandon, joignent la rue de Ménilmontant à la rue
Couronnes” (ibid., 12).
84
“La Fête de la Musique n’est pas un Festival. C’est une grande manifestation
populaire, gratuite, ouverte à tous, … son territoire privilégié est le plein air, les
rues, les places, les jardins, les cours d'immeubles, de musées, ou de châteaux”
(http://fetedelamusique.culture.fr/47_Qu_estce_que_la_Fete_de_la_Musique_.html
, consulted 16 December 2008).
85
“Nuit Blanche est une invitation au voyage au pas de sa porte, une aventure dans
le monde de la ville et de l’art, une déambulation dans un film en trois dimensions
sans scénario ni pellicule mais avec des lumières, des sons et un climat
cinématographiques” (http://www.paris.fr/loisirs/les-grands-rendez-vous/nuits-
blanches/p6806, consulted 25 July 2012)
86
‘le rétablissement des continuités urbaines pour les piétons, des Boulevards à la
Seine, du Louvre à Beaubourg, en supprimant, déplaçant ou diminuant les entrées
ou sorties de tunnels des voies souterraines”
(http://www.paris.fr/portail/Urbanisme/Portal.lut?page_id=101&document_type_i
d=4&document_id=13460&portlet_id=20988&multileveldocument_sheet_id=148
9, consulted 16 December 2008).
87
http://www.paris.fr/portail/deplacements/portal.lut?page_id=14, consulted 16
December 2008).
88
“Le questionnaire le démontre: fortement impliqués, ils sont favorables à
accorder la priorité aux transports publics et aux modes de circulation douce par
rapport à la circulation automobile. Les priorités sont donc claires, mais les attentes
restent nombreuses ... le futur Plan de Déplacements de Paris devra les traduire
concrètement” (ibid.).
89
“Au printemps 2013, ce sont plus de quatre hectares qui offriront à tous, entre le
Musée d’Orsay et le pont de l'Alma, des occasions nouvelles de promenades,
d'animations et de loisirs”
(http://www.lemonde.fr/politique/article/2012/07/13/voies-sur-berges-a-paris-
ayrault-met-fin-au-blocage-du-projet_1733580_823448.html#xtor=AL-32280270,
consulted 25 July 2012)).
CHAPTER THREE
SIMON LEE
middle of the eighteenth century they had fallen into a state of disrepair
and some had lost their recreational and ambulatory functions. Indeed the
Paseo del Prado had acquired a somewhat sordid and sinister reputation as
a location for illicit nocturnal liaisons and criminality.4 The new Paseos
thus improved the existing road system and urban landscape and were also
expressions of the Rousseauian ideal of linking the city with nature.5
The Paseos also formed impressive approaches to numerous newly-
erected monumental city gates that had replaced their modest
predecessors.6 The building and re-modelling of the periphery of Madrid
was not an isolated project, but part of a far-reaching plan to renovate all
of the kingdom’s highways, particularly those that led to and from royal
palaces and residences.7 Purchasing of land began in the Summer of 1767
and these ambitious urban improvements were promoted in Espinosa de
los Monteros’ 1769 map of the city, Plano Topographico de la Villa y
Corte de Madrid (Fig. 2), which provided two views of the city’s eastern
Paseos (Fig. 3-3).8 An insert at the lower right showed the Paseos from
Puerta de Recoletos to the Puerta de Atocha before building work had
started and was captioned: “Plan of the old Paseo of San Jeronimo as it
was in the year 1768 when its demolition was begun on the orders of His
Excellency the Count of Aranda, Captain-General of the Army and
President of the Council and put into the form shown in the large map”9
(Fig. 3-4). The map proper was an aspirational document and included the
Paseos as projected with broad avenues that were to be planted with
hardwood species of black poplars and acacias. In preparing the map,
Monteros evidently had access to the definitive plan prepared by José de
Hersomilla in 1767, the military architect who had been charged with the
task by Aranda.10
The ensemble of these new avenues was mapped for the first time in
Tomás López’s Plano Geométrico de Madrid of 1785, dedicated to the
king and, as the caption reveals, presented to the monarch by his Prime
Minister, the Count of Floridablanca11 (Fig. 3-5). One notable addition
from the 1769 map is the Botanic Garden, opened in 1781 with a
distinguished Doric portal on the Paseo de Atocha, designed by Francesco
Sabatini and a further example of King Charles’ desire to provide
improving and scientific amenities for the city situated on the new Paseos
(Figs 3-6 and 3-7). The inscription on the frieze leaves the viewer in no
doubt concerning the royal bounty and Charles is identified as the father
of the nation and restorer of botany for the health and recreation of his
subjects.12
As redeveloped and reconstructed, these wide and well-paved avenues
had double, treble or quadruple rows of trees and were embellished with
68 Chapter Three
fountains, statues and stone and iron seats. The stream that ran along the
Paseo del Prado, that was variously a dry ditch, an open sewer and a fast-
flowing brook, was enclosed in culverts with metal grilles.13 Three
impressive fountains were also planned, each designed by Ventura
Rodríguez and dedicated to a classical deity- Cybele, Neptune, and Apollo
- which also incorporated the Four Seasons. Neptune and Cybele, which
each formed the centrepiece of a square at a crossroads, were completed in
1782, while the Apollo, located along the avenue between the two, was
only finished in 1802.14
The stretch of the Paseo between Cybele and Neptune was called the
Salón del Prado and was intended to evoke a Roman hippodrome with two
longitudinal arms closed by exedrae. The axis of symmetry was the Apollo
fountain and in front of this a two storey columned portico, also in the
form of an exedra, and also designed by Ventura Rodríguez, was planned
with a central pavilion serving coffee and chocolate. This had the dual
function of providing strollers with shade and shelter from the elements
and of spanning the change in level between the Paseo del Prado and the
grounds of the Buen Retiro palace.15 Unfortunately this was never built -
although the idea of a grand columned portico was to inspire Juan de
Villanueva in his designs for the new Museum of Natural History situated
on the Paseo del Prado - which later became the Prado Museum.16 In the
second edition of his Viage de España, published in 1782, Antonio Ponz
wrote that with their accommodating width, stone benches and avenues of
trees, the Prado and Atocha Paseos were the major adornment of the
capital and, once finished with statues and fountains, it would be difficult
to imagine any other city having such a magnificent and agreeable
amenity within its precincts.17
Of course the paseo was at once an urban thoroughfare and an activity
- the leisurely late afternoon or evening stroll or promenade, and the new
avenues became the focus for native pedestrians and for the wheeled
perambulations of the aristocracy. They also provided an opportunity for
the observation of these phenomena, often by visiting foreigners. Jean-
François Bourgoing, the Secretary to the French Ambassador noted the
great activity on the Paseo del Prado and observed that: “I have sometimes
seen four or five hundred carriages filing off in the greatest order, amid an
innumerable crowd of spectators, a spectacle which at once is a proof of
great opulence and population.”18 The combination of traffic jams and the
custom of bowing the head in acknowledgement of the occupants of
carriages coming in the opposite direction meant that that it took more
than two hours to proceed one mile. The German-Danish visitor Daniel
Gotthilf Moldenhawer observed that the spectacle on the Prado every
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 69
night was comparable to what could only be seen in other European cities
on Sundays and holidays.19 Bourgoing added that most people were very
soberly dressed- with the women always in black, and observed “the
Prado, with all its beauty seems to be the theatre of Castilian gravity.”20
This sense of spectacle only increased in later years and an 1815 Paseo
por Madrid ó Guía del forastero en la corte commented:
The most frequented part is that called the Salon, where a prodigious
concourse of people gather from all parts, on foot and in coaches, to enjoy
the agreeable prospect offered by the many and various objects that present
themselves. Here is where the opulent rich come to flaunt their shiny
carriages, the young men on horseback to show off their gallantry and skill,
the women to display their jewellery and graces, and where the public
flock to contemplate these spectacles. During summer afternoons and
evenings people of all classes and both sexes come to this spacious
Salon....21
The new social spaces and the social spectacles and rituals they
engendered and hosted provided the subject matter for numerous designs
for tapestry cartoons commissioned by the Royal Tapestry Factory of
Santa Barbara for the interiors of the royal palaces of El Escorial and El
Pardo. The Tapestry Cartoons were paintings produced by crown-
employed artists to act as full-size models for the factory’s weavers to
follow. In the 1770s and 1780s apartments occupied by the Royal
Princesses and by the heir to the throne, the Prince of Asturias, the future
Charles IV, and his wife Maria Luisa were the main recipients of
tapestries and the subject matter frequently focused on the popular
amusements and pastimes of the lower classes against the backdrop of
urban Madrid.22 Francisco Goya is the artist most usually associated with
the production of Tapestry Cartoons and he produced 63 cartoons between
1775 and 1792. These works distinguished him as the most acute and
critical observer of the street life, social interactions and urban navigation
of Madrid, prompting Bourgoing, to comment on “Don Francisco Goya,
who possesses a peculiar talent for giving an accurate representation of the
manners, the diversions, and costume of his native country.”23 However,
none of Goya’s Madrileñan subjects featured the new paseos on the
Eastern side of the city and this aspect of social observation was left to his
less well-known contemporaries who were also employed by the Tapestry
Factory.
For tapestries to embellish the dining room of the Royal Princesses in
the palace of El Pardo, in 1785 Ginés Andrés de Aguirre produced The
70 Chapter Three
Alcalá Gate and the Cybele Fountain (Fig. 3-8). The 1786 inventory of
the Tapestry Factory provided a full description of the scene:
The Alcalá Gate seen from the corner of the Calle Alcalá close to the
Cybele [Fountain]. In the foreground, a gentleman and lady with a girl by
her side and at the gentleman’s side a boy playing with a dog. Behind them
the Cybele Fountain with a line of trees and some people all around. From
these, the trees can be seen in perspective up to the aforementioned gate.
Close to the fountain a man leads a horse by the bridle, and behind another
horseman with his mount who is drinking… On the other side, four soldiers
in conversation and behind them, a line of trees.24
a view of the Royal Site of the Retiro seen towards the garden of the horse,
where, besides the wall a man and a woman on a parapet can be seen
looking at it, with a boy trying to climb up. Two women seated in
conversation are on the same parapet. A wet nurse in the shade of a tree,
breastfeeding a baby, at her side a standing woman, her mantilla on her
shoulders, having some sort of get-together. Not far away is a gardener
72 Chapter Three
with a basket of fruit on his head and in the foreground, another gardener,
dressed as a majo, presents various flowers to a woman, whose maid
receives them in a white cloth. Behind the gardener is the lady’s escort,
shortsighted and searching for change to pay the requested sum. Climbing
the steps which lead to the parterre is a petimetre arm-in-arm with a
gowned lady. On the right of the picture, a soldier, dressed in blue and
leaning on a walking stick, looks at a statue of Isis on a pedestal. Seated on
the ground next to him is a lady wearing a pink gown and beside her, and
seen from behind, a soldier dressed in red wearing a hat, sitting on a step.
There is also a variety of trees in the foreground and middleground.34
Castillo elucidated the clear class distinctions between the two common
male urban types, the majo and the petimetre. Bourgoing observed: “The
Majos are beaux of the lower class, or rather bullies whose grave and
frigid pomposity is announced by their whole exterior. They have an
accent, habit and gesture peculiar to themselves.”35 Mostly drawn from the
ranks of artisans and tradesmen, majos were fiercely proud and considered
themselves of pure Castilian blood, untainted by foreign intermarriage.
They frequently wore the long cape and the broad brimmed hat
(chambergo), that together were thought to facilitate the concealment of
weapons and provide anonymity for criminals.36 An attempt to ban this
costume in March 1766 by one of Charles III’s favoured Neapolitan
ministers, the Marquis of Esquilache, led to the so-called Esquilache Riots
where the Madrileños rose up in protest at such “foreign” intervention in
Spanish customs. The king soon capitulated and withdrew the regulation
and Esquilache and his wife were forced to leave Madrid.37
Petimetres, from the French petits-maîtres, were the late eighteenth-
century equivalent of fashion victims, continually ridiculed in literature
and in the theatre for their obsession with the latest, and often comically
outlandish dress. By taking their sartorial inspiration from France, they
were sometimes considered effete and lacking in manliness, and were thus
the antithesis of the majo.38 Castillo makes reference to the masculine
allure of the majo compared to the bewigged petimetre and the lady
appears to be more interested in the gardener than in the blooms he offers
(Fig. 3-12). While failings or weaknesses of the senses were often equated
with moral corruption,39 here the petimetre’s shortsighted search for coins
alludes to his ignorance of the threat posed by the majo.
During daylight hours the Paseo del Prado and the Buen Retiro
Gardens were the sites of fashionable flirtation and pastries, fresh fruit and
flowers were favourite gifts from gallants to their ladies, all supplied by a
small army of street vendors plying their illegal trade.40 The setting of
amorous couples in a parkland adorned with statues ultimately derived
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 73
from Watteau’s fêtes galantes via French prints of the later eighteenth
century, such as Jean-Michel Moreau the Younger’s Park at Marly.41
The royal imprint of both the Borbón and Hapsburg dynasties pervades
the cartoon through the sculptural presences. Under Charles III, the
kingdom of Naples became renowned for its archaeological riches and the
first royal publication of ancient art from Herculaneum had a frontispiece
of the monarch posing as the noble sponsor of intellectual and cultural
enlightenment.42 Thus, the inclusion of antique sculptures ensured
associations with the Borbón dynasty - even though none were on display
in the Buen Retiro Gardens at the time.
At the right is a Hadrianic statue of Isis, bought by Pope Clement XII
from Cardinal Alessandro Albani in 1733 and shortly after presented to
the Capitoline Museum (Fig. 3-13).43 While the two gentlemen are
absorbed in contemplating the statue, the lady gazes at her red-coated
companion. Castillo also sets up a visual correspondence between the
statue of Isis and the seated lady. Her headwear mimics the statue’s solar
disc, lotus flower and lotus bud headdress and her fichu, finished with a
large bow, appears like the knot between Isis’s breasts. Isis’s sistrum is
also replaced with a fan. Castillo perhaps comments both on the contrast
between living, fashionable femininity and distant, sculptural antiquity
and on masculine intellectual seriousness that ignores the blandishments
of feminine charms.
The statue at the left is the large version of the Woman of Herculaneum,
a vestal dug up by workmen in 1711 at Resina and which heralded the
discovery of the ancient city of Herculaneum. This sculpture never
actually formed part of the Spanish Royal Collections and was acquired
by Prince Eugene of Savoy in Vienna and is now in the Albertinum in
Dresden. 44 Although a fictive arrangement of ancient statuary doubtless
derived from widely available contemporary prints, the painting gives a
clear idea of how an understanding of the sculptures of antiquity had
permeated Spanish society.45 By contrast, the bronze horse glimpsed from
behind on the parterre was located in the Gardens. This was the equestrian
statue of Philip IV by Pietro Tacca, completed in 1640 and which since
1844 has dominated the Plaza de Oriente outside the Royal Palace in
Madrid.46
Not all tapestry cartoons concerned with Madrid urban life contained
markers of royal authority, benevolence or surveillance. In 1784 Ramón
Bayeu painted the cartoon for the Paseo de las Delicias destined to
become a tapestry for the room of the Prince of Asturias in the Pardo
Palace (Fig. 3-14). Ramón’s painting was a full-size version of a sketch
74 Chapter Three
A view of the Paseo de Delicias, with its plantations, and the countryside
and farmhouses, that can be glimpsed, populated by various people who
have come to promenade, like ladies and gentlemen, some wearing military
fashion, others capes. All figures recede according to the perspective of the
said plantation.48
Illustrations
Fig. 3-1. Lorenzo de Quirós, Triumphal arch erected in the Calle de Carretas for
the Entry of Charles III, 1760, oil on canvas, 112 x 167 cm.. Museo de Historia,
Madrid.
76 Chapter Three
Fig. 3-6. Tomás López, Plano Geometrico de Madrid, detail of the Paseos del
Prado and Atocha, including the Botanical Garden, 1785.
80 Chapter Three
Fig. 3.7. Francesco Sabatini, Portal of the Botanical Garden, Madrid, Paseo del
Prado, Madrid, 1781.
Fig. 3-8. Ginés Andrés de Aguirre, The Alcalá gate and the Cybele Fountain,
1785, oil on canvas, 442 x 345 cm.. Madrid Museo del Prado, on loan to the
Museo de Historia, Madrid.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 81
Fig. 3-9. Ginés Andrés de Aguirre, Tapestry of the Alcalá gate and the Cybele
Fountain, c. 1786/87, 291 x 473 cm.. Borbón Apartments, Escorial Palace.
82 Chapter Three
Fig. 3-10. Fernando Brambilla, View of the Cybele fountain and Alcalá Gate,
c.1790-1800. Private collection.
Fig. 3-11. José del Castillo, The Gardens of the Buen Retiro towards the wall of the
bronze horse, 1779, oil on canvas, 260 x 363 cm.. Museo del Prado, on loan to the
Museo de Historia, Madrid.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 83
Fig. 3-12. José del Castillo, The Gardens of the Buen Retiro, detail of the
petimetre and majo with the statue of the Woman of Herculaneum in the
background.
84 Chapter Three
Fig. 3-13. José del Castillo, The Gardens of the Buen Retiro, detail of the statue of
Isis and bronze horseman statue.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 85
Fig. 3-14. Ramón Bayeu, The Paseo de la Delicias, 1784, oil on canvas, 255 x 385
cm.. Museo del Prado, on loan to the Museo de Historia, Madrid.
86 Chapter Three
Fig. 3-15. Pierre-François Tardieu and Debuisson, Madrid map c.1780, detail of
the Paseo de Delicias.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 87
Fig. 3-16. Ramón Bayeu, detail of The Paseo de la Delicias, the two majos.
88 Chapter Three
Notes
1
David Ringrose, “A Setting for Royal Authority: The Reshaping of Madrid,
Sixteenth-Eighteenth Centuries,” in Gary B. Cohen and Franz A. J. Szabo,
Embodiments of Power. Building Baroque Cities in Europe (New York: Berghahn
Books, 2008), 230-48.
2
Thomas F.Reese, “Hipódromos, Carros, Fuentes, Paseantes, y la diversión
pública en la España del siglo XVIII: un programa agrario y de la antigüedad
clásica para el Salón del Prado,” in IV Jornadas de arte: El arte en tiempo de
Carlos III (Madrid: Editorial Alpuerto, 1989), 1-47. These decorations were the
work of the architect Ventura Rodríguez, the sculptor Felipe de Castro and the
academicians Pedro Rodríguez de Campomanes and Vicente Gracia de la Huerta
and consisted of triumphal arches and arcades embellished with statues of virtues
and allegorical personifications, narrative reliefs, military trophies, garlands, and
swags. Laudatory inscriptions to the new monarch and his wife were contained
within cartouches and overall effect was calculated to evoke the splendour and
authority of antiquity. The temporary architecture was described in Relación de los
arcos, inscripciones y ornatos de la carrera por donde ha de passar el Rey
Nuestro Señor D. Carlos Tercero en su entrada publica. Escrita de orden del
Corregidor y Ayuntamiento de Madrid (Madrid: Joachin Ibarra), 1760. As Duke of
Parma, Charles had previously experienced temporary classical architecture on a
more modest scale in Livorno on 28 December 1731 when the British community
paid for the erection of a triumphal arch, designed by Ferdinando Ruggieri. Jesús
Urrea, Itinerario Italiano de un Monarca Español. Carlos III en Italia, 1731-1759,
exhib. cat. (Madrid: Museo del Prado, 1989), 39-41.
3
The most immediate and urgent measures required at Charles’ accession were for
the improvement of the city’s sanitation and hygiene arrangements through new
water and sewerage works, rubbish collection and dispersal, and street paving. For
an overview of the re-building of Madrid under Charles III, see Santos Julía, David
Ringrose, and Cristina Seguna, Madrid: Historia de una capital (Madrid: Alianza
Editorial, 2007), especially Chapter 4 “La Ciudad como Corte: planificación
absolutista y crecimiento espontáneo” and Chapter 5 “Dos Madrid: la ciudad física
y la ciudad mágica,” both by David Ringrose. See also Charles C.Noel, “Madrid:
City of The Enlightenment,” in History Today, vol. 45, Issue 10 (October 1995):
26-32.
4
For a comprehensive architectural and sociological history of the Paseo del Prado
see Concepción Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado de Madrid: arquitectura y
desarrollo urbano en los siglos XVII y XVIII, (Madrid: Fundacion de Apoyo a la
Historia del Arte Hispánico, 2006). The developments under Charles III are
covered in Chapter VIII “La gran transformación del Prado a partir de 1767” and
the Paseo del Prado as a locus for social interaction is discussed in Chapter XIII
“Aspectos sociológicos del Prado.” See also Reese, “Hipódromos” and Charles
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid 1750-1800 (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1932), 17-24.
5
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 208.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 89
6
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 208. See also José Antonio Álvarez y
Baena, Compendio historico, de las grandezas de la coronada villa de Madrid,
corte de la monarquia de España (Madrid: Antonio de Sancha, 1786), 33-44.
7
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 208.
8
Antonio Espinosa de los Monteros, Plano Topographico de la Villa y Corte de
Madrid, (Madrid, Antonio Espinosa de los Monteros, 1769). The dedicatory
cartouche reads “Al Excmo. Señor Conde de Aranda Capitán General de los
Exercitos y Presidente del Consejo. Antº Espinosa de los Monteros Académico de
la Real de las Nobles Artes.” On Espinosa’s map, see Miguel Molina Campuzano,
Planos de Madrid de los siglos XVII y XVIII, (Madrid, Instituto de Estudios de
Administración Local, 1960), 425-54.
9
“Plano del Paseo antiguo de San Gerónimo segun se hallaba el año 1768 en el que
se empezó á demoler de órden del Excmo. Sr. Conde de Aranda Capitan General
de los Ejertos y Presidente del Consejo, y poner en la forma que demuestra el
Plano grande.”
10
Hersomilla’s drawing is in the Bibliotheca Nacional, Madrid, Call Number
Dib/15/86/51. See also Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 209-14.
11
Tomás López, Plano Geométrico de Madrid (Madrid: Tomás López, 1785). On
López’s map, see Molina Campuzano, Planos de Madrid, 455-90, and Antonio
López Gómez and Carmen Manso Porto, Cartografía del Siglo XVIII. Tomás
López en la Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia,
2006), 288-9.
12
The inscription reads “Carolus III P.P. Botanices Instaurator Civium Saluti et
Oblectamento Anno MDCCLXXI” (Charles III, father of the nation, restorer of
botany for the health and diversion of his subjects).
13
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 17 and Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del
Prado, 212-13.
14
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 235-47, Reese, “Hipódromos,” 9-36 and
Ramón Guerra de la Vega, El Madrid de Carlos III, Guía de Arte y Architectura,
Siglo XVIII, vol. II (Madrid: Ramón Guerra de la Vega, 2002), 108-22.
15
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 251-2 and Reese, “Hipódromos,” 33.
16
The building was designed in 1785 and after many delays in construction was
eventually opened to the public as the Real Museo del Prado in 1819. Lopezosa
Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 268-274 and Guerra de la Vega, Madrid, 150-65.
17
Antonio Ponz, Viage de España, en que se da noticia de las cosas mas
apreciables, y dignas de saberse, que hay en ella Vol. V, 2nd edn (Madrid: Joachin
Ibarra, 1782), 27.
18
Jean-François Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain: Exhibiting a complete view of
its topography, government, laws, religion, finances, naval and military
establishments: and of society, manners, arts, sciences, agriculture and commerce
in that country, vol. I (London: John Stockdale, 1807), 247-8.
19
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 18.
20
“Bourgoing’s Travels in Spain,” in William Fordyce Mavor, A General
Collection of Voyages and Travels, including the most interesting records of
navigators and travellers from the discovery of America, by Columbus, in 1492, to
90 Chapter Three
the Travels of Lord Valentia, vol. XXXIII (London, Sherwood: Neely and Jones,
1813), 124.
21
“La parte mas freqüentada es la que se llama el Salon, donde se reune un
concurso prodigioso de gentes que vienen de todas partes, á pie y en coche, á
disfrutar de la agradable prespectiva que ofrece la notable diversidad de tantos y
tan variados objetos como allí se presentan. Aquí es donde la opulenta riqueza
viene á ostentar sus brillantes carrozas, los jóvenes a caballo á mostrar su gallardia
y destreza, las mugeres á lucir sus joyas y gracias, y a donde el pueblo va llegando
en tropel á contemplar, este espectáculo. Durante las tardes y noches de verano se
ven en este espacioso salon personas de todas clases y de ámbos sexos…”
([Anon.], Paseo por Madrid ó Guía del forastero en la corte (Madrid: Repullés
1815), 98).
22
Tapestries were only woven for the Autumn and Winter palaces of El Escorial
and El Pardo. The Spring palace of Aranjuez and the Summer palace of La Granja
contained no tapestries or upholstery and instead featured lavish collections of
paintings and exquisite gardens. On the Tapestry Cartoons and their subject matter
see Jutta Held, Die Genrebilder der Madrider Teppichmanufaktur und die Anfänge
Goyas (Berlin: Mann Verlag, 1971). See also Janis Tomlinson, Francisco Goya.
The Tapestry Cartoons and Early Career at the Court of Madrid (Cambridge, New
York and Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 8-25. Tomlinson (178-
9), adduces some didactic purpose to the selection of certain tapestry subjects for
the apartments of the future monarchs.
23
Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, vol. I, 273.
24
“La Puerta de Alcalá mirado desde la esquina de la Calle de Alcalá inmediata a
la Cibeles: En el primer término un caballero y una Señora con una niña al lado, y
a el lado del caballero un niño entretenido con un perro, y detrás de estos la fuente
de la Cibeles con la línea de árboles y algunas gentes alrededor y de ella siguen
salir de los árboles en perspectiva hasta la citada Puerta, y cerca de la fuente un
hombre que lleva un caballo del diestro, y detrás otro caballero con su jinete y
caballo que está bebiendo… Al otro costado cuatro militares en conversación y
detrás de estos la línea de árboles.” The painting, 442 x 345 cm., is in the Museo
de Historia, Madrid. Alfonso Pérez Sanchez and José Diez García, Museo
Municipal [Madrid], Catálogo de Pinturas (Madrid, Ayuntamiento de Madrid,
1990), 109; Madrid Pintado. La imagen de Madrid a través de la pintura, exhib.
cat. (Madrid, Museo Municipal, 1992), and Held, Madrider Teppichmanufaktur,
86.
25
On the Alcalá gate see Guerra de la Vega, Madrid, 90-101. The inscriptions on
both the city and country sides of the gate read “Rege Carlo III Anno
MDCCLXXVIII” (King Charles III reigns Year 1778).
26
Richard Twiss, Travels through Portugal and Spain in 1772 and 1773 (London:
Robinson, Becket and Robson, 1775), 140 and Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain
vol. I, 247.
27
The Bull-Ring at the Puerta de Alcalà, Madrid’s first permanent taurine arena,
was financed by Ferdinand VI to help fund the General Hospitals of Madrid.
Constructed from 1749, it occupied a site once used for the burning of victims of
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 91
the Inquisition and was designed by the chief architect to the city, Juan Bautista
Sachetti with contributions from Ventura Rodríguez and Fernando Moradillo. An
unadorned circular functional building consisting of a three-storey enclosing wall,
covered galleries, raked seating and an arena, it was renovated in 1772 under the
supervision of Antonio Plo and was in use until 1870. The present calles Claudio
Coello and Conde de Aranda occupy its former site and it is also commemorated
by a plaque on a building next to the Buen Retiro metro station. Urban and sanitary
improvements meant that the Puerta de Alcalà Bull-Ring was replaced by the Plaza
de Toros de Goya, inaugurated in 1874. This in turn was replaced by the Las
Ventas Bull-Ring, opened in 1931 and which is still in operation.
28
“Bourgoing’s Travels in Spain,” 123.
29
Charles Esdaile, The Peninsular War. A New History (London: Penguin, 2003),
20 and 42, and Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 232-7.
30
Guía del forastero, XXII and Plano Geométrico de Madrid, index.
31
Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, II, 75.
32
The tapestry of Aguirre’s The Alcalá Gate and the Cybele Fountain is located in
the Borbón apartments of the Escorial Palace. Held, Madrider Teppichmanufaktur,
86.
33
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 24-5.
34
“que representa una vista del Real Sitio del Retiro mirando azia el Jardin del
cavallo, el qual se ve par encima de la tapia; un hombre y una mujer subidos sobre
un pretil que allí ay para poder verle con un muchacho que intenta subirse: Dos
señoras sentadas en conversación sobre el mismo pretil; una pasiega sentada a el
pie y sombra de unos árboles dando de mamar un niño, yo su lado una mujer en
pie, con la mantilla sobre los hombros haciéndole alguna fiesta. No lejos se ve un
jardinero con un cesto de fruta sobre la cabeza; y en primer término otro jardinero
vestido de majo presentando a una señora varias flores, que recibe su criado en un
panuelo blanco; detras del jardinero se ve un acompañante de la señora, corto de
vista que busca alguna moneda para gratificar a el dicho; subiendo los escalones
por donde se baja a el parterre va un petimetre con una señora de bata asidos del
brazo. A la izquierda del quadro se ve sobre un pedestal la estatua de Isis, a la que
está mirando un militar vestido de azul apoyado sobre un bastón y junto a éste
sentada en tierra, está una señora con bata de color rosa y a su lado y vuelto de
espaldas, un militar vestido de encarnado con el sombrero puesto sentado en un
escalón: Hay asimismo variedad de árboles en primero y segundo termino” (Pérez
Sanchez and Diez Garcia, Museo Municipal Catálogo, 116, Madrid Pintado, 118
and Held, Madrider Teppichmanufaktur, 139). The painting, oil on canvas, 260 x
363 cm., is in the Museo de Historia, Madrid and the tapestry, which reverses the
design of the cartoon, is in the Borbón apartments of the Escorial Palace. Another
example of this tapestry is housed in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.
35
“Bourgoing’s Travels in Spain,” 306.
36
“Bourgoing’s Travels in Spain,” 306-7. See also Kany, Life and manners in
Madrid, 220-3 and Tomlinson, Goya Tapestry Cartoons, 31-5.
37
John Lynch, Bourbon Spain 1700-1808 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1989), 261-8.
38
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 174-88.
92 Chapter Three
39
On the links between vision, moral corruption and satire in Enlightenment Spain,
see Andrew Schulz, Goya’s Caprichos. Aesthetics, Perception and the Body
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 120-39.
40
Lopezosa Aparicio, El Paseo del Prado, 467-9 and Kany, Life and Manners in
Madrid, 21-2.
41
Held, Madrider Teppichmanufaktur, 53, illustration 53.
42
Le antichità di Ercolano esposte, vol. 1 (Naples: Accademia Ercolanese di
Archeologia, 1757). The frontispiece engraving of Charles III was engraved by
Filippo Morghen after Camillo Paderni. See Royal Splendor in the Enlightenment.
Charles IV of Spain as Patron and Collector, exhib. cat. (Dallas, Meadows
Museum / Patrimonio Nacional, 2010), 133-4, no.5.
43
Henry Stuart Jones (ed.), A Catalogue of the Ancient Sculptures Preserved in the
Municipal Collections of Rome. The Sculptures of the Museo Capitolino (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1912), 6, 354, no.15 and 394, no. 25. The statue’s head
decoration appears to be a solar disc and lotus flower rather than the globe, snakes
and palmette as suggested in the Jones catalogue. My thanks are due to Dr Vanessa
Mackenzie of the University of Warwick for her iconographic suggestions.
44
Jens Daehner, The Herculaneum women: history, context, identities (Los
Angeles: Getty Publications, 2007), 4-10 and 20-36.
45
Jorge Maier Allende, “Las Antigüedades en palacio: Ideología y función de las
colleciones reales de arte antiguo en el siglo XVIII,” Reales Sitios, Año XLVII, no.
183, Primer Trimestre 2010, 17.
46
The demolitions to form the Plaza de Oriente began under the brief reign of
Joseph I. Under Isabel II of Borbón, Tacca’s statue of Philip IV was placed on a
newly designed pedestal with bas-reliefs by Francisco Elías Vallejo and José
Tomás. Elías was also responsible for the bronze lions at the foot of the pedestal
and the marble figures of the rivers Jarama and Manzanares. The ensemble was
inaugurated on 10 October 1844. Eulalia Palomeque, Ordenación y transformaciones
urbanas del casco antiguo madrileño durante los siglos XIX y XX (Madrid:
Instituto de Estudios Madrilenos, 1976),197-9.
47
Madrid Pintado, 130-3 and Francisco Bayeu 1734-1795, exhib. cat. (Zaragoza:
Ibercaja, 1996), 204-5. Francisco’s sketch, oil on canvas 0.37 x 0.56 m., is in the
Museo del Prado and Ramón’s cartoon, also oil on canvas, 255 x 385 cm., is on
deposit in the Museo de Historia, Madrid, from the Prado. The tapestry hangs in
the Antesala de Embajadores in the Escorial Palace.
48
“Una vista del Paseo de Delicias con sus arboledas, y el campo que se alcanza a
ver, y caserías, está poblado de varias gentes que han salido a paseo como señoras
y señores, unos a lo militar y otros con capa, todas las figures en su degradación
según pide la perspectiva de dichas arboledas” (Alfonso Pérez Sanchez and José
Diez García, Museo Municipal Catálogo, 112).
49
Ponz, Viage de España, vol. V, 28-9, Madrid Pintado, 130 and Francisco
Bayeu, 204.
50
Bourgoing, Modern Spain, vol. IV, 241.
51
Paseo de Madrid, 99 and Frederick Augustus Fischer, Travels in Spain in 1797
and 1798 (London: Longman and Rees, 1802), 150-1.
Promenades in Enlightenment Madrid 93
52
Held, Madrider Teppichmanufaktur, 54, illustration 55.
53
Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 224-7 and Bourgoing, Modern State of
Spain, vol. II, 7-11.
54
Ponz, Viage de España, vol. V, 30.
55
Concha Herrero Carretero, “An Introduction to Goya’s Cartoons and
Tapestries,” in Goya: Images of Women, exhib. cat., ed. Janis Tomlinson
(Washington, New Haven and London: National Gallery of Art and Yale
University Press, 2002), 96-7. See also Tomlinson, Goya Tapestry Cartoons, 146.
56
That the monarchy took paseos as part of court life, within the precincts of royal
palaces, is testified to by Joseph Townsend. At the Palace of Aranjuez he
observed: “In the evening, after the siesta, the princesses, attended by their guards,
the grandees, and some of the foreign ministers, enter their coaches, and move
slowly on, saluting each other as often as they pass. By the side of this long
extended mall, is a pleasant walk, well filled with company, and in which the
princesses occasionally walk” (Joseph Townsend, A Journey through Spain in the
years 1786 and 1787, 3 vols (London: C. Dilly, 1791), vol. 1, 334).
CHAPTER FOUR
CHRISTIAN DEULING
ask how crime, prostitution and begging could be fought most effectively.
The moral codes of the time did not allow Hüttner to write freely on
prostitution in Britain's capital; instead, he claimed to have entered a
brothel without realising it.
Having seen a public leisure location a couple of days ago, I wanted to find
a place for dinner before going home, as it was already late, when I heard
something like dancing music. ... When I went around the corner, I saw
several people standing in front of a house and realized that this was the
location I was searching for. When I had approached the house, a girl who
I immediately recognized as being one of the good-willing, assured me that
I would find it warmer and more agreeable upstairs than in the cold street.
These girls know how to talk to you and persuade you in a way that I found
myself in a fairly illuminated room before I could have told you how that
had happened. The dynamics of people there were more than funny and I
soon realized what kind of people had assembled here. ... - I was extremely
glad to have made so much experience for only one single pound, a golden
chain and a few pieces of jewellery and to have witnessed what you call a
hop.
N.B. About 14 days after this had happened to me, the owner of the
establishment and many of her guests, male and female, were arrested by
the nowadays quite effective police who had finally destroyed this and
other locations.6
Although Hüttner's outrage seems to fit the moral codes of his time, his
enumeration of a pound, a golden chain and a few pieces of jewellery
seems to suggest that he may have had more than just dinner in that
establishment, thus undermining the moral standards he had to officially
stick to, and providing a thrilling read.
Friedrich Theophil Winckler (1772-1807), the Paris-correspondent,
wrote about prostitution in a similar way, defending his higher moral
perspective:
Indeed, they had been living by their public indecency to a very high
degree. In the evening, you could not pass many streets without being
addressed in a very direct way. They would grab you by the arm and try to
drag you in their holes. No other place was worse than La Place des
Italiens, at the corner with rue St Marc. They were standing here in their
dozens (I don't exaggerate): and passing there in the evening meant rowing
through sirens, for one would offer herself on your left, another on your
right side, and many times (as I had to pass there every evening), I feared
the worst for my sleeves due to their tight grab. ... Since then, the police
had made several such arrests, and it seems as if they seriously wanted to
have an eye on public decency at least.7
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 97
The social question is asked by neither of the journalists. They did not ask
why these women worked as prostitutes and under what conditions they
had to live. Prostitution, as begging and crime, was seen as a social curse
that had to be restricted by the police.
In his reports from Paris, Winckler repeatedly links accounts from
daily life to their political implications, for example when he writes about
newspaper sellers, their announcements and headlines:
What they announce publicly (which they do despite the fact that it is
forbidden) is normally arranged in a way that you would assume
something juicy behind it and buy it immediately. As soon as you read it,
you realize that the story is either a commonplace or just the opposite of
what had been promised in the headlines or a reprint of another article with
a strange title. ... When Bonaparte had his ceremonial reception at the
Directoire, those streets through which Bonaparte was expected to proceed,
together with the names of those persons who were expected to form his
entourage, were being shouted out the whole morning. ... Everyone bought
the paper and the people were gathering in the streets that had been
announced before. In the end, it became clear that not a single word of it
had been true.8
Very often, the reports of Hüttner in London and Winckler in Paris are
abstractions of many walks through the cities, summing up the main
characteristics of the journalists' experiences and showing what is typical
rather than offering one specific and unique experience. In this way,
Hüttner informs his readers about family life in London on Sundays:
It’s nine o'clock. The milkwomen crying milk are only now appearing and
Fanny or Betty has them measure up milk for breakfast for a farthing. The
milkmaid would make a streak of chalk at the door, or on a piece of wood,
in order to add it up after 14 days’ time. Then the family gets dressed
properly and the father goes for a walk with his children while dear mother
prepares a delicious meal or carries it to the baker. But don’t they go to
church? Yes! In other cities of England and in the country. But in London,
the craftsman doesn't go to church very often, on average. But still, this
very same man will go to see the debating society tomorrow night where
the Methodists will be attacked.9
At the end, however, the publisher Friedrich Justin Bertuch (or his leading
editor Carl August Böttiger) calls into question in a footnote what Hüttner
has just stated before, rejecting what other German authors had written
about Britain: “But all in all, many middle-class people are still very
devout. Wendeborn is too strict, Küttner too lenient and excusing against
the ruling church. The editor.”10
98 Chapter Four
In the last six weeks, at least twenty different reading rooms have opened
in London where you can read all newspapers and many plays for only one
or two Pence. The people's demand for news and the increase in newspaper
prices have led to the adoption of this French custom.12
Both journalists, Hüttner and Winckler, and the editors, F.J. Bertuch
and C.A. Böttiger (from 1804 on, Bertuch’s son Carl took over the task of
editing the journal from his father), often referred to the concept of
national character and national humour and wit with all stereotypes
involved. They never really call those stereotypes into question and think
about them in relative terms only if certain caricaturists had gone too far.
Contrasting the London- and the Paris-chapter of one of the eight issues of
London und Paris, which were published per year, was always an option.
Sometimes, however, the journalists themselves drew parallels between
the two big cities, especially if their comparison was concerned with
English people living in Paris and the French living in London, most of
them royalist émigrés:
There are many French restaurants in London now. They can be compared
to the English restaurants according to the French and English national
character. In the French houses, there is much noise, people talk to each
other freely and listen to the latest news for free, mixed with aristocratic
remarks. In English houses, it is calm, you are being served well, you can
hardly hear anyone talking at a large table, and you should not be afraid of
being addressed. The English restaurants are clean; as for the French, you
have to turn a blind eye on them.13
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 99
Fig. 4-1. Carl Starcke after James Gillray, John Bull taking an luncheon, hand-
coloured etching, London und Paris, vol. 2, issue 7, 1798, No. XXIV.
Forschungsbibliothek Gotha, classmark Opp 8° 708/1 (2).
Fig. 4-2. [Anonymous English artist] Temple of the Muses, hand-coloured etching,
London und Paris, vol. 4, issue 8, No. XXIV. Forschungsbibliothek Gotha,
classmark Opp 8° 708/1 (4).
the other end of the street who also stayed there for a very long time, as if
he had taken over the other man's shift.19
In another Paris article in the second issue of 1799, the editor adds a
footnote concerning the “cris de Paris”:
As almost every large city has its own exclaimers of goods with certain
costumes and melodies, so it has long been a speculation for print sellers to
reproduce them and sell whole suites of them. You have such collections
from Vienna, St. Petersburg, London and Leipzig, which suit the
caricatures very well. But the idea to set their cries to music was nowhere
more adaptable than with the street criers of Paris, to whom Mercier had
already dedicated their own chapter in his older Tableaux de Paris (ch.
379, T.V. p. 67) .... Some of our readers will enjoy finding those
dissonances on a print attached to this page. The editor.20
Isn't it a marvellous sight, my friend said, if you look down a main street of
London; the large crystal lamps illuminate everything just as if it was
daylight. - Even more so the shops, I interrupted him. Just look how one
arch stands next to the other, and how one is even more beautiful, and
more richly illuminated than the other. [...] You really believe to look into
an ocean of light in some shops, especially if white cloth is generally
reflecting the beams.22
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 103
Fig. 4-3. [Carl Starcke (?) after an anonymous French artist] Les Nouveaux Cris de
Paris, hand-coloured etching, London und Paris, vol. 5, issue 1, 1800, no. II.
Forschungsbibliothek Gotha, classmark Opp 8° 708/1 (5).
Hüttner calls the partners in dialogue A and B, thus indicating its fictional
character:
A. What a colourful light that is shining out of every window! Do they sell
here water in red, green, yellow colour?
B. No! That's all for decoration. It's a pharmacist's shop, and the large,
coloured glasses do not contain anything but normal water. But isn't the
effect of it good in the evening, especially from the distance? Let us go
across the street and look at the transparent paper windows! Here you have
all shades and colours in the different frames, illuminated by extensive
light! On the printed paper fields, framed in silk, you can read:
antiscorbutic drops, aperient pills, medications that make you sweat, the
famous restorative which wipes away all sins of youth, Velno's vegetabilic
syrup, the famous appetite powder, the brilliant universal medicine by
Doctor F., and so on. Just look how the inexperienced farmer, the shy
betrayed woman, the modest craftsman, the extremely witty medication
104 Chapter Four
skeptic and the excessive man of pleasure enter the shop and buy, trapped
by that kind of quacksalverish boasting. For below the medicine's title,
there are letters of people who have allegedly been cured by those means.23
The political journals will have informed you that a huge crowd of people
had assembled on the Champ de Mars, or rather around it. That is indeed
true; alas, a neutral man has to smile when he learns such positive news
that is attributed to the French bourgeois people. Other reasons and
circumstances account for that fact. Everyone who knows only a little the
character of the Parisians and their curiosity, will easily understand how a
considerable number of people can assemble for any of those celebrations,
given the fact that work is forbidden on such a day anyway. Many of the
inhabitants and especially people from outside Paris want to see the
“Directeurs” and ministers in their costumes they had so much heard of
and seen in the windows of print shops. … Rumours had been spread
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 105
several days before (and I am not saying that it happened on purpose) that
some elephants that had arrived only lately would decorate this celebration,
and that they would be brought from the Jardin des Plantes via the new
Boulevard, or Boulevard du Midi, to the Champ de Mars. ... A
circumstance that let many people believe that the elephants would indeed
parade at that celebration, was the fact that the middle part of that
Boulevard from the Jardin des Plantes to the Champ de Mars had been
covered with sand. But instead of those Indian beasts, only the
“Directeurs” were to be seen how they slowly approached the location of
the celebration in their carts with their guards around them.
Winckler's reports from Paris lack the aimless searching movement of the
casual stroller. His flâneur is a political analyst: it is his political vigour
that renders him always engaged, observing the society around him
sharply, sometimes cynically, and always with a political mind.
While Hüttner often frequents the caricature shops of Hannah
Humphrey at 27 St James Street, who sold prints by James Gillray, and
S.W. Fores who sold those by Isaac Cruikshank, among others, Winckler
is trying to find French caricatures in Paris, often with less success, due to
police raids and the less developed originality of the French prints. On one
occasion, he realizes how much the French caricatures owe the English
artists, thus giving evidence of a fascinating example of the cultural
transfer of images:
For quite some time, there has been a gallery in the former monastery near
the Place Vendôme, where a large collection of copper plates and English
caricatures is on offer in three large arches. [...] Whenever I went there, not
more than six or eight persons were there. I think this may be due to the
hidden entry that has to be searched and is not shown by any signs. How
differently do the Londoners decorate their caricature-shops in St James
Street and the Strand!
When I had a look at the English caricatures, I learned that most of the
prints that appeared under the title L'Aristocrate Suisse, Le Democrate du
pays de Vaud etc., of which I had prepared an account in the first issue of
“London und Paris,” were indeed of English origin. I saw the same
caricatures here, which our caricaturist just copied and to which he added
another subtitle; for those English originals referred to the French
Revolution. - So the limited amount of French caricatures is even more
diminished. - Suum cuique.28
Listen! How the carriages are rolling everywhere in distant alleys! These
are all wealthy people! The horses, the slim and beautiful horses are flying
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 107
over the cobbles, sparking! At the end of this street where both lines of
houses become very narrow (I was amazed to see that in a peep box when I
was young), a majestic place is opening up, a square, illuminated by many
hundred lamps. That is so great, so sublime! Although I have seen that
many different times, it always attracts my attention again! It seems as if
all this wealth was m i n e .30
Beginning with the third year of its existence, innovative forms of writing
that can be linked to the history of the flâneur, characterized by its
subjectivity and expressivity as well as the distance of the observer, cease
to occur. Although we may say that in later years, the text of London und
Paris seems to be traditionally rooted in the late Enlightenment, focusing
on contents rather than on the individual observer, we can argue that the
journal goes on to be ahead of its time, at least until the beginning of the
French occupation after the battle of Jena in 1806. What is so special about
that journal is its combination of text and image which turns it into a
“mixed genre.” Text and image together form a third part that cannot be
easily reduced to only one element. After the first few years, the editors
gave up the concept of “tableau” and tried to adapt another concept as the
principle of their journal: the panorama. Not only are several panoramas
described in both London and Paris, “panorama” also becomes part of the
subtitle for each volume of the journal, comprising four issues.31 The
perspective on society now seems to be more from above; it no longer
focuses at the lower classes as it did in the beginning. The journal wants to
appeal to the middle class as well as to the nobility. The concept of the
tableau mouvant, which includes the lower classes, is no longer needed.
The history of the journal London und Paris seems to be inextricably
bound to the rise and fall of Bonaparte: Winckler commented on
Bonaparte's rise in an admiring way and the earliest French caricature on
Bonaparte is copied in London und Paris (Fig. 4-4). Under the French
occupation beginning in 1806, the journal slowly declines to a streamlined
organ of Bonaparte's expansion policy. And when news spread in 1814
that Bonaparte had fled from Elba, the editor's son, Carl Bertuch, then
participating in the Congress of Vienna, decided to close down the journal
as censorship in Vienna had become too strong and he could find no
qualified journalists there who were willing to write for that journal in
times of unrest.
In its first two years, we can identify innovative ways of writing
reports from both London and Paris. Winckler in Paris and Hüttner in
London have become important figures in the early professionalization of
the foreign correspondent. Their early forms of flânerie are characterized,
in Winckler's case, by a strong capacity for politically oriented observation
108 Chapter Four
Fig. 4-4. [Carl Starcke (?) after an anonymous French artist] Les derniers
monumens … de la République, hand-coloured etching, London und Paris, vol. 4,
issue 7, 1799, no. XX. Forschungsbibliothek Gotha, classmark Opp 8° 708/1 (4)
Early Forms of Flânerie in the German Journal London und Paris 109
Notes
1
Cf. Angelika Corbineau-Hoffmann, Brennpunkt der Welt. C'est l'abrégé de
l'univers. Großstadterfahrung und Wissensdiskurs in der pragmatischen Paris-
Literatur 1780-1830 (Bielefeld, 1991), 121.
2
On the tableau tradition, cf. also Karlheinz Stierle, “Baudelaires ‘Tableaux
parisiens’ und die Tradition des ‘Tableau de Paris’,” in Poetica 6 (1974), 285-322;
Angelika Corbineau-Hoffmann, “An den Grenzen der Sprache. Zur
Wirkungsgeschichte von Merciers Tableau de Paris in Deutschland,’’ in arcadia
27 (1992), 141-61.
3
Louis-Sébastien Mercier: Parallèle de Paris et de Londres, ed. Claude Bruneteau
and Bernard Cottret (Paris, 1982).
4
Cf. [Friedrich Justin Bertuch and Carl August Böttiger:] “Plan und
Ankündigung,” in London und Paris, vol. 1, no. 1, 5.
5
“London ist ein so aus allem Geschicke gewachsenes Ungeheuer, daß man, von
welcher Seite auch die Einfahrt geschieht, nie recht sagen kann: Nun bin ich da!
Nicht lange, so ist man mitten drin. Wie groß, welch ein Gewühl von Fußgängern!
Da sind ja meine Landsleute, die Frankfurter Juden auch! - Das ist wirklich ein
schöner Laden - am Ende der Straße ist ein schrecklicher Tumult, alles läuft zu,
gewiß Jemand ermordet. Nein! Es war ein Bänkelsänger” (Johann Christian
Hüttner: “London,” in London und Paris, vol. 1, no. 1, 1798, 18). I would like to
thank the Fritz-Thyssen-Foundation for a seven-months-grant, the Herzog-Ernst-
Stipendium for the research on the historical book collection of the University and
research library Erfurt-Gotha in 2005. That grant allowed me to read the journal
London und Paris in full and identify examples of experimental writing which are
presented in this article.
6
“Vor ein paar Tagen, da ich einen öffentlichen Erhohlungsort besucht hatte, und
es schon spät war, wollte ich mein Abendbrodt so kurz als möglich abfertigen, ehe
ich in mein Quartier gieng, und sah mich deswegen nach irgend einem Hause um,
wo etwas Eßbares zu haben seyn möchte. Indem traf ein dumpfes Getön, wie
Tanzmusik, mein Ohr. ... Wie ich mich um die Straßenecke wandte, sah ich vor
einem Hause mehrere Leute stehen, und merkte, daß dieß mein Ort sey. Kaum war
ich ihm nahe gekommen, als ein Mädchen, die ich gleich für eine der Gutwilligen
erkannte, mir sehr artig den Arm bot und versicherte: ich würde es dort oben weit
wärmer und behaglicher finden, als hier auf der kalten Straße. Dies Geschlecht
versteht die Künste des Kosens und Plapperns sowohl, daß ich mich in einem
110 Chapter Four
nicht in die Kirche? Ja! in den inländischen Städten und auf dem Lande
regelmäßig. Aber zu London, Im Durchschnitte, geht auch der Handwerker nicht
viel in die Kirche. Und doch wird derselbe Mann morgen Abends die Debatten-
Gesellschaft besuchen, wo man die Methodisten herunterhetzen will” (Johann
Christian Hüttner: I. ‘London,’ London und Paris, vol. 1, no. 2, 1798, 130-1).
10
“Bey allem dem ist aber doch noch viel guter, frommer Sinn im Mittelstande.
Wendeborn ist zu streng, Küttner zu nachsichtig und entschuldigend gegen die
herrschende Kirche” (footnote by Friedrich Justin Bertuch or Carl August Böttiger,
London und Paris, vol. 1, no. 2, 1798, 131).
11
Cf. Johann Christian Hüttner: 1. ‘London,’ London und Paris, vol. 1, no. 2, 118
and 142.
12
“Seit sechs Wochen sind wenigstens zwanzig verschiedene Lesezimmer eröffnet
worden, wo man für ein bis zwey Pence alle Tageblätter und etliche Schauspiele
lesen kann. Die Begierde nach Neuigkeiten, welche jetzt England, es sey geradezu
oder veranlaßungsweise, allemal interessiren, und die Theuerung der Zeitungen hat
diese Französische Sitte eingeführt” (ibid., 147).
13
“Der Französischen Speisehäuser giebt's jetzt viele in London. Sie stehen in
eben dem Verhältnisse zu den Englischen wie die auffallendsten Theile des
beyderseitigen Nationalcharacters. In den Französischen ist es laut, man unterhält
sich ungezwungen, und hört die Neuigkeiten des Tages umsonst, mit
erzaristocratischen Bemerkungen verbrämt. In Englischen Eßhäusern ist's still,
man bedient euch gut und ihr hört an einer langen Tafel fast gar nicht sprechen,
und vor dem Anreden darf man sich gar nicht fürchten. In den Englischen ist man
reinlich; aber in den Französischen muß man oft ein Auge darüber zudrücken”
(ibid., 146).
14
Geneviève Espagne, Bénédicte Savoy (eds), Aubin-Louis Millin et l'Allemagne.
Le Magasin encyclopédique - Les lettres à Karl August Böttiger (Georg Olms
Verlag: Hildesheim, Zürich, New York: 2005) (Europaea Memoria; Studien und
Texte zur Geschichte der europäischen Ideen, Reihe I: Studien, vol. 41).
15
Gottlieb Friedrich Winckler, Le Répertoire du Vaudeville, 2 Cahiers
(Frommann: Jena, 1800-1801). As an Alsacien, Winckler was bilingual and so
both forms of his first names occur, the German Gottlieb Friedrich and the French
Frédéric-Théophile. Winckler himself signed with Friedrich Theophil, which is
therefore preferred in the present article.
16
Authors given as De Leger, Chazet et Buhan; cf. Friedrich Theophil Winckler:
II. ‘Paris,’ London und Paris, vol. 3, no. 1, 1799, 25).
17
Ibid., 40.
18
“Bin ich verstimmt oder erschöpft und zu Ideenfolgen untüchtig; - wenn ich
durch die Straßen gehe, so fallen mir hundert Kleinigkeiten auf, die mich
unterhalten. So sind die versprechenden und oft possierlichen Aufschriften an den
Läden mitunter des Lesens werth. Nichts ist mehr ein blosser Laden, sondern ein
‘Magazin, ein Waarenhaus;’ so hat man Schuh- Hut- Handschuh-Magazine,
Stiefel- Oberrock- Wäsche- Waarenhäuser. Ich begehre nicht zu läugnen, daß
wirklich viele solche Läden diese Benennungen verdienen; sondern ich meyne die
kleinern Gewölbe, welche höchstens ein paar Dutzend Stück ausgespreitzt sind,
112 Chapter Four
Dieß scheint mir zum Theil eine Folge des zu versteckten Eingangs, den man erst
erfragen und suchen muß, statt daß er in die Augen fallen und durch Aufschriften
der Weg dahin bezeichnet seyn sollte. Wie ganz anders wissen die Londner ihre
Carricature-shops in St Jamesstreet und auf dem Strand aufzuputzen! / / Die
Ansicht dieser Englischen Carricaturen belehrte mich übrigens, daß die meisten
Zwergfiguren, die vor einigen Monaten unter dem Titel l'Aristocrate Suisse, le
Democrate du pays de Vaud u.s.w., von denen ich ihnen zu seiner Zeit ein
Verzeichniß gegeben habe (welches in der ersten Nummer von London und Paris
gedruckt worden ist), eigentlich Englischen Ursprungs sind. Ich sahe hier gerade
dieselben Carricaturen, die der hiesige Carricaturennachstecher bloß copirte und
eine andere Unterschrift dazu setzte; denn jene Englische Originale bezogen sich
auf die Französische Revolution. - So wäre denn die ohnehin geringe Anzahl
Französischer Carricaturen dadurch noch um ein Beträchtliches verringert. - Suum
cuique” (Friedrich Theophil Winckler, III, “Pariser Carricaturen. 1. Nachricht von
einer neuerrichteten Gallerie von Kupferstichen und Carricaturen,” London und
Paris, vol. 2, no. 8, 1798, 387-90).
29
Cf. London und Paris, vol. 4, no. 7, 1799, 201.
30
“Horch! wie die Wagen überall in den ferneren Gassen rollen! Das sind alles
reiche Leute! Die Pferde, die schlanken schönen Pferde fliegen über das Pflaster
und schlagen Funken! Am Ende dieser Straße, wo die beiden Häuserreihen so eng
zusammenlaufen, wie ich sie in meiner Jugend blos in den Guckekasten erstaunt
ansah, öffnet sich ein majestätischer Platz, ein Sqare [sic.] von vielen hundert
Lampen erleuchtet. Das alles ist so groß, so hebend! Unzähligemal habe ich das
schon gesehen, aber immer fällt es mir wieder mächtig ins Auge! Es ist mir, als ob
aller dieser Reichthum m e i n wäre” (Johann Christian Hüttner, I, “London. 4.
Betrachtung einer langen Straße (etwa Bakerstreet) in der Gegend von
Portmansquare. Im November. Ein wenig vor sechs Uhr Abends,” London und
Paris, vol. 6, no. 6, 1800, 123).
31
The journal had started off as London und Paris, comprising eight issues per
year. The publisher Friedrich Justin Bertuch transferred the journal to the city of
Halle, which belonged to Prussia that granted more freedom of the press to the
entrepreneur than the tiny dukedom of Saxe-Weimar that already felt tight
diplomatic pressure from napoleonic France. From 1811 on, the editor-in-chief
Carl Bertuch (1777-1815), the publisher's son, extends the focus of the journal to
the Austrian capital Vienna, a consequence of missing reports from London due to
Bonaparte's blockade of the continent. The title was altered to Paris, Wien und
London. Ein fortgehendes Panorama dieser drei Hauptstädte [Paris, Vienna and
London. A continuing panorama of these three capitals] (vols 25-26, or vol. 1-2 of
the new sequence) (Rudolstadt, in der Hof- Buch- und Kunsthandlung, 1811). In
1812, the London part had to be left out completely; Paris und Wien. Ein
fortgehendes Panorama dieser beiden Hauptstädte (vols. 27-29, or vols 3-5 of the
new sequence) (Rudolstadt, in der Hof- Buch- und Kunsthandlung, 1812). The
numbers 5 to 8 of 1813 and the complete year 1814 had been left out due to
political unrest and the diplomatic activities in Vienna. In the final issue of 1815,
all three capitals are assembled again in the title, starting with London, Paris und
116 Chapter Four
Wien, vol. 30 no. 1 (vol. 6, no. 1) (Rudolstadt, in der Hof- Buch und
Kunsthandlung, 1815).
CHAPTER FIVE
FLÂNEURS, COMMODITIES,
AND THE WORKING BODY IN LOUIS HUART’S
PHYSIOLOGIE DU FLÂNEUR
AND ALBERT SMITH’S
NATURAL HISTORY OF THE IDLER UPON TOWN
JO BRIGGS
cutting of pieces of pâte ferme [a type of hard dough], while holding his
eyes and mouth wide open.”15 The musard happens across two dogs
fighting over a bone: “If the combat lasts half-an-hour, he remains there
for half-an-hour, not because he takes a lively interest or because it amuses
him very much; but, just because the musard has found himself there, he
stays.”16 He spends the whole afternoon watching people try to get an
escaped canary back into its cage; Huart remarks that “an intelligent
stroller would only accord the escaped canary a quarter-of-an-hour, and
still devote at least fourteen minutes of that time to ogling all the pretty
women attracted to their windows by this important event.”17 According to
Huart, the musard “occasionally stays in one place even longer than he
wants, this is when, strolling carelessly or concentrating his attention too
deeply towards a chimney-fire or an escaped canary, he gets stuck up to
his ankles in a pavement newly decorated with asphalt.”18 Huart’s musard
is therefore a “false flâneur” because he misses opportunities for enjoying
the glimpse of feminine beauty that the city affords, wasting his time
instead on pointless and dull events rather than being a discriminating
“gastronome” of urban spectacles.19 The musard moves too slowly for a
stroller, which results in him becoming completely stationary, almost
petrified, when he sinks into the wet asphalt. The musard is thus absorbed
into the fabric of the city, instead of skimming over its surfaces with the
required discrimination of the true flâneur.
Smith begins the first of his three chapters on the Mooner with a very
similar definition to that found in the opening of Huart’s chapter on the
musard. Smith explains that a Mooner is “an individual who moons about
without any object, half absent, half contemplative.”20 He continues: “He
lounges … and strays about, taking four times the period usually allotted
to walk any distance, fiddle-faddling the space of time away in a
lamentably unprofitable manner, and finding intense amusement in objects
which the Regent Street Idler, or even the Gent, would pass by in
contempt.”21 In an almost direct quotation from Huart’s description of the
musard the Mooner is described as just as meandering in his speech as he
is in his strolling.22 Smith’s description of the Mooner’s walk from
Piccadilly to Lincoln’s Inn via St Martin’s Lane and Covent Garden is
lengthened across two chapters partly by the insertion of descriptions of
the various street characters that the Mooner meets in Leicester Square.
Smith’s own narrative therefore appears at times to be as distracted as the
Mooner’s. However, what is perhaps most notable in Smith’s description
of this figure is the manner in which he is distracted, not by canaries or
dog fights, but by commodities, both on display and being made.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 121
spider to dart from his abode, this accident generally produces the owner
of the property, who lies in wait in some secret corner, and upon hearing
the fracture pounces out … upon the thoughtless victim.”34 As with the
bonnet shop in Cranbourne Street, the vignette at the opening of the
chapter devoted to the Lowther Arcade implies that it is a woman who lies
in wait for the stroller inside the shop (Fig. 5-6). In contrast to the women
in Paris, who seem to offer themselves up more unproblematically to the
flâneur’s gaze, in London women are a crucial component of the
commercialism that surrounds the flâneur. This contrast becomes clear in a
comparison of the title-pages to each volume. The title-page of the
Physiologie du flâneur shows a man with a top hat and cane contemplating
two fashionably dressed ladies from behind, in contrast the title page of
The Natural History of the Idler upon Town shows a similarly dressed man
looking at a number of items for sale on a counter, while the female shop
assistant looks at him.35
However, a crucial passage on the commodity does appear in the final
chapter of Huart’s book, which details the train of thoughts and fantasies
that occur to the flâneur on viewing a piece of cloth hanging in a shop
window. First the flâneur considers the aesthetics of the cloth’s design, the
effect of its colours, and whether is it innovative or nostalgic, then
transcending the window-display, he reviews the production process, and
traces the chain of supply to Leipzig, London and St Petersburg. Finally,
the cloth is the occasion of an imaginative flight “into the world of the
imagination, a brilliant world, the best and above all the most beautiful of
possible worlds.”36 This passage finds its counterpart in the Mooner’s
extended interaction with commodities, but with a less rapturous outcome.
For Smith’s Mooner a similar imagined placement of commodities within
the context of the manufacturing process leads back to working bodies.
The Mooner watches a cork-cutter at work, and a man twisting wire
toasting forks and pipe-stoppers, and a steam-driven coffee-mill.37 Sweated
labour often underpins and haunts the landscape of seemingly abundant
commodities encountered in London, since Smith observes that the
Mooner is “exceedingly fond of the shops – more especially those where
some mechanical performance is going on in the windows.”38 This kind of
observation of bodies at work is reminiscent of reports into the working
conditions in sweatshops, factories and mines taking place in this period.
The Mooner’s preoccupations can be linked to debates among the middle
classes at this time over labour reform, class, consumption and design
reform that crystallized in 1851 at the Great Exhibition.39 Though Smith’s
approach is light-hearted, a close reading of the text and illustrations of
The Natural History of the Idler upon Town suggests both guilty and
124 Chapter Five
crime of taking a covert look at Godiva as she rides past. This is the
character that the Mooner “almost wishes he had been.”47 Thus, a horrific
punishment for looking, of shrivelled eyeballs and blindness, haunts the
Mooner’s distracted contemplation of working bodies. Indeed, the working
classes are referenced in the opening of Tennyson’s poem where he
situates himself in the present-day and with the repeated phrase “not only
we,” makes the explicit connection between middle-class philanthropic
concern for working people and the self-sacrifice of Godiva “a thousand
summers back.” The poem opens:
Making this connection still sharper, the paragraph that follows the
Mooner’s quotation of most of the fifth verse of the poem opens with an
account of him watching a “man twisting wire toasting forks and pipe-
stoppers” for so long that he becomes “almost competent to undertake the
manufacture himself.”49 The allusion to the legend of Godiva raises the
possibility that looking can be a punishable crime. If “Godiva,” where
stolen glances lead to shrivelled eyeballs, can be read as a manifestation of
guilt on the part of the middle-class observer for his complicity in the
exploitation of the working classes, an alternative reading is also available
that suggests a potentially redemptive heroism in looking.
One of Leech’s original illustrations for Smith’s series of essays in
Punch, “Physiology of the London Idler,” highlights the author’s assertion
that the various kinds of labour associated with metropolitan improvements
tend to attract the Mooner’s attention (Fig. 5-7). Smith writes: “The
opening of a water-main, or a course of gas-pipes, is another riveting
spectacle.”50 Leech emphasizes the act of the Mooner’s spectatorship by
placing an oversized pair of spectacles in the shop window in the
background. In Leech’s illustration the middle-class and working-class
body are contrasted. The Mooner is buttoned up in his top-hat and tailcoat,
whereas the pickaxe-wielding worker has placed his jacket and less shiny,
less structured hat on the bollard at the side of the road. His shirt-sleeves
are rolled up and, as he swings his axe, his gaze is wholly focused on the
126 Chapter Five
work in hand performed for the municipal good: laying on either gas or
water. It is difficult to read this man’s expression due to his head being
bent in his work, but it appears grimly determined. In contrast the Mooner
presents a portly profile and chubby face; stationary, he gazes with an
impassive expression. His dangling watch-fob suggests a certain
fastidiousness, as does the rolled umbrella.51 The paralleling of the
Mooner with the behatted bollard, staring spectacles in the shop window
and the lamp-post, the form of which suggests a hat above a face, gives the
impression that the Mooner is simply another piece of street furniture;
certainly the navvy pays the Mooner as much attention as these inanimate,
yet anthropomorphic, objects.
There is a striking similarity between Leech’s illustration and Ford
Madox Brown’s monumental canvas Work, completed between 1852 and
1865. Although there is a far more complex arrangement of diverse figures
in Brown’s painting, two men at the right-hand edge contemplate several
navvies at the centre of the composition digging up the road to lay a water-
main. The Mooner in Leech’s wood engraving, in both his role as observer
and his placement to the right of the scene, foreshadows that of the
Christian Socialist F.D. Maurice and the historian and sage Thomas
Carlyle in Brown’s later painting. The parallel between the Mooner and
the observing “brain workers” is closer in Brown’s sketch for Work, dating
from 1852 and retouched in 1864 (Fig. 5-8).52 Occupying the position that
in the finished painting is taken by Maurice and Carlyle is a figure who
perhaps smokes or simply has one hand to his mouth in a thoughtful
gesture. His other hand holds a walking stick on top of which is balanced a
top-hat. This man leans against a railing at the side of the road; the
direction of his gaze is unclear, but he appears to be musing on the activity
before him. In a diary entry for 1 January 1855, Brown seems to describe
him as an artist.53 However, it is interesting that this figure, and several
others in the watercolour sketch, relate to the types defined in Bogue’s
“Social Zoologies.” With reference to other volumes by Smith from the
series it would be tempting to read the figures as follows: from left to
right, the Gent in a patterned waistcoat and checked trousers, the flirt in
pink, “‘stuck-up’ people” on horseback, and finally the Idler, or more
specifically the Mooner.54 Smith’s types certainly had a long currency, as
has been demonstrated by Mary Cowling in her discussion of crowd
scenes painted by William Powell Frith, Ramsgate Sands (Life at the
Seaside) (1852-4), Derby Day (1856-8) and The Railway Station (1862),
which date from the same years in which Brown was creating Work.55
Perhaps for Brown the Mooner is the closest of Smith’s figures to the
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 127
artist: the wandering and wondering observer of modern urban life and the
labour which underpins it.
Brown had originally planned to include in his tableau the historian
and novelist Charles Kingsley as the moralizing observer, but his patron,
Thomas Plint, requested changes.56 Kingsley was at this time chiefly
known for his hard-hitting pamphlet on sweated labour Cheap Clothes and
Nasty (1850), and a novel on the same theme, Alton Locke (1850). The
writer was therefore, even more than Carlyle, associated with the exposure
of the inequalities of industrial society, specifically the human cost of
cheaply made goods, and the need for the consuming classes to take a
moral stance and protect workers from gross exploitation. Shoddy goods
were a major preoccupation of commentary generated by the Great
Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations in 1851, as Joseph
Bizup and Lara Kriegel have shown.57 Stamped, pressed and moulded
products allowed craftsmanship to be simulated cheaply, and some feared
that the demand for novelty led to an emphasis on quantity over quality as
manufacturers sought to appeal to popular taste, which was characterized
as irrational and “savage” in its tendencies.58
Smith’s Mooner can be seen as reflecting the kind of viewing that was
encouraged by Kingsley and anticipating that which was emphasized at the
Great Exhibition. Indeed, the depiction of several male figures viewing the
exhibits in Dickinson’s Comprehensive Lithographs of the Great
Exhibition of 1851 recall Leech’s earlier image of the Mooner in Punch.
For example, in a view of the French section a portly gentleman in a top-
hat and tails, wearing spectacles and carrying an umbrella, intently views
the exhibits with the aid of a printed guide (Fig. 5-9), in another lithograph
a man contemplates a display of dishes (Fig. 5-10), in a scene that recalls
the illustration on page forty-nine of the Natural History of the Idler upon
Town (Fig. 5-4).
With the Mooner, Smith successfully transposed Huart’s musard for
English readers. The fact that the figure is both still recognizably Huart’s
and was meaningful in 1840s London is testimony to the international
currency of this figure. However, the fact that Smith’s Mooner ultimately
takes up a different viewing position to the musard, shaped by the
commodity-saturated streetscape he inhabits and the labouring bodies he
encounters, suggests that changes were also necessitated in the course of
the musard’s move to London. That the Mooner’s concerns were coloured
by those of middle-class reformers in the years leading up to the Great
Exhibition, an event often seen as defining spectatorship in mid
nineteenth-century Britain, demonstrates how this category of strolling
was enmeshed within broader cultural concerns. Not just an obscure
128 Chapter Five
Illustrations
Fig. 5-1. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Marie-Alexandre Alophe,
Honoré Daumier or Théodore Maurisset, half-page illustration from the
Physiologie du flâneur (Paris, 1841), 106.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 129
Fig. 5-2. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London, 1848),
25.
130 Chapter Five
Fig. 5-3. Anonymous wood engraver, after drawing by John Leech, initial letter
from chapter 8 of the “Physiology of the London Idler,” “Of the Mooner,” Punch,
vol. 3 (January 1842), 82. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 131
Fig. 5-4. Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London, 1848),
49.
132 Chapter Five
Fig. 5-5 Anonymous wood engraver, after a drawing by Archibald Henning, half-
page illustration from The Natural History of the Idler upon Town (London, 1848),
73.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 133
Fig. 5-7. Ebeneezer Landells, wood engraving after a drawing by John Leech,
quarter-page illustration from chapter 8 of the “Physiology of the London Idler,”
“Of the Mooner,” Punch, or the London Charivari , vol. 3 (January 1842), 82.
Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 135
Fig. 5-8. Ford Madox Brown, sketch for Work (1852, retouched 1864),
watercolour over pencil, 7 ¾ x 11 ins (19.7 x 28 cm.). Manchester City Art
Galleries.
136 Chapter Five
Notes
1
Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life
and Other Essays by Charles Baudelaire, trans. and ed. Jonathan Mayne
(Greenwich, CT: Phaidon, 1964), 7 (1-40). In this essay Baudelaire also refers to
Stendhal, William Makepeace Thackeray, Alfred Tennyson, Byron, and others.
2
Louis Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, par M. Louis Huart, vignettes de MM.
Alophe, Daumier et Maurisset (Paris: Aubert et Cie, and Lavigne: 1841), 5-10.
3
Martina Lauster, Sketches of the Nineteenth Century: European Journalism and
its Physiologies, 1830-50 (Basingstoke, Hampshire, and New York, NY: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2007) see especially chapters 4, 5 and 7.
4
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 55. All translations are my own.
5
See especially chapters 2 and 3, “Est-il donné à tout le monde de pouvoir flaner
[unaccented in original]?” (“Is its possible that everyone is able to stroll?”), and
“Des gens qui s’intitulent très-faussement flaneur” (“People who very falsely call
themselves ‘flâneur’”), Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 10-23.
6
These are Huart’s the headings for chapters 7, 9, 5, 10 and 6.
7
For references to and partial definitions of the “vrai flaneur” (“true flâneur”) see
63 on the infantryman, chapter 8, “Le parfait flaneur” (“The Perfect Flâneur”), 53-
9, and the final chapter, chapter 15, “Conseils à l’usage des flaneurs novices”
(“Guidance for novice Flâneurs”), 113-26.
8
Albert Smith, The Natural History of the Idler upon Town, illustrated by A.
Henning (London: D. Bogue, 1848). For more on the relationship between Smith’s
articles for Punch and The Natural History of the Idler upon Town, see Margaret
A. Rose, “Flâneurs and Idlers: a ‘Panoramic’ Overview,” introduction to Rose
(ed.) Flâneurs and Idlers (Bielefeld: Aisthesis Verlag, 2007), 27-45.
9
This is striking as around ten different publishers were behind these books. As
Lauster observes: “albeit as competitors, they were collaborating on an undeclared
project - ‘Les Physiologies’” (Lauster, Sketches of the Nineteenth Century, 290).
10
Lauster, Sketches of the Nineteenth Century, 289.
11
Rose, “Flâneurs and Idlers,” 40. Compare also Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 30
and Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 18. This pairing, showing the stroller
looking at prints in a shop window is reproduced in Rose, “Flâneurs and Idlers,”
44.
12
The Natural History of the Idler, titles for chapters 2, 5, 10, 12 and 14. Several
of these headings correspond to the earlier chapters in Smith’s “Physiology of the
London Idler,” Punch, vol. 3, 1842 (see Rose, “Appendix 3,” in Flâneurs and
Idlers, 328-36). Chapter headings which reflect Huart’s are chapter 6, “Of the
Mooner” (chapter 5, “Le musard”), chapter 12, “Of the Visitor to London”
(chapter 6, “Le badaud étranger”), and chapter 14, “The Street Boy” (chapter 10,
“Le gamin de Paris”). Other subject are lifted by Smith from Huart’s text, but not
reflected at the level of chapter headings.
13
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 32.
14
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 32.
15
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 33.
Flâneurs, Commodities, and the Working Body 139
16
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 34.
17
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 35.
18
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 38.
19
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 32. The musard is further contrasted with the true
flâneur when he makes a final brief appearance in the concluding chapter of
Huart’s book, see 123.
20
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 46.
21
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 47. The Gent, another male stroller and
voyeur, was profiled in Smith’s The Natural History of the Gent (London: D.
Bogue, 1847).
22
Compare Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 37 and Smith, The Natural History of
the Idler, 51.
23
“mooner, n.”. OED Online. September 2012. Oxford University Press.
http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/121911 (accessed November 01, 2012).
24
“† moonery, n.”. OED Online. September 2012. Oxford University Press.
http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/121912 (accessed November 01, 2012).
25
“mooner, n.”. OED Online.
26
Smith, “Physiology of the London Idler,” Punch (January 1842), vol. 3, 82-3.
This passage is reproduced without illustration in The Natural History of the Idler,
47.
27
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 49.
28
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 56.
29
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 57.
30
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 102 and 97.
31
For the chapter on the Burlington Arcade see chapter 3, for the Pantheon bazaar
see chapter 4, and for the Lowther Arcade see chapter 9.
32
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 72 and 73.
33
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 72.
34
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 73.
35
Notably, when Smith’s book was reissued in 1858, the title page showed a man
seated on a pier viewing two women with parasols (who seem to be a mother and
daughter) again from behind. This wood engraving appeared in the 1848 edition,
62.
36
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 124-5.
37
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 48, 52 and 49.
38
Smith, The Natural History of the Idler, 48.
39
On this subject see “The ‘Discovery’ of Sweated Labour, 1843-1850,” chapter 1
in Sheila Blackburn, A Fair Day's Wage for a Fair Day's Work?: Sweated Labour
and the Origins of Minimum Wage Legislation in Britain (Aldershot, Hampshire
and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007), and Joseph Bizup, Manufacturing Culture:
Vindications of Early Victorian Industry (Charlottesville, VA and London:
University of Virginia Press, 2003). See also Lara Kriegel, “Commodification and
Its Discontents: Labor, Print Culture, and Industrial Art at the Great Exhibition of
1851,” chapter 3 in Grand Designs: Labor, Empire, and the Museum in Victorian
Culture (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2007), 86-125. The
140 Chapter Five
58
For Bizup’s comment on the Art Journal’s equation of “shoddy goods” with the
tastes of “savage people,” see Manufacturing Culture, 123.
59
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 97.
CHAPTER SIX
A PATCHWORK OF EFFECTS:
NOTIONS OF WALKING, SOCIABILITY,
AND THE FLÂNEUR IN LATE NINETEENTH-
CENTURY MADRID
VANESA RODRIGUEZ-GALINDO
and the solitary observation associated with the urban archetype of the
flâneur.4
Thus I use Crary’s discerning lead as a point of departure for the study
of flânerie in a different Southern European capital. Like its Italian
counterpart, Madrid has been overlooked in urban and visual studies alike
and has only recently begun to receive scholarly attention. In recent
decades, groundbreaking works have proposed new approaches to the
study of nineteenth-century Madrid; however, the urban archetype of the
flâneur has been somewhat neglected.5 Similarly, representations of
conviviality and street life have not been sufficiently addressed, and are
generally examined within the broader process of state formation, national
identity and casticismo.6 Yet, analysis of popular imagery and the
practices of everyday life reveals that although the subject of conviviality
and collective street life in Southern Europe may seem a banal matter, its
effects on and links with the modernizing process have not yet been fully
formulated.
In what follows, I will focus on accounts and representations of urban
strolling and lived experience in arenas associated with conviviality and
the quotidian. Rather than dwelling on the meanings and implications of
flânerie when transposed to a foreign setting, I concentrate on two main
areas. First, I aim to retrieve what Mary Gluck calls “the 19th century’s
own understanding of the figure [of the flâneur]”7 by exploring how
flânerie was perceived in contrast to other forms of walking. Second, I
examine how the everyday spatial practices of the urban dweller were
recorded in popular imagery and the implications of the quotidian in
conceptualisations of strolling, specifically in Madrid’s main square, the
Puerta del Sol.
This paper focuses, in particular, on Madrid’s press and illustrated
magazines, but will also draw on other forms of visual and cultural
production that circulated within the city. Image-making not only recorded
spaces and events but disclosed the ways in which conceptualisations of
public space were articulated and were instrumental in shaping broader
concerns regarding modernity and urbanisation.8 In line with recent
scholarship, the underlying purpose of this paper is to move away from the
strict binary divisions that are normally employed in relation to the
experience of modernity in cities, and Madrid in particular: the old and the
new, the modern and the primitive, high and low culture.9 In doing so, I
reveal the way that perceptions of flânerie exposed the fluctuating limits
between notions of pre-existing urban practices on the one hand and those
that were triggered by modernisation and foreign influence on the other,
144 Chapter Six
thus suggesting that such boundaries were considerably more complex and
porous than has been recognised.10
significant changes. Curiosity and vice were substituted for ocio (leisure or
idleness).21
Explicit references to flânerie or Frenchified modes of strolling became
more persistent through the 1870s and 1880s. The word flâneur, however,
was never assimilated into common Spanish usage, a fact that was noted
by Spanish writers and commentators. In 1883, Madrid’s long-running
newspaper La Época printed the article “Flaneo” by the Spanish journalist
Antonio Hoffmeyer, which began with the somewhat candid sentence:
“And why not? So the word does not exist in Spanish. Then we will
introduce it.”22
This brief article reveals an argument that appeared in the press during
these years, which stated that the differences between the idle stroller
(paseante or ocioso) and the observant flâneur justified the use of the
Gallicism. In order to further illustrate the difference between the two
terms, Hoffmeyer paraphrased and manipulated the published Spanish
translation of Honoré de Balzac’s Physiologie du Mariage.23 In previous
Spanish editions of Balzac’s work, the French terms flâneur and flâner had
been translated as ocioso (idler, leisurely man) and vaguear (to roam)
respectively. The journalist, however, manipulated the translation to
further prove his point and strengthen his argument: “[T]o stroll is to
vegetate … flanear is to live, to enjoy life, to observe the varied scenes of
the kaleidoscope that is the urban thoroughfare ... El flaneo is gastronomy
for the eyes.”24
In line with the French archetype described in the physiologies, these
commentators stressed sensibility and openness to observation as the key
characteristics of the flâneur as opposed to the common stroller; they
opted for corrupting the French word and adapting it to Spanish phonetics
and grammatical rules: “And, readers, please forgive my inventing this
verb, but an exact translation of the French flâner does not exist in our rich
and harmonious language.”25 Therefore, flâneur became flaner, and the
verb flanear was conjugated in accordance to Spanish grammar, as in the
above-mentioned article, “Flaneo.”
In spite of this usage and commentators’ insistence on the differences
between strolling and flanear, it is important to bear in mind that these
journalists belonged to a small circle of writers. The flâneur never did
enter the pages of the official dictionary. Instead the word was relegated to
the Diccionario manual ilustrado de regionalismos y habla local, a
thesaurus that included local and foreign words recently incorporated into
Spanish. In spite of its title, one could say the volume was relatively
coercive, rather than an explanatory and illustrated thesaurus. Besides, the
word in question was the recommended and “proper Spanish” expression.26
A Patchwork of Effects 147
The French word flâneur was included in the first edition of the
Diccionario manual e ilustrado de la lengua española published in 1927,
and beside it appeared the accepted and adequate term to be used in its
place: vagar or callejear.27 While some journalists used the French word
and/or its deformations, others, like Balzac’s Spanish translators or the
urban planner and theorist Angel Fernández de los Ríos employed the
accepted term callejear,28 or even coined new expressions altogether like
the “recorredor de calles” (street traverser).29 The debate surrounding the
word flâneur implies that neither the term nor the action it defined caught
on, in part because of pre-existing conceptions of strolling and debates
surrounding European influence.
An insatiable and blind pleasure guides her swift pace that, although
forbidden, is sometimes worth the price she must pay. She goes from one
place to another, guided by the instinct of her appetite, walking round and
round the streets without hesitation.37
prevent him from having a romantic affair with his professor’s daughter).
Tired of what he deemed inconsequential teachings, Juan Araña defiantly
walked out of the examination room and chose to walk the streets instead.
The narrator explored in detail Araña’s journeys throughout the city
streets, from the university to the Puerta del Sol. The route is delineated
through Juan Araña’s gaze and the objects he analysed on his way.
Material commodities were gradually incorporated into the urban
landscape as the character approached the commercial streets surrounding
the Puerta del Sol – a frequent destination in descriptions of Madrid:
Juan Araña’s attention gradually strayed from the windows and balconies
he had devoted himself to from the start of his stroll … to what offered
more material for entertainment, he began to undertake an inventory with
his eyes, the space, the wide array of tempting or unremitting objects
displayed in the shop widows along his way … were subject to his
inspection, which at times was indifferent and disdainful, or attentive and
reflective, or galvanised by the electric vibrations of desire.38
and affirmed that this figure could not emerge in a city with Rome’s
characteristics, for here the passer-by became involved in the mnemonic
characteristics of his surroundings. The “Roman character” as well as the
city’s “historical frissons” – its squares, churches, and national shrines -
did not permit the urban landscape to enter the passer-by’s dreams.43
Recent scholarship has contested the view of the flâneur as an aloof,
anonymous figure devouring the streets of the city. According to such
views, in the midst of technological advance, the flâneur also took comfort
in public spaces that offered the privileges of domesticity and associations
with memory and place, thus suggesting that the limits between public and
private practices were in fact more porous than has been acknowledged.44
While Benjamin pinpoints the problematic issue of locating the aloof and
reflective flâneur within a Southern European landscape, the theories on
spatiality and temporality that have flourished in past decades allow us to
go beyond the mere questioning of the flâneur’s existence in a capital
other than Paris in order to identify the mechanisms and motivations that
made urban observation possible in the first place.45
In this sense, Lefebvre’s analysis (or rhythmanalysis) of Mediterranean
cities provides a framework that facilitates interpretations of Southern
European cities and helps bridge the gap between contemplative observation
and the presence of what Benjamin termed reminiscences or frissons.
Lefebvre suggests that in Mediterranean cities, past historical circumstances
and rituals merged with the rhythms of everyday life, but rather than
merely exercising an imposition, these disruptive elements or “persistences”
could be incorporated into a process that reshaped socio-spaces.46 In this
way, one could argue that the past also gave way to a sense of autonomy in
using space that derived from a historical yet regular relationship with
space based on the quotidian.47
Fig. 6-1. Ramón Cilla, “En la Puerta del Sol,” Madrid Cómico, no. 192 (23
October 1886): 4, 5. Biblioteca Residencia de estudiantes, Madrid.
Two prints of Seville’s main square and Madrid’s Puerta del Sol,
reproduced in 1878 and 1876 respectively, signal concerns with sociability
and its implication within a context of modernisation (Figs 6-2 and 6-3).
The reproduction of a painting by José Jiménez Aranda is a historical
recreation of eighteenth-century Seville and its mentidero, while the
second is a contemporary portrayal of the Puerta del Sol at dusk, the
busiest time of the day when madrileños used to go for a stroll. Regarding
the painting of Seville, the main urban centre of rural Andalusia, the
magazine’s editor compared its mentidero to that of Madrid, thus
establishing elements of continuity not only between regions (as could be
154 Chapter Six
Fig. 6-3. José Luis Pellicer, “Una acera de la Puerta del Sola al anochecer,” La
Ilustración Española y Americana, no. 17 (8 May 1876): 304/305. Biblioteca
Virtual Miguel de Cervantes.
identity, which is the tone adopted in the drawing of the Puerta de Sol
(Fig. 6-3), and further emphasized in the accompanying text.55 It was
therefore regarded as a source of pride based on its ties to past customs
and practices; a reminder of certain aspects that could be improved; and,
more often than not, it was conveyed as a hybrid of these distinct features.
These characteristics were not only ascribed to the Puerta del Sol, but
were also extended to other urban spaces like Madrid’s paseos (promenades).
Although the differences between Madrid and other European capitals
were emphasised and enhanced, so were the capital’s new infrastructure
and thoroughfares modelled on European capitals. The article “Paseos de
Madrid” (Madrid’s Promenades), for example, was explicit in its depiction
of Madrid’s “uniqueness” whilst highlighting the similarities it shared with
other modern European cities. The article affirmed that Madrid, like other
European capitals including Berlin, St Petersburg, Paris and London,
boasted pleasant paseos (promenades) for one to stroll and invigorate the
imagination. However, Madrid’s distinctiveness lay in its conviviality, a
quality commonly associated with smaller, provincial towns:
What happens in Spain’s main city does not occur in any other promenades
[in Berlin, Constantinople, London, and Paris]. The person who goes to the
Tuileries, only goes to stroll, to listen to the music played every afternoon
by the military bands; if they run into an acquaintance, they are surprised.
In Spain’s promenades, one of the most attractive features - if not the main
attraction - is the fact that one will find friends or acquaintances. If this
only occurred in the provinces, it would not be remarkable, but it also
happens in Madrid.56
Fig. 6-4. “High Life”, El Solfeo, no. 183 (2 March 1876): “And how is Mrs X’s
salon this year?” “Admirable (etonant) [sic], the most select people of Madrid’s
society gather there.” “Then I cannot miss it this evening.” Hemeroteca Municipal
de Madrid.
A Patchwork of Effects 157
Fig. 6-5. José Luis Pellicer, “En la Puerta del Sol. High-Liffe [sic]”, Madrid
Cómico, no. 270 (21 April 1888): 4. Biblioteca Residencia de estudiantes, Madrid.
158 Chapter Six
at the Puerta del Sol and the Paseo del Prado. The pomposity of flânerie
and European fashions were, on the one hand, coupled with sardonic
comments on the ostentatious afrancesado (Frenchified) and, on the other,
associated with the vulgarity of the middle classes who attempted to
emulate aristocratic manners, as exemplified in “High life de Madrid”
(Fig. 6-4). A brief reading of the text below the drawing reveals two men,
casually speaking on the street, as stereotypes of the middle class, as can
also be inferred by their attire and stance. Their dignified demeanor and
polite manner contrast with the poorly dressed, slouching men leaning into
conversation at the Puerta del Sol (Fig. 6-5). However, in both
illustrations, chance encounters are used as a vehicle for self-irony within
the context of the new socio-spaces galvanised by modernisation.
Contemptuous terms and expressions were coined for the new urban
classes. The term cursi was used for an incipient middle-class who attempted
to emulate the French fashions introduced in Spain by the aristocracy.57 At
the same time, the negative features associated with the aristocracy -
expenditure, excess and frivolity - were a way of life that the respectable
bourgeoisie tried to refrain from, a lifestyle that was sardonically referred
to as “la high life.” The illustration depicting common idlers at the Puerta
del Sol (Fig. 6-5) evidently mocked the pretentious lifestyle of the
aristocracy and aspiring middle classes through the caustic use of the
phrase “high life,” but it also emphasised the capital’s flaws through a
deliberately audacious depiction of the popular urban archetypes that came
to embody Madrilenian identity. A common technique in the press
consisted of coupling images of the “high life,” or simply the term itself,
with elements associated with Castilian street life, such as “paleto”
(bumpkin), “caló” (gypsy), or the working-class neighbourhood of
Lavapiés.58 Thus feelings of selfdeprecation, inferiority and weariness of
the European also enabled an acute awareness of the practices and
demands that had made their way into the spaces of everyday life.59
Although common idlers and aspiring flâneurs were ridiculed and
recriminated, it is important to stress that the act of strolling itself was
trivialised. Meanwhile, conviviality – a pre-existing trope made familiar
by costumbrismo - was a common thread through these changing spaces of
sociability. It was not only the pretentious flâneur who was mocked, but
attention was drawn to the act of flânerie itself within the spaces of
sociability which were associated with earlier modes of experience and
walking. The fact that the construction of Madrid’s Ensanche, its first
residential suburb intended to accommodate the growing middle classes,
was not concluded until the final decades of the century contributed further
to the overcrowding of commercial streets and the social congregation that
A Patchwork of Effects 159
There are no Madrilenians [in Madrid]: there are people from Andalusia,
Galicia, Valencia, etc. etc. … [A]nd civilization softens primitive senses in
such a way that, after one month of flanear, a bear from Pajares will enter
any barbershop to have his hair done.60
Does the figure of a sociable yet attentive stroller defy the definition of the
archetypal flâneur as we know it? Was it possible, then, for this flâneur to
exist in Madrid? Possibly not, but going back to the opening paragraphs of
this essay, attentive urban experience and modern modes of perception can
coexist with and be informed by social behaviours. I hope to have
demonstrated that the flâneur is a socially and culturally specific
archetype, and should be thought about in relation to the particularities and
circumstances of each urban centre. In doing so, one is obliged to rethink
notions of flânerie, modernity, and sociability, which may give way to a
more fluid understanding of urban experience. While the validity of the
flâneur was questioned in Madrid, the issues of representation, vocabulary,
and the contemporary debates examined here reveal an acute awareness of
the new demands of modern life. The presence of European influence and
the types of behaviour it promoted, such as flânerie, brought forth the need
to reflect on looking, walking and socialising, with the goal of
accommodating novel notions and practices within the city’s identity and
memory. Through this case study, I hope to encourage others to rethink
established notions of the flâneur and strip this well-known archetype of
its contingent characteristics that, perhaps, conceal what was at the core of
the matter: the reasons that triggered and motivated nineteenth-century
thinkers and artists to reflect on and explain how they walked, looked and
talked about public space.
160 Chapter Six
Notes
approach to Madrid, see Benjamin Fraser, Henri Lefebvre and the Spanish Urban
Experience: Reading from the Mobile City (Lewisburg, PA.: Bucknell University
Press, 2011), esp. “Introduction,” 1-38. On the construction of the city as a
stratification of past memories and histories that informs present subjectivity, see
Karlheinz Stierle, La Capitale des signes. Paris et son discours (Paris: Éditions de
la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 2001).
9
In this sense, I follow a line of recent scholarship that advocates integrating,
rather than opposing, Madrid’s modernity within western modernization whilst
exploring the implications of its local features as an integral part of the Spanish
capital’s modernizing process. See, for example, Noël Valis, The Culture of
Cursilería. Bad Taste, Kitsch and Middle Class in Modern Spain (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2002); Deborah Parsons, A Cultural History of Madrid.
Modernism and the Urban Spectacle (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2003);
Parsons, “Fiesta Culture in Madrid Posters, 1934-1955,” Susan Larson,
Constructing and Resisting Modernity: Madrid 1900-1936 ( Madrid: La Casa de la
Riqueza, 2011); Susan Larson and Eva Woods (eds), Visualizing Spanish
Modernity (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005), Edward Baker, Madrid
Cosmopolita: La Gran Vía, 1910-1936 (Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, 2009);
Rebecca Haidt, “Visibly Modern Madrid: Mesonero, Visual Culture and the
Apparatus of Urban Reform,” in Visualizing Spanish Modernity, 24-45.
10
A similar approach is taken by Mary Gluck in relation to popular and avant-
garde narratives of the flâneur in French literature.
11
Costumbrismo, the dominant genre in prose, journalism and the visual arts from
the Romantic period to the emergence of Realism in the 1870s, described urban
archetypes and scenes of everyday street life. These sketches reflected a shift
towards the empirical study of contemporary life and proved to be an adequate
vehicle in conveying the ephemeral moments of a rapidly changing society moving
towards a bourgeois liberal order. Costumbrismo most often took the form of brief
articles serialized in the press that were later compiled in a collection, but was also
the predominant style in engraving and painting. See Michael Iarocci, “Romantic
prose, journalism, and costumbrismo,” in David T. Gies, The Cambridge History of
Spanish Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 381-91.
12
In relation to the Spanish middle class, Jesús Cruz has recently noted that it is
precisely an awareness of class and the adoption of certain life styles that
characterized perceptions of being modern in nineteenth-century Spain. See Cruz,
The Rise of Middle-Class Culture in Nineteenth-century Spain (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 2011), 16.
13
Edward Baker, “Introduction,” Special Section: Madrid Writing/Reading
Madrid. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, n. 3 (1999): 74.
14
Manuel Carreras y González, “El transeúnte,” Semanario Pintoresco Español
(1848), 61, 62. The text is partially reproduced in Vicente Pla Vivas, 143-4.
15
For a reading pertaining to the political significance of this text, see Pla Vives,
La ilustración gráfica, 143-4.
16
In this sense, like the passer-by described by Louis-Sébastian Mercier in his
Tableau de Paris, “the flâneur is observed while observing.” As noted by
162 Chapter Six
Harvard University Press, 1999), 263). A briefer reference to Rome is also made in
Benjamin’s unfinished Arcades Project; see The Arcades Project, trans. Howard
Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard
University Press, 1999), 417, 880.
44
Deborah Parsons, “Flâneur or flâneuse? Mythologies of modernity,” New
Formations 38 (1999): 96; Parsons, A Cultural History of Madrid, 41.
45
For an overview of the spatial theories that have informed cultural readings of
cities, see for example, Andrew Thacker, “Theorizing Space,” in Moving through
Modernity: Space and Geography in Modernism (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2003), 13-45.
46
Henri Lefebvre, “Rhythmanalysis of Mediterranean Cities,” in Writings on
Cities, trans. and ed. by Eleonore Kofman and Elizabeth Lebas (London:
Blackwell, 1996), 228-39.
47
This link between Henri Lefebvre’s analysis of Mediterranean cities and Madrid
follows Deborah Parsons’ suggestion in A Cultural History of Madrid, 9.
48
Deborah Parsons, A Cultural History of Madrid, 37.
49
Parsons, “Paris is not Rome, or Madrid: locating the city of modernity,” Critical
Quarterly, vol. 44, Issue 2 (July 2002): 25. Also see, Parsons, “Fiesta Culture in
Madrid Posters, 1934-1955,” esp. 183.
50
Cuvardic, 32.
51
“Pasean del brazo por calles y calles, sin dirección fija ... Hablan con lentitud,
con dejadez del pensamiento” (Jacinto Benavente, “Confidencias,” Madrid Cómico
[5 November 1898]: 765).
52
“flaneo, solo o con el primer amigo encuentro” (Jacinto Benavente,
“Confidencias,” Madrid Cómico, 765).
53
See for example, Eugenio de Ochoa, Madrid, París y Londres (Paris: Baudry,
1861); Eusebio Blasco (ed.), Madrid por dentro y por fuera, Guía de forasteros
incautos.- Misterios de la Córte, enredos y mentiras (Madrid: J. Peña, 1873), 10;
Ángel Fernández de los Ríos, El futuro Madrid (Barcelona: José Batlló, 1975
[1868]), 20.
54
See note 52.
55
Eusebio Martínez de Velasco, “Madrid - Una acera de la Puerta del Sol al
anochecer,” La Ilustración Española y Americana (8 May 1878): 299.
56
“En ninguno de estos paseos [de Berlín, Constantinopla, Londres y París]
sucede, sin embargo, lo que pasa en las principales poblaciones de España. El que
va a las Tullerías, va solo a pasear, a oír la música, que ejecutan por las tardes las
bandas de la guarnición; si encuentran algún conocido, experimentan una sorpresa.
En los paseos de España, los atractivos, el principal casi es el de hallar amigos o
conocidos. Si esto pasase en las provincias, no sería extraño, pero también sucede
en Madrid” (Juan de Madrid (pseudonym of Julio Nombela), “Paseos de Madrid.
Los jardines de Recoletos,” La Ilustración Española y Americana (25 December
1869).
57
On the meanings of cursilería and the development of the Spanish middle class,
see Noël Valis, The Culture of Cursilería. Bad Taste, Kitsch and Class in Modern
A Patchwork of Effects 165
Spain (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), esp. “Introduction,” 1-30. Also
see Jesús Cruz, The Rise of Middle-Class Culture in Nineteenth-Century Spain.
58
Federico Garcia Caballero, “Verdades inconclusas. Las cosas pequeñas,” La
Ilustración Española y Americana (30 June 1877). Also see La Iberia (17 May
1879): 3; Revista contemporánea, no. 16 (July 1878): 123.
59
See note 12 on the links between class and perceptions of being modern.
60
“Allí [en Madrid] no hay madrileños: hay andaluces, gallegos, valencianos, etc.,
etc. ... [Y] la civilidad dulcifica los sentimientos primitivos de tal modo que un oso
de Pajares, al mes de flanear por la Puerta del Sol, se entra en cualquier peluquería
para que le ricen el pelo” (Fernanflor, “Madrid – Barcelona,” La Ilustración
Ibérica, n. 300 [29 September 1888]: 610).
CHAPTER SEVEN
TATIANA SENKEVITCH
The Phantasmagoria of the City 167
included three urban novellas and some unfinished novel fragments. The
title of the collection—Arabesques—referred to a linear ornament of
Islamic origins, a decorative, meditative element of decoration that
expressed the freedom of fantasy from prescribed rules. In classical
architecture, arabesque ornaments enlivened the monotony of plain
surfaces; however, in the Romantic period, the arabesque becomes a
significant structural principle for poetry and visual arts.2 Influenced by
the German Romantics, and Friedrich Schlegel in particular, Gogol
experimented with literary genres that challenged the axial structure of
literary narrative. The theories of genre that Gogol discovered through
reading German criticism informed his Ukrainian tales and urban novellas.
The latter appeared in Arabesques, a collection whose title reflects
Gogol’s particular interest in the visual arts, architecture, and German
literary theories.3 The formal independence of the architectural arabesque,
in Gogol’s views, stood in opposition to the uniform order and blandness
of classicism, a style that defined the architectural identity of Russia’s
capital.4
“Nevsky Prospect” became one of Gogol’s most significant
contributions to the genre of urban novella in Russian literature. The
structure of the novella grew out of a culture of promenades along Nevsky
Prospect, the city’s main thoroughfare, its “finest” part, the “making of the
city,” in Gogol’s words.5 Promenading along Nevsky Prospect, the young
capital’s public façade and a symbol of its dynamic response to modernity,
became synonymous with experiencing urban life in St Petersburg. A
provincial youth eager to adapt to the mores of the capital, Gogol took to
heart the emerging custom of promenading in the city. His knowledge of
St Petersburg thus allowed him to portray vividly the images of the city,
which his characters perceived in a “promenading” regime, as they
literally walk through and about the plots of his novellas. Gogol’s
characters both dwelled in and consumed the metropolis; their story lines
were charted by architectural paradigms and historical imperatives of St
Petersburg’s cultural landscape. Gogol’s manifestly urban characters
perform in a manner that corresponds to nineteenth-century flâneurism,
which was associated with Haussmannian Paris.
This essay examines Nikolai Gogol’s novella “Nevsky Prospect” along
with Vasilii Sadovnikov’s Panorama of Nevsky Prospect, a form of visual
memorabilia of St Petersburg, as two contemporaneous responses to the
emerging custom of the leisure promenade within or along a specific urban
site, such as exemplified by Nevsky Prospect in St Petersburg.6 It will
consider the formation of the modern, perambulating observer--one who
encounters the city in motion, and whose visual skills, predilections, and
168 Chapter Seven
ideologies were influenced and harnessed by the clash between two visual
regimes, that of order and stability represented by the classical tradition
and that of dynamic spectacle and illusion represented by capitalist
modernity.7 In placing a novella and a popular visual object side by side, I
am conscious of juxtaposing two distinct kinds of cultural and aesthetic
artifacts; however, both are predicated on the mobile observer and the
ways in which the urban perambulation informed aesthetic concerns of the
writer and the artist. Both Gogol and Sadovnikov transform this mobile
observer into an active agent of the city’s spatio-visual apparatus and the
phantasmagorical effects that it produced. 8 Taking into account the
relationship between Gogol, the author of “Nevsky Prospect,” and Gogol,
the purchaser of Sadovnikov’s Panorama of Nevsky Prospect, the essay
will consider the coextensive relationship among Gogol’s characters, the
staffage pedestrians in Sadovnikov’s Panorama, as well as Gogol’s
readers who themselves would have visited Nevsky Prospect at some point,
to argue for a proto-flâneurism grounded in the particularities of Petersburgian
urbanism.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 169
170 Chapter Seven
The Phantasmagoria of the City 171
172 Chapter Seven
The Phantasmagoria of the City 173
the period, Moscow and St Petersburg. The northern capital, unlike other
Russian cities, had no shortage of architectural views to offer, as the city
remained almost perpetually in a process of construction. The painted and
printed views of St Petersburg explored the juxtaposition between the
chthonic nature of the city and the rational, measured rhythm of its stone
architecture, both uncharacteristic of traditional cityscapes. 31 During the
reign of Catherine II, who was a staunch proponent of classicism in
architecture, the cityscape of St Petersburg acquired its idealized stance of
the city with erect classical façades and massive stone structures, which
proudly-- even narcissistically--gazed at their own reflection in the water
of the Neva River. John Augustus Atkinson’s Panoramic View of St
Petersburg, exhibited in Mr Wigley’s Great Room in London in 1807,
captured the exceptionally poised, magnificent and spatially ordered
sensibility of the Russian capital—a sensibility that had amazed its
European neighbours 32 (Fig. 7-8). Having arrived in 1795, Louise-
Elizabeth Vigée-Le Brun offered a description of St Petersburg that
corresponded to Atkinson’s lofty, mythical representation of the city. An
exile from revolutionary Paris and a faithful admirer of Catherine II,
Vigée-Le Brun could hardly be considered a dispassionate observer:
174 Chapter Seven
The Phantasmagoria of the City 175
176 Chapter Seven
The Phantasmagoria of the City 177
178 Chapter Seven
The Phantasmagoria of the City 179
180 Chapter Seven
At this blessed time, from two to three in the afternoon, when Nevsky
Prospect may be called a capital in motion, there takes place a major
exhibition of the best products of humanity. One displays a foppish frock
coat with the best beavers, another a wonderful Greek nose, the third is the
bearer of superb side-whiskers, the fourth a pair of pretty eyes and an
astonishing little hat, the fifth of a signet ring with a talisman on his smart
pinkie, the sixth of a little foot in a charming bootie, the seventh of an
astonishment-arousing necktie, the eighth an amazement-inspiring
mustache….56
The Phantasmagoria of the City 181
Prospect. As soon as the two friends enter the street, two female figures
capture their attention: a dark-haired lady, “a pure Bianca by Perugino,” as
Gogol defined her otherworldly likeness, catches the artist’s attention,
while the lieutenant becomes smitten by another woman, a blonde beauty
crossing the street. Both decide to follow their evanescent desires and
launch into their respective flights along Nevsky Prospect. Piskarev, the
artist, chases his Peruginian beauty far beyond the limits of Nevsky
Prospect to the less prosperous area of Liteinii Prospect until the beauty
disappears behind the doors of a brothel. The pursuit of the blonde lady,
who takes a side street at the Bernini-inspired Our Lady of Kazan
Cathedral, incites the lieutenant to deviate from the conventional
promenade on Nevsky Prospect as well (Fig. 7-13). Pirogov finds himself
on Meshchanskaya (Merchant) street, “a street of tobacco and grocery
shops, of German artisans and Finnish nymphs.”58 Thus, two pursuits that
began on Nevsky Prospect took both characters outside the bounds of the
prescribed order of the Prospect, forced them to step into the liminal parts
of the city with different urban and visual regimes.
The itineraries of the two young men following their ladies, in Gogol’s
novella, can be inscribed onto the surface of the city as etched arabesques.
The characters’ hurried walks reveal a network of routes connecting St
Petersburg’s centre and its peripheries in a web-like socio-topography,
which the glitter of Nevsky Prospect successfully disguised under its
ostensibly linear facades. The narrator, who follows the characters through
the city, is an inseparable part of its plot: it is through his voice that the
reader experiences the changes in the city’s topography, which remains
otherwise unacknowledged by the young friends. His perception of the
city counterbalances the ardor of Piskarev’s and Pirogov’s chases and
approximates the tireless state of mind akin to what Benjamin calls an
“amnesiac intoxication in which the flâneur goes about the city.”59 This
intoxication, as Benjamin further explains, feeds on the sensory data
taking shape before one’s eyes and even produces abstract knowledge of
inert facts or already lived-through experiences. Similarly, Gogol’s
characters respond to the generative power of the sensory data that
inflames desires and curiosity and spurs the pace with which one walks
about the city.
How, then, does Gogol’s mapping of the city correspond to the
mapping of his characters? The artist Piskarev is the writer’s tribute to the
waning years of Romanticism. Piskarev’s choice of artistic profession is
compared to a phantom that comes to real life: “He was an artist. A
strange phenomenon, is it not? A Petersburg artist! An artist in the land of
snows, an artist in the land of Finns, where everything is wet, smooth, flat,
182 Chapter Seven
pale, gray, misty ….”60 Piskarev’s character is meek, kind, shy and timid,
lacking any pretense, just like the garret that he occupies, or a beggar
woman whom he paints for hours. Piskarev speaks modestly about his
favourite subjects, but keeps “bearing in his soul sparks of feeling ready
on the right occasion to burst into flames.”61 The leitmotif of his character
is dreaming. His poetic imagination readily conflates a woman who he
sees on the street with a mental phantasm of the ideal beauty, which was
epitomized by the Renaissance artist Perugino for Piskarev. Bewitched by
his beauty’s inviting smile on Nevsky Prospect he neglects the
transformation of a glamorous avenue into a seedy, deserted area.
Moreover, once he has come to the end of his journey, he refuses to
recognize a brothel in a disordered room at the top of the stairs. Even
when he comes to terms with the transformation of his Peruginian ideal
into a prostitute, he continues to concoct the ways of saving her from the
putrid grip of vice and to shield his mental phantom from the sordid touch
of reality. Exhausted by his confrontation with the real, he locks himself in
his garret to continue dreaming.
Piskarev’s unceasing phantasms generated in his sleep are induced by
opium, which he obtains from a Persian shawl seller, who lives in the
basement of the same house. The Persian tradesman asks Piskarev to pay
for the opium by painting his portrait with a beautiful woman next to him.
This ingenious “dream-for-a-dream” barter exchange, concocted by Gogol,
happens in a row house typical of the nineteenth-century St Petersburg.
Gogol situates the artist and the tradesman respectively at the top and the
bottom of an apartment building as if to underscore their liminal status
with respect to the “bel étage” of the early capitalist metropolis.
Piskarev returns to the brothel again to propose his hand and heart to
his Peruginian beauty. He finds her sleepy and disheveled, recovering
from a night of revelry. “She had suddenly shown him the whole of her
life as in a panorama,” writes Gogol, seizing the expressiveness of the
word “panorama.” 62 After aimlessly wandering through the city, the
distraught Piskarev secludes himself in his garret only to be discovered
later with a slit throat and a blood-stained razor on the floor by his
housekeeper. “Thus perished the victim of a mad passion, poor Piskarev,”
laments Gogol, “quiet, timid, modest, childishly simple-hearted, who bore
in himself a spark of talent which in time might have blazed up broadly
and brightly.” 63 No one weeps for a poor artist, a victim of romantic
dreams, no one accompanies his body to the remote Okhta Cemetery but a
drunken soldier, notes Gogol, as if to underline the city’s cruel modus
vivendi. Even his friend Pigorov, who supported the artist from time and
time, can not attend Piskarev’s burial as he is too busy with his own
The Phantasmagoria of the City 183
184 Chapter Seven
The moment you enter Nevsky Prospect, it already smells of nothing but
festivity. Though you may have some sort of necessary indispensible
business, once you enter it you are sure to forget all business. Here is the
only place where people do not go out of necessity, where they are not
driven by the need and mercantile interest that envelops the whole of
Petersburg.66
The Phantasmagoria of the City 185
For Gogol, however, the power of the urban coup d’œil that Gautier
admired in St Petersburg’s scenography is less unified. In the essay
dedicated to Karl Briullov’s monumental painting The Last Day of
Pompeii, also included in Arabesques, he emphasised the fragmented and
discontinuous effects of the present that the painting conveyed: “Its idea
186 Chapter Seven
But strangest of all are the events that take place on Nevsky Prospect. Oh,
do not believe this Nevsky prospect!
I always wrap myself tighter in my cloak and try not to look at the
objects I meet at all. Everything is deception, everything is a dream,
everything is not what it seems to be! … Peer less at the shop windows: the
knickknacks displayed in them are beautiful but they smell of a terrible
quantity of banknotes. But God forbid you should peer under the ladies’
hats! However a beauty’s cloak may flutter behind her, I should never
The Phantasmagoria of the City 187
follow curiously after her. Further away, for God’s sake, further away from
the street lamp! Pass it by more quickly, as quickly as possible. You’ll be
lucky to get away with it pouring its stinking oil on your foppish frock coat.
But, along with the street lamp, everything breathes deceit. It lies all the
time, this Nevsky Prospect, but most of all at the time when night heaves
its dense mass upon it and sets off the white and pale yellow walls of the
houses, when the whole city turns into rumbling and brilliance, myriads of
carriages tumble from the bridges, postillions shout and bounce on their
horses, and the devil himself lights the lamps only so as to show everything
not as it really looks.73
188 Chapter Seven
Illustrations
Fig. 7-1. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I. A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (St Isaac Square, right side of the street), paper
mounted on linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 189
Fig. 7-3. The Panorama of Nevsky Prospect, rolled in marbled paper tubes with a
printed label of Prévost’s shop, h. 21.6 cm., d. 7.6 cm. The Getty Research Institute,
Los Angeles.
190 Chapter Seven
Fig. 7-4. Mikhail Makhaev (drawn by), Yu. Vasiliev (engraved by), Plan of St
Petersburg with the Representation of its Most Significant Prospects, engraving,
1753-61. Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox
and Tilden Foundations.
Fig. 7-5. Nicolas de Fer, Plan de la Nouvelle Ville de Petersbourg, 1717, 48 x 38.5
cm., engraving. The National Library of Israel, Eran Laor Cartographic Collection,
Shapell Family Digitization Project and The Hebrew University of Jerusalem,
Department of Geography, Historic Cities Research Project.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 191
Fig. 7-6. Nevsky Prospect, View to the Admiralty, ca. 1890-1900, photomechanical
print, photochrome, colour. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division,
Washington, D.C.
Fig. 7-7. Mikhail Makhaev (drawn by), Yu. Vasiliev (engraved by), View of
Nevsky Perspective Road from the Admiralty towards East, engraving, 1753-61.
Slavic and Baltic Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and
Tilden Foundation.
192 Chapter Seven
Fig. 7-8. John Augustus Atkinson (made and published by), Panoramic View of St.
Petersburg dedicated by permission to His Imperial Majesty Alexander I, c. 1805-
7, aquatint, 438 x 810 mm., plate 1 of 4. Library of Congress Prints and
Photographs Division Washington, D.C.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 193
Fig. 7-10. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I.A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Police Bridge, right side), paper mounted on linen,
718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
194 Chapter Seven
Fig. 7-12. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), I.A. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Anichkov Palace, right side), paper mounted on
linen, 718.6 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 195
Fig. 7-14. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P.S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (St Catherine’s Church, left side), paper mounted on
linen, 847 x 20.8 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
196 Chapter Seven
Fig. 7-15. Vasilii Sadovnikov (after), P.S. Ivanov (lithographed by), Panorama of
Nevsky Prospect, 1830-1835 (Café Volf and Béranger, left side), paper mounted on
linen, 914 x 15 cm. The Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 197
198 Chapter Seven
This essay is based on two talks given at two conferences: “St Petersburg:
300th Anniversary. The City as a Cradle of Modern Russia” at Hofstra
University in 2003 and “The Flâneur Abroad” at University of
Nottingham in 2012. Working with a pristine copy of the rare
Sadovnikov’s Panorama of Nevsky Prospect at the Getty Research
Institute and receiving images for this publication would not be possible
without generous support of Louis Marchesano, Ted Walbye, Sabine
Schlosser and other staff members of the Getty Research Institute in Los
Angeles. I also want to thank Anatole Senkevitch, Jr., Nadieszda Kizenko,
and Andrei L’vovich Punin for sharing their ideas about Gogol, Nevsky
Prospect, and St Petersburg’s cultural history.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 199
Notes
1
Grigory Kaganov, Images of Space: St Petersburg in the Visual and Verbal Arts,
trans. Sydney Monas (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 81.
2
In a letter to his friend Maksimovich Gogol referred to this collection as “a
confusion, a mix of everything, a porridge” (N.V. Gogol, Polnoe sobranie
sochinenii, ed. N.L. Meshcheriakov et al., 14 vols (Leningrad: Nauka, 1937-1952),
vol. 10, 349).
3
See particularly, Melissa Frazier, Frames of Imagination. Gogol’s Arabesques
and the Romantic Question of Genre (New York: Peter Lang, 2000).
4
See Gogol’s essay “On the Architecture of the Present” from Arabesques. On the
nineteenth-century criticism of classical style see chapter “Romantiki protiv
klassikov [Romantics Against Classicists]” in Andrei Punin, Arkhitektura
Peterburga seredini i vtoroi poloviny XIX veka [Architecture of St Petersburg in
the Middle and Second part of Nineteenth Century], vol. 1 (St Petersburg: Kriga,
2009), 22-38.
5
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” in The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol, trans.
Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky (New York, London, Toronto: Everyman’s
Library, 1998), 239.
6
Vasilii Sadovnikov (1800-1879) received commissions from The Society for the
Support of Russian Artists as of 1823. He became one of the leading urban artists
of the period, who produced a variety of city views in watercolour for the growing
industry of illuminated lithography. After the success of The Panorama of Nevsky
Prospect, Sadovnikov drew The Costumes and Views of St Petersburg and its
Surroundings, 1848, The Views of Vilno (Vilnus), 1646-48, among other series of
city views and interiors. Born as a serf, Sadovnikov was freed from serfdom in
1838. A few years later he became an Associate Member of the Imperial Academy
of Fine Arts. This position allowed him to receive numerous commissions,
including those from the Imperial family. For the range of Sadovnikov’s works,
see Olga Kaparulina, Vasilii Semenovich Sadovnikov (1800-1879) (St Petersburg:
Palace Edition, 2000).
7
My preference for the term “observer” is based on Jonathan Crary’s distinction
between the beholder and the observer in the context of nineteenth-century visual
culture. Gogol’s fictional characters, including that of a narrator, see the city in the
mode of the observer, who acts “within a prescribed set of possibilities,” that are
“embedded in a system of conventions and limitation.” Jonathan Crary, Techniques
of the Observer. On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge,
MA: MIT, 1992), 5-6.
8
Richard Pevear’s and Larissa Volokhonsky’s translations of The Collected Tales,
published in 1998, restored the word “phantasmagoria” that Gogol used in his
original Russian version. Considered as rough or unpalatable for an English ear,
this key term underpinning Gogol’s metaphor for the city’s visual spectacle was
substituted for “transformations” or “changes” in previous translations of “Nevsky
Prospect” into English.
200 Chapter Seven
9
For Peter I’s architectural sketches, including the trident lay-out of his private
palace “Monplasir” in Peterhof, which is structurally similar to the three-ray
system of streets radiating from the Admiralty, see I. Grabar’ et al., Russkaia
arkhitectura pervoi polovini XVIII veka [Russian Architecture of the First Part of
Eighteenth Century] (Moscow: GILAS, 1954), 108-111; A. N. Voronikhina,
Peterburg i ego okresnosti v chertezhakh i risunkakh architectorov pervoi treti
XVIII veka: katalog vystavki [Petersburg and its Suburbs in Sketches and Drawings
of the Architects from the First Third of the Eighteenth Century] (Leningrad, 1972),
cat. # 9, 19, 42, 43.
10
For the indispensible account of the early architectural history of St Petersburg
see Chapter 6, “Revolution Embodied: The Building of St Petersburg,” in James
Cracraft, The Petrine Revolution in Russian Architecture (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1988), 147-92.
11
On architectural development of Nevsky Prospect, see S.L. Luppov, Istoria
stroitel’stva Peterburga v pervoi chetverti XVIII veka [A History of The
Construction of St Petersburg in the First Quarter of Eighteenth century] (Moscow-
Leningrad, 1957), 53, 118; Yurii Egorov, The Architectural Planning of St
Petersburg, trans. Eric Dlugosch (Athens, OH: Univ. Press, 1969).
12
On the ensemble of main squares see particularly A. Senkevitch Jr., “St
Petersburg, Russia: Designing a Monumental Urban Stage Set for Imperial State
Craft,” Dimensions, 12 (1998): 22-35.
13
On the literary myths of St Petersburg see Julie A. Buckler, Mapping St
Petersburg: Imperial Text and Cityshape (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
2005), 116-57.
14
Marvin Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye: Urbanism, Art, and Power in Early
Modern Florence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 254.
15
Dmitry Shvidkovsky, Russian Architecture and the West (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1997), 206.
16
On Peter I’s use of “the New Rome” allegories in his political reforms of Russia
see Paul Bushkovitch, “The Roman Empire in the Era of Peter the Great,” Rude
and Barbarous Kingdom Revisited: Essays in Russian History and Culture in
Honor of Robert O. Crummey, ed. Chester S.L. Dunning, Russell E. Martin, and
Daniel Rowland (Bloomington, IN: Slavica Publishers, 2008) and Richard S.
Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy, vol. 1
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995).
17
Hubert Damisch, Skyline. The Narcissistic City (Stanford: Stanford University
Press 2001), 11.
18
On the significance of Russian classicism as a means of legitimizing Russia’s
belonging to the European stream of culture, see Maria Naschekina, Antichnoe
nasledie v russkoi architecture Nikolaevskogo vremeni [The Heritage of Antiquity
in Russian Architecture during the Reign on Nikolai I] (Moscow: Progress
Tradition, 2011).
19
Crary, 113. The difference between various technologies that incorporated the
observer into the image in the panorama, the diorama, and the phenakistiscope are
discussed in his Techniques of the Observer, 95-136.
The Phantasmagoria of the City 201
20
On Barker’s invention, see Scott W. Wilcox, “Unlimiting the Bounds of
Painting,” in Ralph Hyde, Panoramania! The Art and Entertainment of the “All-
Embracing View” (London: Trefoil Publications, 1968), 13-44; Stephen Oetterman,
The Panorama. History of a Mass Medium, trans. Deborah Lucas Schneider (New
York: Zone Books, 1997), 99-115.
21
The Leicester Square rotunda became a commercial facility with a paid entrance
fee, a controlled circulation of visitors, and a printed orientation plan.
22
Sadovnikov’s portable panorama includes the actual building of the Panorama of
Mme La Tour, a structure recognizable by a lantern on top, which was located on
Bolshaia Morskaya Street. This Panorama was among several entertainment
facilities that schooled Petersburgians in viewing panoramas, diaramas,
cosmoramas, and the “theatre of light.”
23
Walter Benjamin, “Paris, The Capital of the Nineteenth Century <Exposé of
1935>,” in The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin
(Cambridge, MA, London, England: The Belknap Press, 1999), 6.
24
Ibid., 5.
25
On the centrality of the relationship between art and technology in Benjamin’s
Passagen-werk, see particularly Chapter 5, “Mythic Nature: Myth Image,” in
Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1989), 111-
57.
26
Oettermann, The Panorama: History of a Mass Medium, 6-7.
27
Benjamin, “Paris, The Capital of the Nineteenth Century <Exposé of 1935>,” 5.
28
See Panoramania! The Art and Entertainment of the “All-Embracing” View,
131-68, for the examples of portable panoramas.
29
Documented evidence related to the actual use of these portable panoramas is
lacking. Jonathan Crary’s warning that a tendency to conflate all optical devices in
the nineteenth century into a single “vague collective drive to higher and higher
standards of verisimilitude” often ignores “the conceptual and historical
singularities of each device” seems correct to me. See Crary, 110.
30
Kaganov, 39.
31
On the lithographic views of Petersburg see Kaganov, 57-79.
32
Joshua Atkinson’s Panoramic View of St Petersburg was dedicated to Alexander
I, who was crowned in 1801. Printed in aquatint on four plates (38 x 304.8 cm.), it
was meant to be exhibited on a circular surface as well as to be bound in a
presentation folio.
33
“Toute magnifique que je me représentais la ville, je fus ravie par l’aspect de ses
monuments, de ses beaux hôtels et de ses larges rues, dont une, que l’on nomme la
Perspective, a une lieue de long. La belle Néva, si claire, si limpide, traverse la
ville chargée de vaisseaux et de barques, qui vont et viennent sans cesse, ce qui
anime cette belle cité d’une manière charmante. Les quais de la Néva sont en
granit, ainsi que ceux de plusieurs grands canaux que Catharine a fait creuser dans
l’intérieur de la ville. D’un côté de la rivière se trouvent de superbes monuments,
celui de l’Académie des arts, celui de l’Académie des sciences et beaucoup
d’autres encore, qui reflètent dans la Néva. On ne peut rien voir de plus belle, m’a-
t-on dit, au clair de lune, que les masses de ces majestueux edifices qui ressemblent
202 Chapter Seven
à des temples antiques. En tout, Saint-Petersbourg me transportait au temps
d’Agamemnon, tant par le grandiose de ses monuments que par le costume du
people, qui rappelle selui de l’âge antique” (Louise-Elizabeth Vigée-Le Brun,
Souvenirs, 2 vols (Paris: Charpentier et Compagnie, 1869), vol. 1, 307-8).
34
Not by accident Gogol makes one of the two characters in “Nevsky Prospect” an
artist, who paints in a drab, greyish, melancholic palette of tones, that Gogol
associated with St Petersburg. Piskarev’s preference for a dark, muted combination
of colours hints at Gogol’s criticism of the commercial views of St Petersburg of
the time, presenting the city in evenly lit, transparent atmospheric effects.
35
Only a few sheets from Sadovnikov’s original watercolours for The Panorama
are preserved in the National Library of Russia, St Petersburg and the Pushkin
Memorial Museum. These fragments constitute about 1/5 of the original sixteen
meters band of watercolours. See, Panorama of Nevsky Prospekt : reproductions
of lithographs after water-colours by V. Sadovnikov, produced by I. Ivanov and P.
Ivanov and published by A. Prévost between 1830 and 1835 (Leningrad: Aurora,
1974), 8.
36
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 239.
37
Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in Selected Writings on Art
and Artists, trans. P.E. Charvet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972),
403.
38
On the beginning of commercial galleries in Paris and the use of iron, see
Benjamin, “Paris, The Capital of the Nineteenth Century <Exposé of 1935>,” 3-5;
Benjamin, Convolute F [Iron Construction], The Arcades Project, trans. Howard
Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge, MA, London, England: The Belknap
Press, 1999), 150-70.
39
Protestant, German Evangelical, Armenian, Roman Catholic, and a number of
Orthodox churches that featured in the Panorama next to commercial venues,
theatres, the Imperial Library and The Imperial Cabinet bespoke a sense of a
metropolis for a modern empire that combined the multiple and diverse subjects.
At least, it was an image that the empire wished to project.
40
Benjamin, Convolute M [The Flâneur], 421.
41
Pushkin was said to be included in The Panorama.
42
The term “flâneur” in relation to a particular city type was already in use in
Russian in the 1830s. Dostoyevsky, for example, used it ironically in his 1847
“Petersburg Chronicle.” See Buckler, 99-100.
43
Benjamin, Passagen-Werk, Convolute M [The Flâneur], 421.
44
Contemporaneous to Gogol’s urban novellas are P.L. Yakovlev, A Sentimental
Journey on Nevsky Prospect (1828); V. I. Dal’, A Live of a Man, or A Promenade
on Nevsky Prospect (1843); E. I. Rastorguev, Promenades on Nevsky Prospect (in
sixteen promenades) (1846). Among foreign visitors to Petersburg, Marquis de
Custine’s and Théophile Gautier’s literary diaries shed important light on the role
of promenades in St Petersburg.
45
The daytime promenades on Nevsky Prospect occurred usually between two and
four in the afternoon on the sunny, left side of the street and covered the strip
between the Police Bridge and Annichkov Palace, that was favoured by the well-
The Phantasmagoria of the City 203
to-do inhabitants of the city due to the abundance of fashionable shops, bookstores,
and restaurants.
46
Albin Konechny, “Introduction,” Progulki po Nevskomu prospektu v pervoƱ
polovine XIX veka [The Promenades on Nevsky Prospect in the First Part of
Nineteenth Century] (St Petersburg: Hyperion, 2002), 5.
47
Giuliana Bruno, Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture, and Film (New
York: Verso, 2002), 35.
48
For an excellent overview of phantasmagoria’s nineteenth-century cultural and
literary history see Terry Castle, “Phantasmagoria: Spectral Technology and the
Metaphorics of Modern Reverie,” Critical Inquiry, 15: 1 (Autumn, 1988): 26-61.
49
On the importance of a Romantic context in the formation of Gogol as a writer
see, for example, Carl R. Proffer, “Gogol's Definition of Romanticism,” Studies in
Romanticism, 6: 2 (Winter, 1967): 120-7.
50
In her Frames of the Imagination: Gogol’s Arabesques and the Romantic
Question of Genre, Melissa Frazier examined the link between Schlegel and
Gogol: “Still something in Gogol has a decidedly Schlegelian cast of countenance,
as in Schlegel’s thought, and particularly in that thought as expressed in Dialogues
on Poetry, the arabesque is a literary genre, one which in fact bears a strong
resemblance to Arabesques” (5). On chaos in Gogol, see Susanne Fusso, Designing
Dead Souls: An Anatomy of Disorder in Gogol (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 1993).
51
Margaret Cohen, “Walter Benjamin's Phantasmagoria,” New German Critique
48 (1989): 89.
52
Walter Benjamin, “Paris, The Capital of the Nineteenth Century <Exposé of
1939>,” in The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin
(Cambridge, MA, London, England: The Belknap Press, 1999), 14-15.
53
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 240.
54
Ibid., 241.
55
Idem.
56
Ibid., 243.
57
Ibid., 244.
58
Ibid., 263.
59
Benjamin, Passagen-Werk, Convolute M [The Flâneur], 417.
60
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 245.
61
Ibid., 246.
62
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 259.
63
Ibid., 260.
64
Schiller and Hoffmann, the names given by the author to the German artisans
punishing Pirogov, connote the names of Gogol’s favorite Romantic writers. This
arabesque of surnames expresses Gogol’s playful tribute to German culture.
Melissa Frazier discusses Gogol’s “imaginary Germans” along with the writer’s
particular identification with German culture. See Frazier, 5.
65
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 270.
66
Ibid., 239.
204 Chapter Seven
67
Susan Fusso, “The Landscape of Arabesques,” in Essays on Gogol. Logos and
the Russian Word, ed. Susanne Fusso and Priscilla Meyer (Evanston, IL;
Northwestern University Press, 1992), 120-1.
68
Bernard Comment, Le XIXe siècle des panoramas (Paris: Nouvelle Adam Biro,
1993), 93.
69
“[c]et ensemble disons-nous, forme en coup d’œil admirable pour lequel le nom
de Perspective que porte la rue, ainsi que beaucoup d’autres de Saint-Petersbourg,
nous parait merveilleusement juste et significatif. Tout est combiné pour l’optique
et la ville, créé d’un seul coup par une volonté qui ne connaissait pas d’obstacle est
sortie complète du marécage qu’elle recouvre, comme une décoration de théâtre au
sifflet du machiniste” (Théophile Gautier, Voyage en Russie (Paris: Charpentier,
1875), 75).
70
Nikolai Gogol, “Karl Briullov's The Last Day of Pompeii” in Arabesques, trans.
Alexander Tulloch (Ann Arbor, MI : Ardis, 1982), 133.
71
For Benjamin, the flâneur is particularly sensitized to the opposition between the
exterior and interior in the city: “The city splits for him into its dialectical poles. It
opens up to him as a landscape, even as it closes around him as a room” (Benjamin,
Passagen-Werk, Convolute M [The Flâneur], 417).
72
Gogol, “Nevsky Prospect,” 242.
73
Ibid., 272.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLAIRE GHEERARDYN
206 Chapter Eight
place during the 1905 Revolution. The main plot of the novel weaves
terrorism and political assassination: Nikolai Apollonovich, a philosophy
student belonging to a terrorist organisation, is asked to plant a bomb
against his father, Senator Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov. Nikolai’s
subsequent insanity is mirrored by another terrorist’s dementia: Alexander
Ivanovich Dudkin, an alcoholic mystic, who spends his days either reading
the Apocalypse in his garret or walking the city. Those three main
characters all undertake long flâneries: they walk in the midst of crowds,
they stroll at night, driven by unbearable anxiety, desiring to “extinguish
the raving by exercising [their] legs.”2 In Bely’s novel flânerie and anxiety
are co-substantial.
However, even if Bely’s characters are constantly compelled “to start
pacing again, to pace on and on until the brain [is] completely numbed, so
that [they] would dream no more of phantoms dark” (P, 171), they are but
momentary flâneurs. According for instance to the early formulation of
Louis Huart’s criteria, none of them could strictly be defined as a flâneur.3
However one should probably not expect to find unadulterated flâneurs in
full-size novels, since the nature of the flâneur as a type and the
complexity of novel characters are somewhat mutually exclusive. One
should therefore shift one’s attention from the flâneur himself to the long
scenes of flânerie woven in the structure of the novel. In the 1910s,
authors no longer needed patiently to build up the flâneur’s physiology nor
to study flânerie as a social phenomenon. The figure of the flâneur has
been fully established as a type, easy to recognize for the readers, and one
could even argue that the smallest allusion to city strolls is enough to make
the entire cosmos of the flânerie spring to the readers’ minds.4 Authors
may no longer be interested in portraying the flâneur for the flâneur’s
sake, but they still favour the peripatetic perception of the city. Flânerie
remains an indispensable device to build up the experience of the city: the
city is still seen through the flâneur’s eyes, it is felt through his body. One
should therefore consider the functions of flânerie in the economy of a
novel.
In Petersburg, Bely makes flânerie part of a larger strategy. The author
aims at examining Russia’s fate. He tries to define what is Russian and
conversely he firmly condemns anything un-Russian as preventing Russia
from accomplishing its spiritual mission. The novel, staged at the time of
Russia’s defeat against Japan, is an occasion to develop the author’s pan-
Slavism. According to Bely, St Petersburg is threatened both by Asiatic
and European influences. He constantly refers to the Japanese and Mongol
hordes that will soon come to destroy the city. In such a context, nothing
can remain purely Russian: even a harmless Russian name such as
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 207
In such a city, flânerie cannot be pleasurable. French writers, for their part,
leave little doubt: flânerie is an exquisite and refined pleasure, a
“jouissance.”7 Baudelaire underlines how in old capitals, everything, even
horror, is metamorphosed into enchantment.8 Bely’s Petersburg embodies
evil without any possibility of redemption, not even on an aesthetic level.
Besides St Petersburg differs from other monstrous cities insomuch as it
is a newborn monster. Instead of developing in a natural way over
centuries, the city was created from nothing, on Finnish swamps, by Peter
the Great, in 1703. It is precisely this artificial birth that dooms St
Petersburg to monstrosity. As a result Saint Petersburg looks like Paris,
Amsterdam, Venice and Rome, it is nothing more but an amalgam of all
European cities combined in the same space. The city is an unnatural,
composite chimera that does not obey physical laws. Bely uses the device
of flânerie to accumulate glimpses of its manifold monstrosity.
Flânerie reveals that in St Petersburg the notion of topography is
invalid. Bely voluntarily debunks the tradition of topographical exactitude
that one usually finds in novels of the city. Balzac, Hugo, Dostoevsky,
Dickens, Joyce and Virginia Woolf all make their characters move
according to trajectories that a reader can follow precisely on a map. But
in Bely’s novel, the Ableukhovs’ house seems to have at least three
208 Chapter Eight
different locations and the flâneurs don’t move according to the laws of
realism. Wherever they go, they cross over bridges, they meet the Nevsky
prospect or Falconet’s monument to Peter the Great: the nightmarish
scenery seems to follow the characters. The city is thus reduced to a few
landmarks as moveable as inflatable theatre props.ͻ Accordingly, in the
prologue, Bely provides the readers with a provocative map of
oversimplified geometrical forms, preventing any practical reconnaissance:
However that may be, Petersburg not only appears to us, but actually does
appear—on maps: in the form of two small circles, one inside the other,
with a black dot in the centre, and from precisely this mathematical point,
which has no dimension, it proclaims forcefully that it exists: from here,
from this very point surges and swarms the printed book (P, 2).
The red rust street lamps which had been casting light all around were
gradually drained of light. They became dull dots, peering in surprise into
the grayish fog. It seemed that a gray procession of lines and walls, with
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 209
their planes of faint shadows and their gaping window apertures, were airy
lace made in pattern of the most delicate workmanship. … From
somewhere afar came a sound—something like the singing of a violin
bow: the crowing of a Petersburg chanticleer. … The procession of lines
and walls grew more massive and distinct. Heavy masses of some sort
emerged—indentations and projections, entryways, caryatids, cornices of
brick balconies.
The lace metamorphosed into morning Petersburg. There stood the
five-storied house, the color of sand. The rust red palace was bedawned (P,
139-40).
Even the beauty of the sunrise beauty gives way to the evil ugliness of
sand and rust. The buildings are newly born, yet they are already old. Such
notations of fog prolong Baudelaire’s Flowers of Evil where “A yellow
fog engulfed the space between.”11 Here Bely continues Baudelaire’s “Le
Crépuscule du matin,” where a lamp is compared to a “bloodshot eye …
throbb[ing] and mov[ing] a red stain.” The unexpected cockerel directly
echoes Baudelaire’s “rooster crow[ing] somewhere” in a “sea of mist”
“like a sob cut off by a clot of blood.”12 However, in the evil city of Peter
the Great, the Baudelairean cockerel acquires a more immediate meaning
and reminds one of Saint Peter’s betrayal. In St Petersburg, where Christ is
constantly betrayed, the Antichrist cannot fail to appear and destroy the
city. Thus, in foggy Petersburg, the city’s birth always announces its
imminent death, the myth of origins comes with a myth of destruction.
Petersburgian streetlamps not only quote Baudelaire’s, they more
directly recall Gogol’s malevolent streetlamps lit up by the Devil to show
everything in false colour.13 Bely’s slippery palimpsest emphasizes how
texts about flânerie and texts about St Petersburg share a common nature:
they all feed on intertextuality. When one writes of flânerie, one cannot
avoid alluding to Balzac, Baudelaire and Poe, and one decade later, the
Surrealists and Walter Benjamin will be added to the cumulative pantheon
of flânerie literature. Texts about St Petersburg all share that palimpsestic
quality. Wladimir Troubetzkoy, among many other critics, explains that
Pushkin, as much as Peter the Great, created St Petersburg, and that in the
realm of Russian literature, texts about Petersburg agglomerate to form a
genre of their own. Petersburg is both a city and a book, constantly re-
written, including all the texts about the city with all their simultaneous
variants.14 When Bely entitles his novel “Petersburg”, he points out that
double nature. One could add that in the “Petersburg genre,” as well as the
“flânerie genre,” prose and poetry merge to exchange their motifs. The
two bodies of texts ignore the usual generic distinctions: they are
210 Chapter Eight
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 211
All the shoulders formed a viscous and slowly flowing sediment. The
shoulders of Alexander Ivanovich [Dudkin] stuck to the sediment … he
followed the shoulder and thus was cast out onto the Nevsky.
What is a grain of caviar?
There the body of each individual that streams onto the pavement
becomes the organ of a general body, an individual grain of caviar, and the
sidewalks of the Nevsky are the surface of an open-faced sandwich.
Individual thought was sucked into the cerebration of the myriapod being
that moved along the Nevsky … There were no people on the Nevsky, but
there was a crawling, howling myriapod there (P, 178-9).
212 Chapter Eight
Just as the mysterious old man longs to hide in the crowd, Dudkin longs
“to get out of the room—into the dingy fog, there to merge with shoulders,
backs, greenish faces on a Petersburg Prospect” (P, 170). From Poe’s text,
Bely retains and amplifies all the possibilities for horror. Poe suggests a
resemblance between the old man and the Devil by likening him to
Retszch’s pictures of fiends;20 Bely expatiates on Dudkin’s demoniac side.
Apollon Apollonovich reflects that Dudkin’s terrible eyes are “such as you
would encounter in the Moscow chapel of the Martyr Panteliemon” (P,
20), the saint who cures demonic possession and insomnia. Bely implies
his flâneur might be possessed by the demon.21 Among all the potential
flâneur figures, Bely is only interested in the most excessive variations. In
his world, flânerie is associated with the worst possible states of humanity:
madness and possession.
When it comes to defining flânerie, Louis Huart and Balzac seldom
agree. Huart claims that no flâneur ever committed suicide, and that
flâneurs are essentially happy beings.22 Balzac, as for him, never limits the
type but opens up a wide spectrum of possibilities and presents many
different flâneurs side by side.23 To Balzac, the anxious flâneur is as valid
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 213
a version of the type as the happy idler taking delights in reading theatre
bills. Balzac frequently associates flânerie, despair and suicidal
temptation: the beginning of the Peau de Chagrin (1831) is nothing but a
long flânerie preceding suicide. In The Rise and Fall of César Birotteau
(1837) Balzac writes:
[Birotteau] acknowledged later that in those days of despair, his head had
boiled like a saucepan, and that several times, if it had not been for his
religious sentiments, he should have flung himself into the Seine.
Harassed by some unprofitable enterprise, he was lounging [il flânait]
one day along the boulevard on his way to dinner,—for the Parisian
lounger [flâneur] is as often a man filled with despair as an idler.24
214 Chapter Eight
are given monsters. The terrible image of the dragged tail starts as an
image of physical tiredness, telling of the exhausting multiplicity of what
is to be observed in the city. The transformations of the tail into a door and
a giant reveal how flânerie modifies the experience of one’s own body. In
anxious flânerie, the alienated body becomes a monster that might attack
oneself. This anxiety is mostly caused by guilt since the Petersburgian
flâneur proves above all to be a criminal and since Russian flânerie is
irrevocably grafted onto crime.
Dudkin the terrorist epitomizes Alain Montandon’s analysis of the
flâneur as a being who maintains himself at the margins of society by
refusing to work or to use public transportation, thus rejecting the common
social law of speed and acceleration.28 Montandon names two main kinds
of marginal flâneurs: the artist and the criminal, consequently
contradicting Louis Huart who claims that to encourage flânerie is to
encourage virtue.29 Terrorists, condemned by their political missions to
live in clandestinity, might make the ultimate marginal flâneurs.
The two characters in Poe’s The Man of the Crowd illustrate the two
sides of Montandon’s marginal flâneur: on the one hand, the convalescent
narrator, who tries to read people as if they were books, is a figure of the
writer and the artist; on the other hand the man he observes is “the type
and the genius of deep crime.”30 This alternative—either the watcher or
the watched, either the artist or the criminal—seems to condense most of
the developments on the flâneur type. The flâneur-artist might be more
often selected, for instance by Hoffmann and Balzac, whose writer
characters endeavour to read people in crowds,31 or by Baudelaire with
Monsieur G. in Le Peintre de la vie moderne. In a symptomatic fashion,
when Baudelaire sums up Poe’s tale, he barely mentions at all the
mysterious old man. On the contrary, it is the criminal, anxiously moving
amidst the throng, that Dostoevsky and Bely retain from Poe’s duo.32
Russian literature favours the criminal flâneur more than the artist one,33
and in the genealogy of criminal flâneurs, Dudkin’s literary ancestor is
Raskolnikov, who anxiously strolls through the city before and after
committing murder in Crime and Punishment. Indeed, according to
Georges Nivat, the trope of parricide structures Petersburgian literature:
everybody tries to kill their father—especially when the father is the tsar.34
Accordingly, in Bely’s novel, Nikolai tries to spare the Senator, but
nonetheless triggers the bomb by mistake. In evil St Petersburg, the
flâneur, doomed to criminality, has forever lost his blessed innocence.
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 215
216 Chapter Eight
During the same night, peaks of anxiety lead each of them to undertake a
long flânerie—Apollon Apollonovich consequently breaking his life-long
habit of always riding his carriage back home. Father and son do not walk
together but face complete loneliness as their convictions about the world
are utterly destroyed. It is their anxious flâneries that enable them to catch
glimpses of the radical strangeness of things. Apollon Apollonovich, when
he is told that terrorists will soon target him, beholds a change around him
in a scene that strikes a Sartrean note and seems to announce Sartre’s
Nausea (1938):
The father’s experience explicitly mirrors what Nikolai goes through when
he understands that he will have to commit parricide: “Horrible darkness!
Looking around, he crept up to a blot of light from under a street lamp.
Under the blot a stream of water babbled in the gutter, an orange peel
swept past” (P, 127). In both cases, the characters pay attention to minor
details they would never have noticed before, and those details, along with
the babbling they hear, betoken the world’s new unintelligibly.
Most importantly, their anxious flâneries modify the characters’
perception of space. Apollon Apollonovich’s stroll is framed by the
appearance of immense spaces behind the apparent flatness of the city:
“His fear of space awakened. … An icy hand touched him. It took him by
the arm and led him past the puddles. And he walked and walked and
walked, led by an icy hand. Spaces flew to meet him” (P, 130). Just before
dawn this new experience of space reaches its paroxysm: “At this point
cerebral play rapidly erected misty planes before him. All the planes where
blown to bits. The gigantic map of Russia rose before him” (P, 139). Bely
sees as the “Fourth Dimension” those spaces holding the complete Russian
empire, and destroying what previously existed.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, non-Euclidian geometries
attracted a lot of attention. Mystics, and particularly adepts of theosophy,
seized the phrase “Fourth Dimension” to refer to a cosmic and astral kind
of space, housing ethereal beings, accessible only to those who have been
initiated. Einstein’s article exposing the theory of special relativity,
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 217
Bely opposes the complex use of the Fourth Dimension to the artificiality
of an ordinary space made of flatness and geometry. As soon as the
Prologue, Bely appends the question of geometry to the issue pan-Slavism.
When Bely asks whether St Petersburg is European or the capital of the
Russian Empire, he contemplates the issue from a spatial point of view.
Bely first grudgingly admits that Petersburg “actually does belong to the
Russian empire” (P, 1), and yet immediately amends his statement, calling
St Petersburg an “unRussian city” (P, 2). He joins in a long tradition of
comparing the unnatural St Petersburg to Moscow “the original capital
city” and Kiev “the mother of Russian cities.” The author stresses that it is
the geometrical or mathematical organisation of space that makes the city
European and unRussian:
218 Chapter Eight
Bely works on new equations: Peter the Great created a flat geometrical
city of lines, an unRussian city: “Oh, you lines! In you has remained the
memory of Petrine Petersburg. The parallel lines were once laid out by
Peter” (P, 12). Lines are therefore connected with Europe as well as
oppression and tyranny. Saint Petersburg is the un-Russian, coercive city
of lines. Senator Apollon Apollonovich, the head of the secret police,
delights in reading a textbook entitled Planimetry. Lines, prospects and
streets, associated with daggers and arrows, become the weapons he uses
to imprison the Russian crowds into a terrible net. Moreover, numbers and
lines turn out to be part of the Asiatic plot to doom Russia to immutability,
as a terrible Mongol reveals to Nikolai in a nightmare (P, 166). As a
consequence, those un-Russian lines need to be broken. Chronological,
rectilineal time is represented by the Nevsky prospect: “Most of all,
[Apollon Apollonovich] loved the rectilineal prospect; this prospect
reminded him of the flow of time between two points of life” (P, 10). The
Senator’s anxious flânerie transforms his perception of geometrical space
by giving him momentary access to the Fourth Dimension. It is up to that
Fourth Dimension to push the flat ordinary un-Russian space down, and
eventually to destroy it. From that destruction salvation will come. The
Fourth Dimension almost merges with the Apocalypse that Bely both
dreads and constantly calls for. In that complex dispositive, the anxious
flânerie is but an element, but it is an essential one. It transforms
characters, makes them perceptive to the irruption of the Apocalyptic
Fourth Dimension, and prepares them for the final change.
There is a Petersburgian flâneur. He does exist, at least temporarily: he
is a demented criminal driven by anxiety, who fearfully discovers St
Petersburg’s monstrosity. Flânerie, in St Petersburg is a figure of torture,
of despair, of torment and lunacy. However, in the context of St
Petersburg, the plastic flâneur is constantly undergoing deep
transformations. Like his Parisian counterpart, he might look for signs that
he tries to interpret but the nature of these signs has changed. They do not
concern the city anymore but encode the Apocalypse and the Fourth
Dimension. The demented Petersburgian flâneur might become a mystic
who is not so much interested in the city as in what lies beyond the city,
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 219
220 Chapter Eight
9
On the idea of a city as inflatable theatre set, see Corinne Fournier Kiss, La Ville
européenne dans la littérature fantastique au tournant du siècle: 1860-1915
(Lausanne: L’Âge d’Homme, 2007), 221. Bely wrote a stage version of the novel
that is still to be translated in English.
10
For further details on the ambiguity of the mathematical dots in Petersburgian
literature, see Waldimir Troubetzkoy, Saint-Pétersbourg, mythe littéraire (Paris:
Presse Universitaire de France, 2003), 54.
11
Baudelaire, “The Seven Old Men,” in Les Fleurs du Mal: The Complete Text of
The Flowers of Evil, trans. Richard Howard (Boston: David R. Godine, 1982), 92.
“Les Sept Vieillards,” Fleurs du mal, OC, 83: “Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de
rêves / Où le spectre en plein jour accroche le passant! […] Un brouillard sale et
jaune inondait tout l’espace.”
12
Baudelaire, “Twilight: Daybreak,” Flowers of Evil, 108-9; “Le Crépuscule du
matin,” Fleurs du mal, OC, 99: “Où comme un œil sanglant qui palpite et qui
bouge / La lampe sur le jour fait une tache rouge / […] Comme un sanglot coupé
par un sang écumeux / Le chant du coq au loin déchirait l’air brumeux.”
13
Nikolai Gogol, Nevski Prospekt (1835), Arabesques in The Complete tales of
Nikolai Gogol, ed. Leonard Kent, vol. 1 (Chicago: The University of Chicago
Press, 1965), 239.
14
Troubetzkoy, “La Russie est-elle le nord de l’Europe?,” Le Nord, latitudes
imaginaires, Actes du XXIXe Congrès de la Société Française de Littérature
Générale et Comparée (Lille 1999), ed. Monique Dubar et Jean-Marc Moura
(Villeneuve-d’Ascq: Université Charles-de-Gaulle-Lille 3, 2000), 94. See also
Saint-Pétersbourg, mythe littéraire, 128.
15
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 79.
16
See Gogol, The Nose, also published in Arabesques in 1835. The Nose himself,
who is said to stroll everyday on the Nevsky Prospect, might be considered as a
grotesque flâneur.
17
See Edgar Allan Poe, The Man of the Crowd, in Poetry and Tales, ed. Patrick
Quinn (New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 1984), 391: “At first my
observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers in
masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I
descended to details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties
of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance.”
18
Poe is one of Bely’s great references. Poe’s story “The Masque of the Red
Death” probably inspired the intriguing red silk domino worn by Nikolai, a
carnivalesque sign of subversion, of everything going amiss in the world.
19
Poe, The Man of the Crowd, 392.
20
Ibid.
21
Through complex dialogues and allusions, the reader might understand that
Dudkin has met an incubus in the past (P, 206).
22
Huart, Physiologie du flâneur, 82.
23
It is very striking, for instance, that Balzac often uses flâneurs as social experts
who comment on the characters’ social positions. Balzac constantly refers to the
Flâneurs, Monsters, Madmen and Wanderers 221
flâneurs’ opinion about his characters. See for instance Madame Firmiani (1832),
in CHP, vol. 2, 143.
24
Balzac, Rise and Fall of César Birotteau, trans. Katherine Prescott Wormeley
(Boston : Little, Brown & Co, 1901), 39. “Il avoua plus tard qu’en ce temps de
désespoir la tête lui bouillait comme une marmite, et que plusieurs fois, n’était ses
sentiments religieux, il se serait jeté dans la Seine. Désolé de quelques expériences
infructueuses, il flânait un jour le long des boulevards en revenant dîner, car le
flâneur parisien est aussi souvent un homme au désespoir qu’un oisif” (Balzac,
Histoire de la grandeur et de la décadence de César Birotteau, marchand
parfumeur, in CHP, vol. 6, 63).
25
Karlheinz Stierle, one of the most perceptive specialists of Paris in literature,
particularly insists that the flâneur is a semotician and a philosopher. See La
Capitale des signes, Paris et son discours (Paris: Editions de la maison des
sciences de l’homme, 2001), 25.
26
On the notion of “cerebral play,” in Russian “mozgovoi,” see Georges Nivat, “La
Ville cérébrale” in Vivre en russe (Lausanne: L’Âge d’Homme, 2007), 161-79.
27
Baudelaire, “Solitude”, Little Poems in Prose, trans. Aleister Crowley (Paris:
Edward W. Titus, 1928), 60-1; Petits Poèmes en prose, in OC, 263-4: “Le Démon
fréquente volontiers les lieux arides, et que l’Esprit de meurtre et de lubricité
s’enflamme merveilleusement dans les solitudes.” Dudkin will finally give way to
the spirit of murder.
28
Alain Montandon, Pour une Sociopoétique de la promenade (Clermont-Ferrand:
Presses universitaires Blaise Pascal, 2000), 149.
29
According to Louis Huart, a flâneur can be nothing but virtuous for one cannot
undertake a flânerie if one’s consciousness is not at peace (Huart, Physiologie du
flâneur, 24-5).
30
Poe, The Man of the Crowd, 396.
31
See for instance E.T.A. Hoffmann’s My Cousin’s Corner Window (1822), a
delightful and paradoxical tale where a paralysed flâneur-writer watches people
going to the market through his window; and see Balzac’s Facino Cane (1836)
where the narrator, to relax from his efforts to write a novel, follows people in the
crowd.
32
The watching flâneur-writer might become a journalist. This transformation is
already present in Balzac. In Lost Illusions (1836-1843), one of Lucien de
Rubempré’s first articles is a charming chronicle entitled “The Paris Passers-by.”
Lucien thus invents a new genre in journalism. It is to be noted that Poe himself
provides the readers with yet another variation on the observing flâneur type: the
flâneur who watches the crowds might also become a detective, like C. Auguste
Dupin in The Murder in the Rue Morgue (1841). Detectives and policemen invade
Petersburg, a novel written at a time when the Russian Empire was passionately
reading Sherlock Holmes.
33
Gogol’s painter-flâneur in The Portrait would be an exception to that rule.
34
Nivat, “La Ville cérébrale,” 167.
222 Chapter Eight
35
Alexander Pushkin, The Bronze Horseman, A Petersburg Tale (1833), trans.
Waclaw Lednicki and published in Waclaw Lednicki, Pushkin's Bronze Horseman
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1955), 148.
36
On the complex matter of Bely’s Fourth Dimension, see David Bethea, The
Shape of Apocalypse in Modern Russian Fiction (Princeton University Press,
1989), 122-3, and Fournier Kiss, La Ville européenne, 228-37.
37
On the question of the Strannik, see Nivat, “Fuga Mundi,” in Vivre en russe, 71-
9.
CHAPTER NINE
KEVIN C. ROBBINS
The most raucous and outrageous of all Parisian new social media after
1900 was the totally irreverent, all-seeing, and deeply critical, purely
illustrated weekly L’Assiette au beurre circulating 1901-1913 (Colour
Plate 1). Derisively taking the name of the dainty “butter dish” gracing
élite urban tables, this upstart, radical, and explicitly anarchist publication
sought, literally and figuratively, to smash such crockery and to smear the
callous pretentions and vicious malfeasance of the wealthier governing
classes in France and Europe. Vital to the success and notoriety of the
Assiette was a close coterie of French and immigrant graphic artists drawn
to the radical media of Paris. This peripatetic group included some of the
greatest and most inventive print makers of the era, like the Czech,
Frantisek Kupka, the German, Hermann Vogel, the Greek, Dimitrios
Galannis, the Pole, Louis Marcoussis (Ludwig Casimir Markus), the
Portuguese, Thomas Leal da Camara, the Spaniard, Juan Gris, and the
Swiss, Félix Vallotton (Fig. 9-1). Some of these visiting artists would later
go on to start similar satirical publications and to animate the most
innovative, twentieth-century artistic and popular protest movements both
in France and in their own home countries from Brazil to Russia.
The Assiette’s entrepreneurial editor entrusted the illustration of each
sixteen-page, weekly issue to a single artist or team of creators. While
successive editors of the Assiette compiled long lists of potential topics or
themes for exposé, associated print makers also had the freedom to suggest
critical subjects and views. This was a proposition deeply appealing to
some of the most politically engaged and socially progressive artists
224 Chapter Nine
republican society. The creators of the Assiette clearly made street art a
primary vehicle for the expression of its most comic and most severe
indictments of contemporary urban society and its failings. Individually
and collectively, the artists closely associated with the Assiette worked
diligently to craft graphic images of social protest most often as seen and
interpreted by the sharp-eyed and irreverent, wandering “man in the
street.” In the Assiette, the streetscapes of Paris, often seen in popular
pedestrian perspective, become both backdrops and amplifiers for a new
generation of itinerant social critics emerging from within the ranks of the
ordinary mass of the citizenry. This satirical publication, often with an
anarchist and progressive teaching bent, thus amply supports Tom Gretton’s
recent contention that: “the metropolitan experience as personified in the
flâneur” was “mimicked in the illustrated weekly.”13 I would add that the
Assiette both mimicked and transformed that experience, expanding its
franchise to a far wider array of townspeople, including poorer artists,
working men, women, and children, rarely if ever encountered before
among earlier, widely admired French personifications of the flâneur. The
ultimate objective here became new and instructive popular, pedestrian
visions of the city charged with the ability to arrest the eye and to inform
viewers on how to recognize and how to cope with the real meanings,
risks, dangers, and opportunities impelling their assimilation into modern
urban life.14
My objective here is thus to query whether and how, exactly, the new,
illustrated media of the later French Third Republic effected both a
politicization and a democratization of the observant flâneur. Can flânerie
be popularized with an ever sharper, politically engaged and reformist
edge? Did the irreverent, politically engaged artists flocking to Paris in this
era, tirelessly walking its streets, and seeing their revelatory, often
infuriating sights for the first time, appropriate and re-shape the flâneur? In
that process, did these artists, especially new, poorer immigrants to
graphic Paris, cast off the flâneur’s imagined or stereotypical bourgeois
status and wry detachment from the urban scene?
I believe that these gifted and experimental graphic artists bent on
social protest progressively infused the flâneur and flânerie itself with
visible outrage and an illustrious commitment to social reform. A radical,
even anarchist flâneur evolved in new, synthetic, richly illustrated print
media like the Assiette. This new flâneur was a visually informed figure
devoted to progressive social reform and a graphic counter-attack on
capitalism and its plutocratic, outrageously selfish and destructive
beneficiaries. Moreover, his (or her) effective representation required not
the debasement or sentimentalizing of the artist’s pictorial craft, but rather
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 227
popular police action against the socially deviant and the criminal (Fig. 9-
4). An adroit, tireless flâneur himself, Steinlen infused most of his images
for the Assiette with a trenchant, observant urbanity. This work amply
justifies the more recent, apt identification of Steinlen as “l’œil de la
rue”—the eye of the street.17
But, from the very first issue of the Assiette, such images of the
enraged or malevolent urban crowd got balanced out with far more
consoling images of the anonymous citizenry’s humane capacity for
mutual aid, especially in service toward the most fragile or vulnerable
members of the urban community (Fig. 9-5). Charles Huard here gives us
an amiable picture of the usual Parisian suspects, men and women, old and
young, and from a host of classes. But, this time, they have pitched in
together, shown real solicitude, and kindly carried an ailing elderly woman
to the pharmacist. The caption of Huard’s image reads: “On a porté la
vieille dame chez le pharmacien” (They carried the old lady to the
pharmacist). The crowd-collective as shown now re-groups after
collaborative, pro-social action on behalf of the needy. Huard’s endearing
scene of a temporary band of helpful (otherwise nameless) Parisian
pedestrians treats us to an image that occurs only after the principal
generous action of the crowd has occurred well before our arrival and
inspection on site. In this sense, the picture mimics a common predicament
of the flâneur, ambling onto a notable urban stage only after the real drama
has passed. Assiette artists apparently revelled in such contingencies of
urban life, placing them in graphic relief better to sensitize viewers about
the opportunities and frustrations of existence in the modern city.
To me, Huard here depicts and re-energizes Baudelaire’s original and
essential aperçu regarding the artist-flâneur and his searching works. For
Baudelaire, that urbane character is a “pure pictorial moralist” and “[w]hat
constitutes the specifically beautiful quality of these pictures is their moral
fecundity.”18 In Huard’s Assiette image, a pedestrian urbanite’s roving eye
falls on a transient civic and didactic event: a manifestation of collective
good conscience and care for the aging and the sick who share the city’s
precincts and to whom better care is certainly due.
It is precisely this instructive, moralizing or civilizing element in
modern French urban imagery that most animates the artful graphic
commentaries published in the Assiette. But the artists who worked most
frequently for the Assiette give their lessons on urban life and its inequities
a vital and innovative twist. Whereas Baudelaire’s morally formative
dandy/flâneur is a man of leisure disposing of some wealth or even a
distinctive, acquired nobility, working artists of the Assiette expose us to
the wit and wisdom of far humbler fellow pedestrians (Fig. 9-6). Steinlen’s
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 229
life, Vogel hijacks the flâneur’s now classic café interior scene and gives
us a glass of absinthe as the emerald focal point of an urban still life.
While death himself, caught in the play of mirrored reflections and
advertising slogans, presides at the bar, a convivial working-class couple
nurses their drinks and their child courtesy of the notoriously intoxicating
beverage, the “green fairy.” Is this an innocent and inconsequential gesture
or the fatal first step on the road to total perdition? Vogel gives us no easy
pacifiers and his starkly rendered slice of city life suggests that a brush
with liquid death can be a quotidian event in the lives of working families.
Artists of the Assiette fabricated such stark contrasts at every turn.
They were especially adept at skewering the hypocrisy, false philanthropy,
and bogus notability of the moneyed élites contending for socio-political
dominance in the Belle Époque (Fig. 9-9). Gottlob adroitly juxtaposed the
charity snob ostentatiously spending a gold piece on a rose at a society
benefit but, in callous and ghostly green fashion, rejecting as “too much”
the four-penny bid of a poor flower-seller in the street (see Colour Plate 3,
detail). As witnessed in the street and in the company of the true poor, the
rich man’s self-glorifying “humanity” evaporates, becoming jaundiced,
spectral, and haunting. These are the ambient spectres of modern urban
life against which graphic artists of the Assiette sought to warn and to
incite their mass audience of viewers. The differing inks and paper colours
and weights with which Assiette production workers experimented in its
pages helped these images of protest and reform to achieve a most striking
and memorable effect.
Armand Gallo was a very lucky Neapolitan illustrator-immigrant to
graphic Paris. Described in surviving sources as a street-smart dandy with
long experience in the frenetic, nocturnal production of Italian comic
reviews, Gallo settled in Paris by 1905 and quickly went to work
producing comic and caustic images for at least three of the illustrated,
satirical weeklies owned by Schwarz and his successors.20 Gallo’s talents
apparently meshed perfectly with the critical ethos and ambitions Schwarz
conceived for the Assiette au beurre. Gallo’s deeply irreverent, anti-
capitalist sympathies made him a frequent contributor to the Assiette after
1906. Gallo used that journal to circulate a far more garish, street-scene
indictment of gluttonous élite self-indulgence publically masquerading as
benevolence (Colour Plate 4). Here, as a homeless man and his children
sitting at the curb look on, a drunken toff vomits all over a Parisian
sidewalk. The laconic caption reads: “He’s just come from a charity ball.”
The bilious colour fields of Gallo’s streetscape image sharply convey his
acid critique of urban, class-based, socio-political inequalities and
injustice. Roving city eyes celebrated in the imagery of the Assiette made
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 231
A wild Dutch visitor to Paris, the Fauve painter and print-maker Kees
van Dongen, took a special liking to the early Assiette, contributing a large
number of innovative and provocative images for which he got very good
pay and gained a wide Parisian celebrity. Even by the outré works and
methods of the publication, van Dongen’s satirical inventions are
exceptional, revealing the synthetic and critical powers of a new medium
like a purely illustrated, politicized, urban comic review. This was the
perfect vehicle for the incisive street art van Dongen himself favoured at
this time. He regularly referred to his cherished visual studies of Parisian
street scenes and street people as “instantanés.” These were rapidly
executed, really near instantaneous visual captures of local streetscapes
and their human animators, often done in pencil or ink briskly highlighted
with daubs of water colour, coloured inks, and specks of pastel or oil
paint.22 As befits a newly arrived “beast” in art, van Dongen showed no
respect whatsoever for the usual borders of genre or propriety. His most
audacious contribution to the Assiette was his Petite histoire pour les petits
et grands n’enfants (Assiette au beurre, no. 30 of 26 October 1901; Fig. 9-
12). This is a sordid visual tale of a Parisian mother and daughter each
compelled into prostitution by economic necessity and the fatal dynamics
of what’s tragically now become a family trade.
Van Dongen outrageously casts his critique in the guise of a child’s
bedtime story book. He does so, in part, with the theft of a stock urban
character, la marchande de quat’ saisons—the female costermonger or
itinerant, year-round street seller (Figs 9-13 and 9-14). To the
accompaniment of sing-song, juvenile captions, one sees the spring,
summer, fall, and miserable, dying winter of one ill-fated seller of herself
in the urban, sex-work marketplace. Both van Dongen’s immediate subject
matter and the purloined style of his presentation caused a public sensation
and assured his entrée into the ranks of notable, even scandalous Parisian
artists.23
Here, the sad history of the human merchandise on offer gets played
out through a series of oblique and rhyming street scenes. Van Dongen’s
flâneur, displaying a strong social conscience, steals into the otherwise
sedate and respectable genre of juvenile literature, hijacks it, and careens
off toward searing visual denunciations of an exploitive urban economy
that consigns generations of vulnerable women to the ultimately deadly
marketing of themselves. Not a wholesome, childish tale at all and that is
precisely the point van Dongen’s roving eye captures and asserts so
brilliantly. Here, I believe, we see in part how new media, like irreverent,
illustrated, satirical weeklies, accomplished the artful social engagement
and politicization of the old, allegedly indifferent or blasé flâneur. They
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 233
did so by a comic, even a slap-stick (but still instructive) theft, parody, and
recombination of other classic genres to make more acute observations of
the urban scene by every pedestrian the basis of progressive social and
moral reform. Parisian consumers within a burgeoning urban print
marketplace heartily endorsed these visual exploits, snapping up copies of
the Assiette via brisk newsstand sales and paid subscriptions assuring the
publication an exceptionally long and influential run.
The socio-political utility of this mocking street art also emanates from
its clear sympathy for all of the marginal figures in modern urban life,
especially those most vulnerable to abuse by corrupt and violent agents of
municipal police. Flâneurs old and new are overtly concerned with the
police of the streets. I would go further to argue that vintage and
contemporary flâneurs vie with one another and with the duly established
state forces of order to enforce, here graphically, differing visions of a just
and equitable society, pedestrian but fair to all the walks of city life. That
is precisely the theme taken up by one of the most accomplished
immigrant lithographers who utilized the Assiette for the widest possible
export of his masterly, jet-black, and sardonic images. (Fig. 9-15).
The Swiss traveller Félix Vallotton turned up in Paris in 1882. Toward
the end of the century, his most ardent work came in the form of energetic
wood-block prints, line drawings, and lithographs starkly evoking the
intensities and conflicts of Parisian life.24 For the March 1, 1902 edition of
the Assiette (no. 48, a numéro special) editors and artist spared no
expense, putting forth an issue comprised solely of fourteen real
lithographs, printed from cut stones, and impressed on only one side of
each carefully chosen, thick-paper page. Each page was perforated for
easy removal should avid consumers wish to have Vallotton’s admonitory
pictures framed. In keeping with the anarchist precepts of the art
community regularly furnishing images to the Assiette, Vallotton’s
objective here was circulation of a “high art” form, the real lithograph, via
a far more popular medium like an unprecedented, mass-circulation,
purely illustrated weekly easily affordable by even humble workers.
Breaking with the heroic, rarified artistry of the Baudelairean flâneur,
collaborators at the Assiette employed premier lithographs in humbler and
more effective campaigns of observant social protest. With their scathing
images, they especially targeted a corrupt and dangerous Paris police force
preying at will upon the weakest and most economically vulnerable
members of urban society.
Vallotton took as one of his special visual themes the crimes and
punishments of Paris (Colour Plate 6). On the title page, a real marchande
de quat’saisons gets surrounded by officious and madly gesticulating
234 Chapter Nine
cops. On the inside of this issue (Fig. 9-16), the viewer learns that official
efforts to suppress all forms of street beggary and quotidian charity are
only stymied when cops on patrol, anxious to protect their chances for
promotion, refuse to intervene to stop a gift act when they spy their chief’s
wife giving alms to a poor man. These are the new, urban margins of a
supposedly “Christian” and generous French civic charity.
Vallotton’s progressively intensifying street art via the Assiette
culminates with his observations on the multiple, competing indecencies
of urban life. Most vulnerable here are the ragged homeless, incapable of
covering themselves decently in the cruel capital of the international
fashion industry (Fig. 9-17). Acting on the ludicrous, trumped up charge of
infringing the civic code through public nudity, burly policemen grab and
roughly march off a dishevelled beggar missing the seat of his pants. By
the seat of their pants, missing or not, on the fly, that is how ever more
mobile and visually alert pedestrians are now encouraged to judge just
what really constitutes a crime in an urban world whose heartless state
policemen are perpetually primed to tell the poor: “Circulez!” (“Move
Along!”) or just disappear. Vallotton’s superb lithographs, widely
disseminated via the Assiette, make the real class agents of indecency
(cops on the beat and the bourgeois regime they violently protect)
painfully obvious.
In my opinion, the flâneur did, most definitely, go abroad. In part, that
migration occurred via highly innovative and synthetic, illustrated,
satirical publications like the Assiette au beurre. In this novel medium, the
flâneur moved on, assuming both genders, rejuvenating through a new
identification with children, and integrating multiple social ranks of the
urban community. A remarkably diverse array of wandering international
artists here made common, progressive cause in a new visual politics.
They took the flâneur and flânerie—as a process of collective moral
improvement through insightful and incisive urban social criticism—in
multiple new directions at once. They did so, in part, through the wily,
satiric theft, recombination, and reapplication of previously staid or
respectable print genres. Migrant artists, new to Paris and especially
sensitive to all its charms and all its horrors, became vital agents
democratizing and politicizing the old indigenous archetype of the
detached, indifferent flâneur. By re-moralizing and re-valuing socially
conscious, observant pedestrians, by encouraging and retraining those
citizens to see into the city better and to demand greater social equity via
such transcendent and provocative visions, the artists of the Assiette
advanced the principles of mutual aid and reciprocity at the core of
European anarchism. This achievement required no diminution and no
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 235
Illustrations
Fig. 9-1. František Kupka, L’Argent, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 41, 11 January
1902, cover, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 237
Fig. 9-3. Georges Dupuis, La Hurle, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 153, 5 March 1904,
cover, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 239
Fig. 9-5. Charles Huard, Parisiens! L’Assiette au beurre, no. 1, 4 April 1901, 19,
photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 241
Fig. 9-7. Théophile-Alexander Steinlen, Tout ça, c’est-il pour manger? L’Assiette
au beurre, no. 4, 25 April 1901, 76, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection,
Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 243
Fig. 9-8. Hermann Vogel, VIII. Danse Macabre. L’Eau de vie, L’Assiette au
beurre, no. 16, 18 July 1901, n.p., photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana
University Library, Indianapolis.
244 Chapter Nine
Fig. 9-9. Fernand-Louis Gottlob, Le Snob charitable, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 20,
15 August 1901, 322-3, photoengraving of original lithograph. Rare Book
Collection, Indiana University Library, Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 245
Fig. 9-10. Caran d’Ache (Emmanuel Poiré), Les démarches, L’Assiette au beurre,
no. 40, 4 January 1902, 622, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana
University Library, Indianapolis.
246 Chapter Nine
Fig. 9-12. Kees van Dongen, Petite histoire…, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 30, 26
October 1901, cover, photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University
Library, Indianapolis.
248 Chapter Nine
Fig. 9-14. Kees van Dongen, L’Hiver étant venu…, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 30, 26
October 1901, n.p., photoengraving. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University
Library, Indianapolis.
250 Chapter Nine
Fig. 9-16. Félix-Edouard Vallotton, Bougeons pas…, L’Assiette au beurre, no. 48,
1 March 1902, 760, lithograph. Rare Book Collections, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
252 Chapter Nine
Fig. 9-17. Félix-Edouard Vallotton, Ah! mon gaillard! L’Assiette au beurre, no. 48,
1 March 1902, 775, lithograph. Rare Book Collection, Indiana University Library,
Indianapolis.
Roving Anarchist Flâneurs 253
Notes
1
On the operating protocols of the Assiette, see for example, the letter of the
editor, Samuel Schwarz, to the radical man of letters, Jehan Rictus, soliciting the
assistance of Rictus for captions to the illustrations of the print maker Ricardo
Florés, Bibliothèque Nationale de France (henceforward BNF), Manuscripts,
Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises (NAF), Papers of Jehan Rictus Correspondence,
NAF 24572, letter dated 9 April 1902.
2
Key details in the working career of Schwarz can be reconstructed from the
business papers and private contracts he filed with his chief Parisian notary, Maître
Adrien-Constant Marc. See, for examples, the early documents on Schwarz’s
publishing partnerships in Marc’s notarial registers, Archives Nationales (AN),
Paris, MC/ET/LXXII/1050, dossier dated 2 March 1882.
3
For details on Schwarz’s book printing and distribution business in Paris see
Elisabeth and Michel Dixmier, L’Assiette au Beurre: Révue satirique illustrée
1901-1912 (Paris: Maspero, 1974), see in particular 19-23.
4
More detail on Schwarz’s business ventures, material comforts, style of life, and
close friendships can be found in his elaborate wedding contract laying out his own
financial resources, the dowry gifts brought to the new household by his bride, the
immensely wealthy Fanny Laure Rothschild, and his social networks as visible in
the witnesses to and close participants in the ceremony. That document was
prepared by Maître Hippolyte Megret, chief notary for Schwarz’s father-in-law,
Jules Rothschild, the great Parisian editor/publisher of scientific books and learned
journals. See Megret’s notarial registers, AN Paris MC/ET/XXXI/1252, wedding
contract dated 26 February 1887. The senior witness to this event and probably
Schwarz’s closest friend was Paul Meurice one of the most noted editors of Victor
Hugo’s works, a playwright himself, and the originator of (or contributor to)
numerous Parisian newspapers and weekly journals.
5
This close connection between successful, experimental mass-marketing of books
and periodicals in Paris and the inception of new, weekly serials would continue
under Schwarz’s entrepreneurial successors in the editorship of the Assiette. André
de Joncières, who took over direction of the Assiette from Schwarz in 1904, had
previously founded a corporation, Les Publications modernes, to handle the
simultaneous production of at least nine other weekly or monthly publications
aimed at niche markets of the Paris reading public. See the Dixmiers, L’Assiette au
beurre, 28-31 and Joncière’s various business contracts in the registers of the Paris
Tribunal of Commerce, Archives Départementales de Paris (ADP) D31U3 888, no.
1805; D31U3 1019, no. 1744; and D31U3 1021, no. 54 for examples.
6
See the tipped-in letter to the readership, signed “The Editor,” appearing in the
edition of the Assiette for 16 May 1901. The original, official expression of the
journal’s ambition includes: “Nous désirons qu’au bout de l’année la collection de
“L’Assiette au beurre” constitue une véritable histoire artistique de tous les progrès
réalisés, tant par l’art de l’imprimeur que par celui du graveur et du papetier.”
7
“Est-il besoin d’ajouter que “L’Assiette au beurre” dépassant le point de vue
même de l’art se consacrera à la défense sociale? Nous sommes, en effet, arrivés à
254 Chapter Nine
enhanced by stressing this quotidian relationship with social spaces, giving way to
what can be called a sensory basis that was modified, altered and enhanced by the
effects of modernization and new forms of visual culture. Modern practices of
looking should therefore be sought out in all realms of public space…”. In my
opinion, this adroit analysis equally applies to the Assiette and to the progressive
empowerment of ordinary viewers as knowing citizens and sharp-eyed agents of
socio-policitcal reform as championed by the publication’s working artists and
editors. See Vanesa Rodriguez-Galindo, infra, and also her “Visuality and
Practices of Looking in Late Nineteenth-Century Madrid: Representations of the
Old and Modern City in the Illustrated Press,” in R. Beck, U. Krampl, and E.
Retaillaud-Bajac (eds), Les cinq sens de la ville. Du Moyen Age à nous jours
(Tours: Presses universitaires François-Rabelais, 2013), 227-42. Here at 230-1,
233, and 242.
15
See, for example, Jossot’s “Souvenirs de l’assiette” as cited above.
16
Although analysis here draws upon factual information supplied in the one and
only serious, prior published French history of the Assiette, my own work aims to
correct and surpass the aesthetic and cultural historical limitations of earlier, very
limited scholarship on the subject. See in particular: Elisabeth and Michel Dixmier,
L’Assiette au beurre, Revue satirique illustrée 1901-1912 (Paris: Maspero, 1974).
17
See the recent exhibition catalogue of Philippe Kaenel, Théophile-Alexander
Steinlen: l’oeil de la rue (Lausanne: Musée Cantonal des Beaux-Arts, Lausanne / 5
Continents Editions, 2008).
18
Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in Baudelaire: Selected
Writings on Art and Literature, trans. P.E. Charvet (London: Penguin Books,
1972). Here at 399 and 433. In the French original, Baudelaire extols his painter of
modern life, Constantin Guys (1805-92), as a “pur moraliste pittoresque.” For
Baudelaire, “la beauté particulière de ces images, c’est leur fécondité morale”
(Baudelaire, Critique d’art, ed. Claude Pichois (Paris: Gallimard, Folio Essais,
1992), 351 and 382.
19
Steinlen, “Représentation Gratuite,” in Assiette au Beurre, no. 15, 11 July 1901,
246.
20
On Gallo’s earlier exploits in the Italian print trades, see Vittorio Paliotti and
Paola Pallottino, La satira a Napoli nei giornali dal 1848 al 1951 (Naples:
Langella Editore, 1981), 9ff.
21
See, for example, Emile Bayard, La caricature et les caricaturists (Paris:
Librairie Delagrave, 1900), 281-97.
22
On van Dongen and his roving, pedestrian habits of illustration earning him ever
greater Parisian celebrity especially after his debut in the Assiette, see Anita
Hopmans, Van Dongen: Fauve, anarchiste et mondain (Paris: Production Paris-
Musées, 2011). Catalogue of the exposition of the same title, Musée d’Art
moderne de la Ville de Paris, 25 March-17 July 2011. See in particular “Le
‘Kropotkine’ du Bateau-Lavoir,” 16-31 and accompanying illustrations.
23
See ibid., 21.
24
Quite in keeping with these visual preoccupations, one of Vallotton’s most
prized collections of prints got the striking title “Paris Intense.”
CHAPTER TEN
OLIVER O’HANLON
Berlin, Paris and Rome; these great cities of Europe are the cities
traditionally associated with the flâneur. Conversely, the relatively small
Irish cities of Belfast, Galway, Cork and Dublin are not at all the usual
setting for the flâneur. With the possible exception of Leopold Bloom’s
odyssey through the streets of Dublin in James Joyce’s critically acclaimed
masterpiece, Ulysses, the words Ireland and flâneur are seldom mentioned
in the same breath. However, thanks to the French journalist Henri Béraud
(1885-1958), a new type of flâneur, the flâneur salarié, or paid flâneur has
become associated with Ireland. In September 1920, Béraud travelled to
several Irish cities to report on the increasing levels of violence during the
Irish War of Independence for the popular, mass selling French daily Le
Petit Parisien. This chapter examines both the form and content of
Béraud’s journalistic writings during his visit to Ireland with the aim of
seeing how Béraud’s flâneur salarié differs, if at all, from earlier
interpretations of the flâneur with particular emphasis on Walter Benjamin
and Charles Baudelaire.
The exact origin of the word flâneur is often disputed. However, in a
curious twist of fate, it would seem that when Béraud brought his flâneur
salarié to Ireland, he could have been bringing the flâneur back home. One
nineteenth-century French encyclopaedia entry suggests that the word
flâneur may have derived from the Irish word for libertine.2 Whatever its
origins, writers and critics have for centuries been fascinated by the
myriad possibilities and limitations associated with this urban archetype.
From Baudelaire’s “Painter of Modern Life,” to Poe’s man of the crowd,
Henri Béraud’s flâneur salarié Abroad in Ireland 257
death for the crime of intelligence avec l’ennemi (contact with the enemy).
His sentence was subsequently commuted to hard labour for life by
General de Gaulle.
Reportage, the form of journalism practiced by Béraud in Ireland, is
the perfect mode of expression for the flâneur. This descriptive form of
journalism came to France in the 1880s, having been developed in
America during the Civil War. For Béraud, reportage was simply a matter
of describing what he saw on his travels around the world. He described it
as “the story without invention, the true story, clear and still hot, that
prolongs life’s palpitations.”6 Béraud was writing during what has come to
be seen as a golden age for French journalism, when the reporter was
considered “la lorgnette du Monde” (the eye glass of the world).7 The
process of gathering reportage was, for Béraud, a matter of getting behind
the scenes to investigate the very essence of the story: “to gather reportage
is to look at society from the inside, get amongst the public, touch the
wounds of the humble, investigate the motives of the great ones, observe
from the wings the world’s tragedies and comedies, wander in the city and
see the merchants in their offices, the workers in their suburbs, the priests
in their presbyteries, the politicians in their corridors, the assassins before
the guillotine, the diplomats giddy with excitement over nothing and the
great ones in the misery of their glory.”8
The supreme author of reportage in France in Béraud’s time was the
journalist known as the grand reporter. This revolutionary journalistic
figure would typically have enjoyed a higher salary than their peers in the
newsroom, as they travelled around France or to more exotic locations in
France’s colonial outposts, exposing the shortcomings and injustices of
venerable state-run institutions such as prisons and hospitals. Other
popular destinations for the grand reporter at the beginning of the
twentieth century included revolutionary Asia, fragmenting Europe and
Soviet Russia. Their investigative articles, known as grand reportage,
were very popular amongst the newspaper reading public and were used as
a marketing tool to sell newspapers, just like the roman-feuilleton was
used to woo a previous generation of newspaper readers. The genre of
grand reportage has also been linked to detective and adventure novels, as
well as travel writing.9 Along with Béraud, this fabled group of journalists,
whose ranks included reporters such as Albert Londres, Joseph Kessel and
Andrée Viollis, trotted around the globe to report on significant
newsworthy events as they happened. The similarities between the grand
reporter and the traditional flâneur in the way in which they read and
negotiate their way around the city cannot be overstated.
Henri Béraud’s flâneur salarié Abroad in Ireland 259
devoid of people and even when he knocks on doors to talk to some of the
contacts that he was given in London, nobody answers. Instead, he says
that he must make do with examining the city, but isn’t that what a flâneur
is supposed to do in the first place? This gives us an indication as to
Béraud’s order of priorities during his time in Ireland. He is to seek out
sources first and then to “flâne” about the city. Béraud is staggered on
examining Dublin: could this really be the city where it is said abroad that
a civil war is about to break out, he wonders?
When some sense of normality resumes over the following days,
Béraud manages to interview the commander of British troops in Ireland.
He is very impressed by the physical appearance and presence of the tall
English general, Sir Nevil Macready, who stands before him in his office.
Béraud says that he is privileged to have the opportunity to meet with the
general, as he does not normally give interviews. During this very candid
meeting they discuss the ongoing attacks by the rebels on the army and the
inevitable reprisals carried out by the soldiers. Béraud is shown a map of
Ireland with flags marking British troop deployments on the island. The
young French journalist is taken into the confidence of the British general.
He is given a pass signed personally by the general to allow him free
access throughout Ireland. This will help him later on when he is stopped
by British troops in Galway. Ironically, he also receives a pass of sorts
(complete with Gaelic writing and symbols) from the Sinn Fein leaders
that he meets and that too ensures that he is afforded safe passage, when
he needs it, from the rebels. This issuing of passes merely serves to
underline for the newspaper reader the tense security situation that Béraud
finds himself in. Crucially, it also highlights the strict constraints placed
on his ability to negotiate his way around the city, or wander about at will,
again marking him out from the classic flâneur, who does not traditionally
face such obstacles.
In a further deviation from the classic flâneur who, almost always,
remains solitary and acts independently, Béraud must collaborate with
others if he is to perform his task of newsgathering and reporting. Like
many journalists before him, he becomes caught up in the middle of a
tangled symbiotic relationship with the various protagonists when he
arrives in Ireland. Each side must impress on the flâneur salarié the
legitimacy of their own struggle and he must engage with them to gain
information for his articles. For example, Béraud describes several
clandestine meetings in hushed tones with shadowy figures from the rebel
movement. He also details how the Sinn Fein Minister for Propaganda,
Desmond Fitzgerald, would come to his hotel room in Dublin city
practically every afternoon and entertain him and other foreign journalists
Henri Béraud’s flâneur salarié Abroad in Ireland 261
with cigarettes and several bottles of Irish stout.13 Another encounter with
the rebels affords Béraud an exciting newspaper headline. The Sinn Fein
leader, Arthur Griffith, invites Béraud to attend a bizarre gathering, the
unmasking of a British spy in a city hotel. “Comment j’ai fait partie d’un
tribunal sinn-feiner et vu démasquer un espion” (How I took part in a Sinn
Fein tribunal and saw a spy unmasked), reads the front page headline that
leaves the reader in no doubt as to who did what, where and when. This
first person narrative is typical of Béraud’s journalistic writings around
this time. A few short years after reporting from Ireland, Béraud covered
many more unfolding dramatic events in other European capitals. His
books, which sold in the hundreds of thousands, based on his newspaper
articles speak directly to the reader; Ce que j’ai vu à Rome, Ce que j’ai vu
à Moscou, Ce que j’ai vu à Berlin (What I Saw in Rome, …Moscow,
…Berlin). Therefore, Béraud’s flâneur salarié is implicated directly in the
action he describes, marking a clear distinction with the earlier flâneur
who merely strolls around, observing life without any specific objective in
mind, or intention to create any type of product based on his flânerie.
Béraud tells his readers that before leaving Dublin city, he had asked
the ministers in the provisional government to contact him if anything
comes up. He receives a telegram a few days later in Cork that simply says
“Come.”14 When he arrives at the train station in Dublin, he is met by a
stranger and told to go to Balbriggan. Balbriggan is a seaside town about
twenty miles from Dublin and it is the site of an attack by the temporary
police constables, or the Black and Tans. The carnage is considerable; he
reports that thirty-two houses were burned, along with the local factory
that employed four hundred people. Rather than finding this news story by
himself, Béraud’s flâneur is contacted by the Irish rebels and is then sent
to Balbriggan. This marks yet another distinction with the classic
stereotype whereby the ordinary flâneur would presumably find this scene
simply by walking past it, almost serendipitously, and would not have
needed to be informed about it.
From Dublin Béraud travelled north to Belfast. This prosperous and
modern city, where the seemingly unsinkable RMS Titanic was launched
in 1912, was at the time of Béraud’s visit the most industrialised city on
the island of Ireland. The Harland and Wolff shipyard, where the ill-fated
ship was built, employed 14,000 people in 1914.15 Belfast’s population
had grown steadily to keep up with the demand for workers for the
thriving shipbuilding, textiles and ropeworks industries. It had even
outgrown Dublin, until Dublin expanded its borders. When Béraud visited
the city in 1920, sectarian tensions that had been simmering in the
background for some time were beginning to spill over into the streets.
262 Chapter Ten
The unprecedented levels of violence led one historian to say that during
this period, Ulster was plunged “into the most terrible period of violence
the province had experienced since the eighteenth century.”16 Béraud’s
articles talk of the violence he witnessed, making flânerie a dangerous
pastime, as well as the perceived differences between the north and south
of the island. Even though Ireland was not actually partitioned at the time,
Béraud talks as if it were. He picks out the distinctions between the north
and the south that are immediately evident to the outsider’s eye.
Béraud outlines for his readers the quintessential differences, as he sees
them, between the north and the south of Ireland. When a foreigner asks to
meet the most eminent citizens in the south, they are brought to see the
poets. In Ulster, the same foreigner will be brought to see the merchants.
Put simply he says, “here, the business men, there the intellectuals,” or
“here, they make their fortune; there, they believe in miracles.”17 The other
big difference he notices is the lifestyle differences between the two parts
of the island. According to Béraud, the disparity becomes even more
pronounced when one observes the private lives of these two countries, as
he calls them. He makes the distinction between an Irish club and an
Ulster club. In Dublin, they are usually in small cosy rooms, with
armchairs to sit down. You would typically find old prints or paintings
hanging up and bookcases lining the walls. It seems to be a place designed
to encourage the exchange of ideas and the discussion of issues. In Belfast
by contrast, where business seems to be the sole motivation, the clubs are
merely an extension of the stock exchange. One cannot sit down on the
shiny heavy wooden furniture, that is not how deals are done, he says.
Travelling south west from Belfast, Galway was Béraud’s next port of
call. This ancient city, washed by the Atlantic Ocean, is where the most
sinister news stories emanate from, Béraud tells his readers. It is very
difficult, he says, for him to describe accurately the nature of the
revolution in Galway. It is both localised and general all at the same time.
For example, he says that when one rushes to see some “action”, the
“action” has moved on to somewhere else.18 He is one of only two
passengers on the train that arrives in Galway at midnight. The curfew was
nine o’clock and when he steps onto the station platform, he is
immediately marched onto a waiting lorry by a “Black and Tan.” The
Black and Tans were a force of ten thousand strong veterans of the British
Army from the Great War who “became notorious for their violence and
lack of discipline, and especially for taking reprisals against known and
suspected revolutionaries.”19 He fears for his life, but when he produces
the pass that General Macready had given to him in Dublin, he is allowed
to go. This is probably the first time that a flâneur has ever needed a
Henri Béraud’s flâneur salarié Abroad in Ireland 263
special pass to make his way around a city. There is a deadly tension
present in the city and Béraud can hear gunfire outside his hotel all night,
not exactly ideal conditions for either flânerie or newsgathering.
In the morning, now that the fighting has ended, it is time for the
journalist to carry out his duty and he can at last admire the city, which he
likens to an old Spanish town. It is true that Béraud romanticises certain
aspects of life in Ireland, but he excels at this when describing life in
Galway. From the strange appearance of the city’s women folk, whose
Moorish-looking shawls frame their pure Castilian faces, to the
Mediterranean architecture all around him, he exoticises practically
everything he sees in the city. Béraud also mentions briefly that he
travelled to the Aran Islands off the coast of Galway, where he says the
lifestyle of the two thousand fishermen who live there hasn’t changed for
the last two thousand years. This pithy reference to a place that is both
bucolic and quintessentially Irish, yet also extremely isolated and rural, is
very apt. It is very much in keeping with the flâneur’s fetishisation of the
city and almost lack of interest in any aspect of the countryside or rural
life.
Throughout his articles and books based on his time in Ireland, Béraud
paints a very colourful picture of what he witnesses for his readers back in
France. The north of Ireland looks more like the north of Germany, and
the city’s houses are the colour of wine, the trams a savage scarlet and the
women, young and old alike, are enveloped in brilliant silks, he remarks.20
It is debatable whether an Irish person would recognise these vivid
descriptions of their home place. Béraud is always conscious when
describing Irish towns and cities to include what he sees as their French
equivalent, in order to help his readers visualise the landscape and
understand what is happening. For example, he equates Dublin with
Tourcoing, Belfast with Roubaix and Cork with Grenoble. Rather than
focus too intensely on marginal or peripheral figures, Béraud’s flâneur
salarié focuses instead on the key personalities of the story of Ireland.
Whilst Béraud does notice some of those on the margins, the barefoot
children and the beggars for example, he concentrates on the political and
military leaders, reporting almost word for word his conversations and
interviews with them.
The worlds of journalism and flânerie have often been linked. One of
the “fathers” of the flâneur, Walter Benjamin, maintained that “the social
base of flânerie is journalism.”21 Another flâneur theorist, the modernist
prose-poet Charles Baudelaire, started and ended his working life in
journalism. Much of Baudelaire’s poetry, including the celebrated
collection Les Fleurs du mal, appeared for the first time in the press before
264 Chapter Ten
salarié, it is both his raison d’être and his master, feeding his appetite for
news stories whilst also dictating where he goes and who he sees. The
flâneur has been likened to a plant that would be killed if kept in a
greenhouse; we are told that “the flâneur flourishes only in the open air.”25
For Baudelaire, the crowd is an essential component in the flâneur’s
ontological makeup. Writing about the flâneur in The Painter of Modern
Life, Baudelaire said that “the crowd is his element… His passion and his
profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the perfect flâneur,
for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the
heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of
the fugitive and the infinite.”26 Béraud’s flâneur must be in the crowd to
get a feeling for the mood of the people, but he must also be disciplined
enough not to be carried along by the crowd and lose his sense of
journalistic objectivity. Béraud’s flâneur should also be outside the crowd,
observing from the outside.
The twentieth-century Parisian history and culture specialist, Anna-
Louise Milne, sees the flâneur as “a solitary figure whose haughty gaze
resists the appeal of specific commodities, yet conveys a passionate desire
for the city, that is, a desire to consume the spectacle of the city as a
whole.”27 Béraud does indeed have a desire to consume the town or city he
visits, emanating from his basic need to file an article with his editor. But
solitary is not how to describe him. The very nature of his work means that
he must collaborate with others to gather information that will form the
basis of his next piece of work. He must make connections and develop a
network of contacts. When travelling around Ireland, he does so in the
company of other journalists. For instance, he talks about travelling from
Tullamore in the midlands to Galway in the west with the special
correspondent of Madrid’s El Sol newspaper, Ricardo Baëza.28 He also
travelled in the company of fellow French journalist, Joseph Kessel, the
special correspondent of La Liberté. Béraud’s flânerie around Ireland was
typical of a great number of foreign journalists who were sent to Ireland at
this time. Newspaper editors were extremely interested in the popular
uprising, the outcome of which might have grave implications for the
future of the British Empire and other major colonial powers around the
world.
As stated earlier, Béraud laid out a clear distinction of what the flâneur
salarié is and is not. His flânerie ends at the end of the news wires, he
said. When he invented the flâneur salarié, Béraud reinterpreted what it
means to be a flâneur. Being paid to be a flâneur may seem completely at
odds with earlier interpretations of this independently wealthy cultural
type who roamed the (continental European) city, looking for divertissement
266 Chapter Ten
arcades, but can instead be seen walking in smaller cities such as Dublin,
Belfast or Galway, or indeed any place where people gather.
Notes
1
Henri Béraud, Les Derniers Beaux Jours (Paris: Plon, 1953), 54.
2
Pierre Larousse, Grand Dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle, vol. 8 (Paris:
Administration du Grand Dictionnaire universel, 1872), 436.
3
Henri Béraud, Le Flâneur salarié (Paris: Les Editions de France, 1927).
4
Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, ed. Rolf Tiedemann, trans. Howard
Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge: Belknap Press, 2002), 804.
5
“M. Henri Béraud,” The Times, 25 October 1958, 10.
6
“le récit sans affabulation, le récit véridique, net, chaude encore, prolongeant les
palpitations de la vie” (Henri Béraud, Les Nouvelles littéraires, 2 August 1924).
7
Gaston Leroux, “Sur mon chemin,” Le Matin, 1 February 1901, 1.
8
“Faire du reportage, cela signifiait: regardez l’envers de la société, mêlez-vous
aux hommes, percez les mobiles des grands, touchez les plaies des humbles;
observez de la coulisse des tragédies du monde et ses comédies, errez dans les
villes de cristal ou l’on voit les négociants dans leurs bureaux, les ouvriers dans
leurs faubourgs, les prêtres dans leurs presbytères, les politiciens dans leurs
couloirs, les assassins devant la guillotine, les diplomates en proie au vertige du
néant et les grands hommes dans la misère de leur gloire” (Béraud, Les Derniers
Beaux Jours, 54).
9
Catharine Mee, “Journalism and travel writing: from grands reporters to global
tourism,” Studies in Travel Writing, 13 (2009), 305.
10
“j’étais, je suis toujours intensément curieux des hommes, de leurs façons d’agir
et de vivre, de leur condition, de leurs institutions, …et des drames de leurs
existences. Courir le globe, hanter paquebots et sleepings, voire naître les guerres
et finir les révolutions… Je voulais des aventures. J’allais être servi” (Béraud, Les
Derniers Beaux Jours, 54).
11
Ruth McManus, Dublin, 1910-1940: Shaping the City and Suburbs (Dublin:
Four Courts Press, 2002), 444.
12
Henri Béraud, “Un dimanche à Dublin: L’Émeute invisible,” Le Petit Parisien,
16 September 1920, 1.
13
Henri Béraud, “Souvenirs sur Desmond Fitzgerald qui vient d’être arrêté à
Dublin’, Le Petit Parisien, 14 February 1921, 1.
14
Henri Béraud, “Le Drame irlandais: Vision de Guerre Civile,” Le Petit Parisien,
28 September 1920, 1.
15
Stephen Royale, “The Growth and Decline of an Industrial City: Belfast from
1750,” in Irish Cities, ed. Howard B. Clarke (Dublin: Mercier, 1995), 33.
16
Jonathan Bardon, A History of Ulster (Belfast: The Blackstaff Press, 1994), 465.
17
“ici, les businessmen, là les intellectuels, ici l’on fait fortune; là-bas on croit au
miracle” (Henri Béraud, “L’Irréductible conflit entre l’Irlande et l’Ulster,” Le Petit
Parisien, 5 October 1920, 1).
268 Chapter Ten
18
Henri Béraud, “Sinn-Feiners et ‘Black and Tans’ dans Gallway la ville où on se
bat tous les jours,” Le Petit Parisien, 7 October 1920, 1.
19
David M. Leeson, The Black and Tans: British Police and Auxiliaries in the
Irish War of Independence, 1920-1921 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 1.
20
Henri Béraud, “L’Autre Irlande: Les heures tragiques de Belfast,” Le Petit
Parisien, 2 October 1920, 1.
21
Benjamin, The Arcades Project, 446.
22
Charles Baudelaire, ed. Alain Vaillant, Baudelaire journaliste: Articles et
chroniques (Paris: Flammarion, 2011), 9.
23
“ce passant infatigable, ce curieux que l’on rencontre partout où il se passe
quelque chose. Gardez-vous bien de le confondre avec l’écrivain en promenade ou
en croisière, auteur de ces relations de voyages que l’on écrit à loisir et que l’on
imprime pour la postérité. La flânerie de nos flâneurs s’arrête à l’extrémité du ‘fil
spécial’” (Béraud, Le Flâneur salarié, 15).
24
David Frisby, “The Flâneur in Social Theory,” in The Flâneur, ed. Keith Tester
(London: Routledge, 1994), 92.
25
Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, Paris as Revolution: Writing the Nineteenth-
century City (London: University of California Press, 1994), 85.
26
Charles Baudelaire, The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, trans. and ed.
Joanthan Mayne (London: Phaidon, 1995), 9.
27
Anna-Louise Milne, “From Third-Worldism to Fourth-World Flânerie? François
Maspero’s Recent Journeys,” French Studies, no. 60 (2006), 492.
28
Béraud, Les Derniers Beaux Jours, 64.
29
Benjamin, The Arcades Project, 453.
30
Anke Gleber, The Art of Taking a Walk: Flânerie, Literature and Film in
Weimar Culture (Chichester: Princeton University Press, 1999), 72.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KATHRIN YACAVONE
In 1927 Walter Benjamin made his first extended visit to Paris, a city that
played a key role in both his life and œuvre. He was travelling in the
company of his friend Franz Hessel, with whom he was in the process of
translating Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu into German.
This particular visit to the French capital together with this fellow German
writer and translator marks a pivotal moment in Benjamin’s nascent
engagement with the figure of the flâneur, as it was during this trip that
Benjamin and Hessel agreed to collaborate on an article on the Parisian
arcades, drafts of which now remain the earliest sketches of Benjamin’s
unfinished Arcades Project (Passagen-Werk). Together with his planned
book project on Baudelaire, known as the 1938 three-part article Charles
Baudelaire. A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism (Charles
Baudelaire. Ein Lyriker im Zeitalter des Hochkapitalismus), this
monumental attempt to establish a kind of archaeology of the nineteenth
century as an Ur-history of modernity is a canonical reference point for
any theoretical or historical discourse on this urban figure,1 since, in these
texts, the flâneur, or, more specifically, the Parisian flâneur, takes centre
stage. However, away from the Parisian context, Hessel provided another
significant impetus in Benjamin’s thinking on the flâneur, steering him
towards the German capital, and the city of his own and Benjamin’s
childhood, Berlin. It is in part through engaging with Hessel’s 1929 book
Strolling through Berlin (Spazieren in Berlin) that Benjamin first
considered the “flâneur abroad” in the context of turn-of-the-century
Berlin.
270 Chapter Eleven
While this article will mainly focus on the flâneur in Berlin, I shall
briefly discuss certain aspects of what may be called Benjamin’s “flâneur-
theory” according to, and in the wider context of, his writings on Paris;
especially the notion of the nineteenth-century flâneur as an anachronistic
figure, and the idea – closely linked to the architectural features of the
Parisian arcades – that the flâneur is a phenomenon of the threshold,
oscillating between inside and outside, past and present. I will then
compare and contrast the Parisian “archetype” with the Berlin flâneur, as
found in Benjamin’s creative engagement with this figure in the context of
turn-of-the-century Berlin (and mediated by Hessel), that is, with respect
to his Berlin Childhood around 1900 (Berliner Kindheit um
Neunzehnhundert), which is, at least in an English-speaking context, a
much less well-known variation of the Benjaminian flâneur.2 Although
this autobiographical text does not include theoretical reflections on the
flâneur per se, or indeed any explicit mention of the term, it does present a
flâneur-like figure, in the form of a wandering child. Finally, I hope to
show to what extent the two aforementioned aspects of the flâneur figure –
anachronism and threshold-phenomenon – are equally albeit differently at
play in Benjamin’s writings on Berlin. At the same time, it will become
clear how the Berlin Childhood around 1900 also entails and foregrounds
another dimension, or, more precisely, function3 of the flâneur – or
flânerie – one that is complexly related to memory and imagination on the
part of the child-flâneur, as the alter ego of the adult writer. The shift of
focus from the Parisian flâneur to the Berlin child-flâneur within
Benjamin’s œuvre, I suggest, marks the point at which the flâneur as an
observer of modern life gives way to mnemonic flânerie as a critical and
creative approach towards autobiographical writing, which in turn reveals
a profoundly redemptive dimension of the flâneur motif in Benjamin’s
œuvre as related to the attempted saving of that which is about to vanish or
has already disappeared.
attention to one short passage taken from his studies on Baudelaire, that is
his essay “On Some Motifs in Baudelaire” (“Über einige Motive bei
Baudelaire”) from 1938, which highlights some of the problems and
difficulties on Benjamin’s part in differentiating between the Parisian
flâneur, the London ‘man of the crowd’ and the idle observer of Berlin as
seen through the prism of French, American and German nineteenth-
century writers. He argues that:
Baudelaire was moved to equate [Poe’s] man of the crowd ... with the
flâneur. It is hard to accept this view. The man of the crowd is no flâneur.
In him, composure has given way to manic behaviour. He exemplifies,
rather, what had to become of the flâneur after the latter was deprived of
the milieu to which he belonged. If London ever provided it for him, it was
certainly not the setting described by Poe. In comparison, Baudelaire’s
Paris preserved some features that dated back to the old days. ... Arcades
where the flâneur would not be exposed to the sight of carriages ... were
enjoying undiminished popularity. ... He [the flâneur] is as much out of
place in an atmosphere of complete leisure [Privatisieren] as in the
feverish turmoil of the city. London has its man of the crowd. His
counterpart, as it were, is Nante, the boy who loiters on the street corner, a
popular figure in Berlin before the March Revolution of 1848. The Parisian
flâneur might be said to stand midway between them.4
Benjamin here celebrates the symbiosis of the flâneur and his urban
environment, of which the arcades represent the sheltered core. However,
given that the arcades as a key architectural feature of nineteenth-century
Paris were for the most part destroyed by the Haussmannisation under
Napoleon III (with its peak between 1853 and 1870), it would seem that
the flâneur as a socio-historical phenomenon dependent on the arcades
likewise came under threat. And it is fair to say that in Benjamin’s work,
even though there might not be a clear-cut definition of the flâneur, he
remains associated with the nineteenth century and hence is a
quintessentially anachronistic figure (which does not, however, exclude a
“return of the flâneur” in later times). Indeed, we shall see how the notion
of the threshold recurs in his writings on the Berlin flâneur, and also how
the flâneur – when he returns – remains an anachronistic figure that is seen
as suspicious in the context of early twentieth-century Berlin.10
Arcades and Loggias: Walter Benjamin’s Flâneur in Paris and Berlin 273
motives – the motives of the person who journeys into the past, rather than
to foreign parts” (ibid.).17
According to Benjamin, such “deeper motives” stem from one’s own
childhood; and although the autobiographical is de-emphasised or even
absent in Hessel’s text, Benjamin clearly foregrounds this aspect. He thus
continues in his review:
For Benjamin, the city – Berlin – initiates what he calls the “endless
spectacle of flânerie” (ibid.),19 which, as the quotation makes clear, is a
combination of the personal and the collective: the city evokes more than
one’s personal childhood memory and more than its own history. The
“ambiguous light” emphasises the equivocal nature of the flâneur’s
activity, his position on the threshold of past and present. This goes hand
in hand with the fact that flânerie in one’s childhood city is, paradoxically
perhaps, not necessarily pre-meditated, but also not arbitrary. Benjamin
contends that the native flâneur avoids the popular attractions, which he
leaves for the tourists, and instead follows the streets that prompt a
remembering of one’s own as well as a collective past in the signifiers of
the city. All this informs Benjamin’s opinion, as stated in his review, that
Hessel was a “great connoisseur of thresholds,”20 and the notion of the
threshold recurs in the Berlin Childhood around 1900, where it is related
to a characteristic of Berlin architecture, that is, the loggia. Thus, in
Benjamin’s review, the theme of childhood memory is paired with the
notion of the threshold, in a way similar to, yet also different from, this
conjunction with respect to the Parisian flâneur.
Another significant aspect of Benjamin’s Berlin flâneur is his
anachronistic activity of flânerie. The first chapter in Hessel’s book is
entitled The Suspect (Der Verdächtige) and Benjamin draws attention to
what he calls the “atmospheric resistance”21 of the German metropolis
which makes the Parisian brand of flânerie – one of philosophical strolling,
as Benjamin argues – difficult if not impossible. If the disappearance of
the Parisian arcades, the quintessential home of the flâneur, caused by the
city’s Haussmannisation, condemned him to being an anachronistic figure
in the nineteenth century, the Berlin of the early 1920s, with its speeding
up of the pace of life and other effects of modernisation made the flâneur-
figure utterly anachronistic, even suspicious. However, this anachronism
Arcades and Loggias: Walter Benjamin’s Flâneur in Paris and Berlin 275
Not to find one’s way around a city does not mean much. But to lose one’s
way in a city, as one loses one’s way in a forest, requires some schooling.
Street names must speak to the urban wanderer like the snapping of dry
twigs, and little streets in the heart of the city must reflect the times of day,
for him, as clearly as a mountain valley. This art I acquired rather late in
life (SW, III, 352).28
The flânerie Benjamin presents here is not the result of wandering around
the city because one has lost one’s way, since again, like Hessel,
Benjamin’s Berlin flâneur is a native of the city. Instead it is an art that
requires schooling, whereby the city itself appears to be the teacher; and
these seductive, luring and transformative aspects of the streets resonate
with surrealist thought. Indeed, the fact that Benjamin saw Hessel’s Berlin
flânerie as closely connected to surrealism is evident from his reference to
Hessel as the “Berlin peasant” (ibid.),29 in the Berlin Childhood, alluding
to Aragon’s Paris Peasant (Le Paysan de Paris), which was of great
importance for Benjamin’s project on the Parisian arcades. But, how
exactly does a city succeed in speaking to an urban stroller in these ways?
The answer appears to lie in the fact that the wanderer – Benjamin in this
case – spent his childhood and youth in this city and it therefore reveals
more than that which can be found on any map. Along these lines, the
function of the flâneur figure in the context of Benjamin’s Berlin
Childhood around 1900 is a kind of initiator for an exploration of
autobiographical clues, both imagined and real, remembered and present,
in the mirror of the metropolis. This aspect of the flâneur returns us to the
notion of the threshold: like the Parisian flâneur who is both in the midst
Arcades and Loggias: Walter Benjamin’s Flâneur in Paris and Berlin 277
For a long time, life deals with the still-tender memory of childhood like a
mother who lays her newborn on her breast without waking it. Nothing has
fortified my own memory so profoundly as gazing into courtyards, one of
whose dark loggias, shaded by blinds in the summer, was for me the cradle
in which the city laid its new citizen (SW, III, 345).30
with the flâneur figure in the Berlin Childhood prompts us not only to
think the flâneur outside of Paris, but also to productively enquire about
his wider function in the process of modernity – as both a collective and
historical process and a concrete and lived experience.
Notes
1
See, for example, Keith Tester’s introduction to his edited volume The Flâneur
(London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 1. See also the seminal essay by Susan
Buck-Morss, “The Flaneur, the Sandwichman and the Whore: The Politics of
Loitering,” New German Critique 39 (1986): 99-138.
2
In German-speaking scholarship on Benjamin in relation to urban literature and
the flâneur, the focus on Berlin is more common and relatively well-researched.
See, for example, Eckhardt Köhn, Strassenrausch. Flanerie und kleine Form.
Versuch zur Literaturgeschichte des Flaneurs von 1830 - 1933 (Berlin: Arsenal,
1989), 153-223; and the excellent study by Harald Neumeyer, Der Flaneur.
Konzeption der Moderne (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1999), 295-387.
3
Rather than normatively defining the flâneur, Neumeyer convincingly theorises
this figure as a “Funktionsträger,” i.e. a vehicle for different functions and
meanings (see ibid., 21).
4
Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, ed. Michael Jennings et al., 4 vols
(Cambridge, MA and London: Belknap/Harvard University Press, 1996-2003), vol.
4, 326. Hereafter, references inserted parenthetically into the text are to this
edition, abbreviated as SW, followed by volume and pager number. “Baudelaire hat
es gefallen, den Mann der Menge … mit dem Typus des Flaneurs gleichzusetzen.
Man wird ihm darin nicht folgen können. Der Mann der Menge ist kein Flaneur. In
ihm hat der gelassene Habitus einem manischen Platz gemacht. Darum ist eher an
ihm abzunehmen, was aus dem Flaneur werden mußte, wenn ihm die Umwelt, in
die er gehöhrt, genommen ward. Wurde sie ihm von London je gestellt, so gewiß
nicht von dem, das bei Poe beschrieben ist. An ihm gemessen, wahrt Baudelaires
Paris einige Züge aus guter alter Zeit. … Noch waren die Passagen beliebt, in
denen der Flaneur dem Anblick des Fuhrwerks enthoben war…. Wo das
Privatisieren den Ton angibt, ist für den Flaneur ebensowenig Platz wie im
fieberhaften Verkehr der City. London hat seinen Mann der Menge. Der
Eckensteher Nante, der in Berlin eine volkstümliche Figur des Vormärz war, steht
gewissermaßen Pendant zu ihm; der pariser Flaneur wäre das Mittelstück” (Walter
Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann
Schweppenhäuser, with the collaboration of Theodor W. Adorno and Gershom
Scholem, 7 vols (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1972-1989), vol. 1, 627-8). Hereafter,
German references are to this edition, abbreviated as GS, followed by volume and
page number.
5
“Die Unterschiede zwischen den beiden Texten lohnt sich vermerkt zu werden.
Poes Beobachter blickt durch das Fenster eines öffentlichen Lokals; der Vetter
dagegen ist in seinem Hauswesen installiert” (ibid., 628).
Arcades and Loggias: Walter Benjamin’s Flâneur in Paris and Berlin 279
6
See Neumeyer, Der Flaneur, 26.
7
Cf. ibid.
8
“Die Flanerie hätte sich zu ihrer Bedeutung schwerlich ohne die Passagen
entwickeln können. … Die Passagen sind ein Mittelding zwischen Straße und
Interieur” (GS, vol. 1, 538-9).
9
“[Die Straße] wird zur Wohnung für den Flaneur, der zwischen Häuserfronten so
wie der Bürger in seinen vier Wänden zuhause ist. Ihm sind die glänzenden
emaillierten Firmenschilder so gut wie im Salon dem Bürger ein Ölgemälde; …
Zeitungskioske sind seine Bibliotheken und die Caféterrassen Erker, von denen aus
er nach getaner Arbeit auf sein Hauswesen heruntersieht” (ibid., 539).
10
For an in-depth study of the idea of threshold in Benjamin’s work, see the
important study by Winfried Menninghaus, Schwellenkunde. Walter Benjamins
Passage des Mythos (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1986).
11
Eckhardt Köhn, “Walter Benjamin und Franz Hessel. Thesen zur Position des
‘aufgehobenen Ästhetizismus’,” in Global Benjamin: Internationaler Walter
Benjamin-Kongress, ed. Klaus Garber and Ludger Rehm (Munich: Fink, 1999),
776 (774-85).
12
Hessel’s text has not been translated into English, a fact that accounts, perhaps,
for the aforementioned scarcity of English-speaking scholarship on the question of
Benjamin’s Berlin flâneur and Hessel’s mediating role in this respect. For an
exception, see the article on the flâneur in Weimar Germany by Anke Gleber,
“Criticism or Consumption of Images? Franz Hessel and the Flâneur in Weimar
Culture,” Journal of Communication Inquiry, 31, no. 1 (1989): 80-93.
13
Hessel’s engagement with the flâneur, however, can be traced back to 1908, the
year of his first publication of novellas set in Munich. On this issue, see Helmut
Kiesel and Sandra Kluwe, “Großstadtliteratur: Franz Hessel, Walter Benjamin,
Alfred Döblin,” in Handbuch zur deutsch-jüdischen Literatur des 20.
Jahrhunderts, ed. Daniel Hoffman (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2002), 326 (323-62).
For more details on the relation between Hessel and Benjamin, specifically, see
ibid., 335.
14
However, in the earliest drafts for the Arcades Project from 1927, referred to in
the introduction, there is one paragraph on the Parisian flâneur, certain phrases of
which Benjamin reuses in his review of 1929 (see GS, vol. 5, 1052-1054).
15
“Lektüre der Straße” (Franz Hessel, Spazieren in Berlin (Berlin: Verlag für
Berlin-Brandenburg, 2011), 121). On the link between reading and flânerie in
Benjamin’s writings, see Michael Opitz, “Lesen und Flanieren. Über das Lesen
von Städten, vom Flanieren in Büchern,” in Aber ein Sturm weht vom Paradiese
her. Texte zu Walter Benjamin, ed. Michael Opitz and Erdmut Wizisla (Leipzig:
Reclam, 1992), 162-81.
16
“‘Spazieren in Berlin’ ist ein Echo von dem, was die Stadt dem Kinde von früh
auf erzählte” (GS, vol. 3, 194).
17
“Als Einheimischer zum Bilde einer Stadt zu kommen, erfordert andere, tiefere
Motive. Motive dessen, der ins Vergangene statt ins Ferne reist” (ibid.).
18
“Im Asphalt, über den er [der Flaneur] hingeht, wecken seine Schritte eine
erstaunliche Resonanz. Das Gaslicht, das auf das Pflaster herunterscheint, wirft ein
280 Chapter Eleven
zweideutiges Licht über diesen doppelten Boden. Die Stadt als mnemotechnischer
Behelf des einsam Spazierenden, sie ruft mehr herauf als dessen Kindheit und
Jugend, mehr als ihre eigene Geschichte” (ibid.).
19
“unabsehbare Schauspiel der Flanerie” (ibid.).
20
“[ein] große[r] Schwellenkundige[r]” (ibid., 197). This expression is omitted in
the English translation.
21
“atmosphärischen Widerstände” (ibid., 198).
22
See the discussion of Benjamin in Kiesel and Kluwe, “Großstadtliteratur,” 336-
48.
23
“endlosen Flanerien” (GS, vol. 6, 469).
24
“Führer” (ibid.).
25
I borrow this term from Lindner who describes the Berlin Childhood as a
“topography of childhood” versus the “topography of a century” mapped out in the
Arcades Project. See Burkhardt Lindner, “Das ‘Passagen-Werk,’ die ‘Berliner
Kindheit’ und die Archäologie des ‘Jüngstvergangenen,’” in Passagen. Walter
Benjamins Urgeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, ed. Norbert Bolz and
Bernd Witte (Munich: Fink, 1984), 28, 32 (27-48).
26
“Vorstellung, den Raum des Lebens – Bios – graphisch in einer Karte zu
gliedern” (GS, vol. 6, 466).
27
“heiligen Hain der Flanerie” (ibid., vol. 3, 195).
28
“Sich in einer Stadt nicht zurechtzufinden heißt nicht viel. In einer Stadt sich
aber zu verirren, wie man in einem Walde sich verirrt, braucht Schulung. Da
müssen Straßennamen zu dem Irrenden so sprechen wie das Knacken trockener
Reiser und kleine Straßen im Stadtinnern ihm die Tageszeiten so deutlich wie eine
Bergmulde widerspiegeln. Diese Kunst habe ich spät erlernt” (ibid., vol. 4, 237).
29
“Bauer von Berlin” (ibid., 238).
30
“Wie eine Mutter, die das Neugeborene an ihre Brust legt, ohne es zu wecken,
verfährt das Leben lange Zeit mit der noch zarten Erinnerung an die Kindheit.
Nichts kräftigte die meine inniger als der Blick in Höfe, von deren dunklen
Loggien eine, die im Sommer von Markisen beschattet wurde, für mich die Wiege
war, in die die Stadt den neuen Bürger legte” (ibid., 294).
31
“Der Takt der Stadtbahn und des Teppichklopfens wiegte mich da in Schlaf”
(ibid.).
CHAPTER TWELVE
KARLA HUEBNER
The flâneur has been a celebrated figure in visions of Paris for at least 150
years – certainly since Baudelaire defined him in “The Painter of Modern
Life” and perhaps even since Restif de la Bretonne’s Les Nuits de Paris.
He (or occasionally she) is usually seen as a particular type or set of types
of urban walker, and especially as a literary or artistic figure resident in
Paris. Scholars have questioned whether the flâneur could also be a dandy
or an idler, and whether flânerie must be a leisure, unpaid activity, but
most fundamentally the flâneur is a person who chooses to explore urban
space on foot, perhaps with a focus on landmarks and architecture,
consumer goods, or human activity. In the twentieth century, Walter
Benjamin struggled to further define and theorize the flâneur, but his
contemporaries, the surrealists, were the ones for whom the idea of the
flâneur took on particular significance, with André Breton’s Nadja and
Louis Aragon’s Le Paysan de Paris being perhaps the best-known
examples of Surrealist celebration of flânerie.1
What is not so well known is that flânerie was also of high importance
to the early Prague Surrealists, and that Parisian flânerie was not their sole
source for the practice. Long before they became Surrealists, Prague
avant-gardists VítČzslav Nezval (1900–1958) and JindĜich Štyrský (1899–
1942) followed the example of the Prague Symbolists and Decadents in
exploring the “city of a hundred spires.” Young men from the provinces,
both Nezval and Štyrský used their urban roamings to ignite the poetic
spark, whether that spark was primarily verbal (Nezval) or visual
(Štyrský). Among the results were their meditations on Prague’s Old
Jewish Cemetery, poems and novels of flânerie by Nezval, and many of
Štyrský’s photographs. This essay traces the development of Prague
flânerie, showing how these key Surrealists, and others of their generation,
followed in the metaphorical and even the literal footsteps of not just
282 Chapter Twelve
Baudelaire, Apollinaire, Breton, and Aragon, but also the likes of Neruda,
Karásek, and Leppin.
Angelo Ripellino, author of the itself (mentally) flâneurial study Magic
Prague, has suggested that the lineage of the literary Prague walker goes
back to Comenius (1592–1670) and his allegory The Labyrinth of the
World and the Paradise of the Heart.2 At its outset, the pilgrim’s guide
states: “I walk through the whole world, explore all corners, and inquire
into the words and deeds of every person. I see all that is revealed and spy
out and pursue all that is secret.”3 There is indeed a flâneurial quality to
this declaration. One might also posit a flâneurial impulse underlying
Antonín Langweil’s early nineteenth-century creation of a complete
cardboard model of Prague, a project which although reliant for its
footprint on existing cadastral surveys of the city nonetheless clearly
required Langweil to walk each street, carefully noting the details of every
building.4 Still, while Comenius’s pilgrim and his guide may be the
unlikely archetypal precursors to the many walkers of later Prague
literature,5 and while Langweil recorded the shape and appearance of the
city in minute three-dimensional detail, Prague flânerie can be more
concretely traced to Jan Neruda (1834–1891), who began his literary
career in 1860 (and, perhaps significantly, visited Paris in 1863). Neruda
was a journalist and author of short stories and poetry, who focused on life
in Prague and especially on the area known as Malá Strana or the
Kleinseite (Lesser Quarter). The Malá Strana described by Neruda was
home to the mostly ethnic German aristocracy’s baroque palaces, yet also
to Czech shopkeepers like Neruda’s father, a grocer.6 Neruda emphasized
naturalistic detail, and his 1877 collection Povídky malostranské (Tales of
Malá Strana) was particularly popular, while his earlier police scenes set a
precedent for younger writers like Ignát Herrmann (1854–1935), Karel L.
Kukla (1863–1930), and Egon Erwin Kisch.7
Neruda and his successors had an almost compulsive desire to
delineate spatial and historical detail, returning again and again to
particular districts, especially Malá Strana, the castle (Hradþany/
Hradschin), and the Jewish Ghetto. Their preoccupations can be linked on
the one hand to aspects of the city that Prague had in common with Paris,
and on the other hand to characteristics unique to Prague or at least to
Central Europe. Like Paris, late nineteenth-century Prague was a medieval
city in the process of rapid growth and industrialization. Its population had
swollen with job-seekers from the countryside, who became factory
workers, domestics, and prostitutes. Yet unlike Paris, nineteenth-century
Prague was a provincial rather than a national capital, and was home to
three main ethnic groups, the Czechs, Germans, and Jews. German had
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 283
been a major administrative and cultural language for over 200 years, but
with the rise of nationalism, Czech was in the process of being reborn as a
literary language, and by 1900, the city was heavily Czechified, though
still tri-ethnic at heart.8 As German-language writer Johannes Urzidil has
said, “Try to imagine a city which was not simply a national capital with a
national language, but a very metropolis indeed, thanks to its being
bilingual, to its variety of creeds and classes.” Urzidil further stressed that
“Knowledge of Prague’s character formed the ethos of its authors, whether
German or Czech Christian or Jew.”9
During the fin de siècle, Prague writers enlarged on Neruda’s
explorations, cultivating a mythology of Prague as mystic, alchemical, and
seductive, even as a city somehow fossilized after the 1620 Habsburg
victory at White Mountain.10 This mythic city was the now-vanished so-
called Old Prague, which became the target of urban renewal in 1887.11
Ripellino suggests that fin-de-siècle German poets in particular “set their
works in Baroque churches, the Golden Lane, Saint Vitus’, the hovels and
passageways of the Old Town, the crumbling shanties of New World
Street, the Jewish Cemetery, the black synagogues, the shacks and narrow,
crooked alleys of the Judenstadt, the sinister palaces and shadowy byways
of Malá Strana.”12 He proposes that German writers, rejected by the
Czechs, sensed the impending end of empire, and used Prague as an
“emblem of death throes and decay” – portraying the city as a demonic,
ghostly sorceress.13 Scott Spector argues that while this mysterious,
dangerous, and eroticized image was envisioned by Prague German
writers “from Meyrink to Kafka,” it was an image not shared by Czech
intellectuals. It is true that this was not the Czech nationalist image of the
city. However, while critic Arne Novák excoriated the Prague Germans for
repeatedly presenting an image of the city in which noble, mystical,
sybaritic Germans preyed upon sensual lower-class Czech women, many
Czech writers enthusiastically participated in the mythologization of the
city, and both Czechs and Germans often cast the city as a femme fatale.14
The Ghetto, a favourite locale among these writers, was the smallest
Prague district. It remained essentially medieval in appearance and
topography until the mid-nineteenth century, for although its wooden
houses repeatedly burned, they were repeatedly rebuilt. Filled with
tenements and alleys, it attracted artists like Jan MinaĜík (1862–1937),
who sought to record the changing city, as well as landscapist Antonín
Slavíþek and others.15 And while originally it was a true Jewish Ghetto, by
the late nineteeth century it was more of a disreputable yet tempting slum
known for its bars and prostitution.16 In fact, the old Jewish Cemetery was
once surrounded by bordellos, tanneries, executioners, outcasts, and dog
284 Chapter Twelve
catchers, and Prague writers detailed these with loving care, just as they
emphasized the layers of tombs piled atop one another.17 For example, in
JiĜí Karásek ze Lvovic’s late Decadent novel Ganymedes (1925), the
Englishman Adrian Morris walks the cemetery, seeking Rabbi Loew’s
grave; there, in the “already-demolished Ghetto,” he senses the “ancient
humiliation” and the “dirt and filth” of the “stifling” busy slum. “He
looked at the pebbles piled on the headstones, examined the various signs
and symbols that adorned the stones in the form of lions, fish, cocks,
hands, pots, grapes, and stars.” Morris begins to go to the cemetery daily.18
And when the Ghetto became one of the main targets of asanace, or urban
renewal that emphasized sanitation, the cemetery became one of the few
surviving landmarks.19
Just as many Parisians mourned Haussmanization, many Prague
writers objected to the demolition of the Ghetto and other old parts of the
city.20 Author Vilém Mrštík (1863–1912) wrote an important anti-urban-
renewal pamphlet, Bestia triumphans, in 1897;21 artist and writer Miloš
Jiránek (1875–1911) grew lyrical over Old Prague’s charms and decried
the changes;22 and in the poem “Stará Praha,” Jaroslav Vrchlický (1858–
1912), who defined himself as chodec (walker or flâneur),23 rhapsodized
about the city’s “old corners,” “old temples,” “narrow winding lanes,”
“mystical Ghetto,” and “old embankments,” and predicted for the walker a
“city ruined by the modern age”.24 In another poem, Vrchlický wrote “You
are like widows, you grey synagogues, / in tattered garments, ashes on
your head, / yet when the night comes to earth in a black tallis, / I see your
windows shine, all flame and porphyry.”25
Not surprisingly, during this period, the flâneur was often nocturnal or
crepuscular, at least in terms of artistic expression. The work of painter
Jakub Schikaneder (1855–1924), for example, emphasized the city in
evening and night. From the gloaming courtyard horror of Murder at home
(Vražda v domČ, 1890), which is considered something of a breakthrough
for the artist, his many dusky scenes ultimately included a significant
number set in the streets of Prague and its suburbs, with such titles as
Podskalí (Podskalí, 1900–1910), Evening Street (Ulice naveþer, 1906),
Winter Evening in Town (Zimní veþer ve mČstČ, 1900–1910), Prague
Nocturne (Pražské nokturno, 1900–1910), Old Prague Nocturne
(Staropražské nokturno, 1900–1910), and Tram in a Prague Street
(Tramvaj v pražské ulice, 1900–1910). Some of these include figures
walking or deep in contemplation; all give the impression of the roaming,
observant artist.26
Gustav Meyrink (1868–1932) often used the streets and alleys of
Prague as settings for his fiction, and the illustrator Hugo Steiner-Prag
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 285
(1880–1945) recalled how one summer night he and Meyrink had climbed
“the crumbling wall of the Invaliden Cemetery” on Hradþany, “on one of
our many expeditions through the nocturnal city....” Steiner-Prag fondly
recalled how “the old city, this unique and matchless Prague ... became the
fantastical background for [Meyrink’s] characters.”27 In the story “Dr
Cinderella’s Plants,” for example, the narrator recounts:
And so one night I was again dragged awake and forced to wander
aimlessly through the silent alleyways of the Kleinseite, just for the sake of
the impression that the antiquated houses make upon me.
This part of Prague is uncanny, like nowhere else in the world.
The bright light of day never reaches down here, nor yet is it ever quite
as dark as night.
A dim, gloomy illumination emanates from somewhere or other,
seeping down from the hradschin on to the roofs of the city below, like a
phosphorescent haze. You turn into a narrow lane, and see nothing: only a
deathly darkness, until suddenly a spectral ray of light stabs into your eyes
from a chink in a shutter, like a long, malevolent needle.
Then a house looms out of the fog—with decayed, drooping shoulders
it stares vacantly up into the night sky out of blank lights set into the
receding forehead of its sloping roof, like some animal wounded unto
death.28
Meyrink also took many details in his novel The Golem from his Prague
walks,29 and Steiner-Prag’s illustrations for the novel draw from the
illustrator’s own intimate familiarity with the city.30
Another fin-de-siècle German-language writer, Paul Leppin (1878–
1945), also emphasized nocturnal wanderings, and his novella Severin’s
Road into Darkness takes as one of its themes a kind of obsessive flânerie.
The story opens with an account of how Severin, a young office worker,
walked nights: “Not until the streetlights were lit would he go out. Only
during the long, scorching days of summer did he see the sun as he made
his way round the city; or on Sundays, when the whole day was his own
and his wanderings took him back to his brief student days.” Leppin goes
on to describe how Severin’s “wide-eyed gaze was drawn toward the city
where the people moved like shadows on a screen,” how he listened to the
sound of cars, trams, and voices “with a tense alertness, as if he had just
missed something special.” Most of all, Severin prefers “streets that were
hidden from the bustle of the city centre.”31 “He remembered that even by
day he often found himself walking round a long-familiar district as if it
were new to him.”32 Unusually, Severin generates a joy in flânerie in his
Czech lover Zdenka, teaching her “an ear for nuances of sound and distant
cries” as [s]he closed her eyes and let him lead her, learning to recognise
286 Chapter Twelve
the street she was in by the smell the stones and asphalt gave off ... he
opened her eyes to the monotonous beauty in the landscapes of the
working-class districts, to the awesome majesty of the Vyšehrad with its
massive stone portals and the memorial to St Wenceslas.” Zdenka “came
to love the Moldau, when the lights from the shore shimmered on the
water in the darkness, and the smell of tar on the suspension bridges.”
During their affair, Zdenka joins Severin in watching burghers drinking
beer in Malá Strana taverns, exploring St Vitus cathedral in Hradþany, and
“gradually came to understand the silent language of the city, with which
Severin was more familiar than she was, even though she was Czech.” She
comes to realize that the ethnic German Severin “had grown up with a
sense of the uncanny pervading [the city’s] blackened walls, its towers and
aristocratic town houses” and that “every time he went into its streets it
was with the feeling that some destiny awaited him.” The two explore the
city together until Severin tires of her and their walks wither into mere
promenades in the parks.33 After that, Zdenka’s life as flâneuse is no
longer mentioned. That winter, after the end of the affair, Severin happens
upon her by the tent of a waxworks show at the Advent fair in Old Town
Square.34 Then, tired of all his lovers, his wanderings shift from day and
evening to after midnight, with the city gaining “an unknown, covert
power over him ... dragging him ... into its dark womb.” He walks
“shivering ... past the sleeping houses, listening to the singing of revellers
on their way home or to the heavy tread of the policemen.” Now he sees
“how all things were changed by night, how they lived a second, different
life from their daytime existence” and “bare, ordinary squares” transform
“into melancholy landscapes, narrow streets into damp-walled castle
dungeons.” He ventures to distant working-class districts, sees remnants of
the Jewish quarter amidst the “encroaching modern buildings still swathed
in scaffolding.” He steps into “late-night taverns”, where the sounds of
“hoarse violins” and “the clack of billiard balls” accompany his bowl of
“flaming punch.”35 As Severin descends into an increasingly psychotic
state, he continues to roam the city, feeling that he and everyone he knows
is “doomed.” By the end of the novella, ready to commit murder, he
climbs the Castle Steps, passing “the black stone statues on the parapet”
and compares this “peepshow with respectable citizens going about their
business” to “the city he knew” whose “streets led one astray” and where
“ill fortune lurked on the thresholds.”36 Leppin’s account of the obsessive
Severin is emblematic of the decadent fin-de-siècle Prague flâneur.
The Czech-language decadent JiĜí Karásek ze Lvovic emphasized a
medievalist flânerie in his own characters’ often nocturnal walks. This is
particularly striking in his autobiographical Gotická duše (Gothic Soul,
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 287
1905), where the protagonist walks the city’s churches and cloisters:
“People passed him by, and he passed them by,” we are told near the
beginning.37 “It was night. He stood on Hradþany in front of the Barnabite
monastery. In the alley, through which deposed kings passed, there was a
dark rustling.”38 Likewise, in his Román Manfreda Macmillena (1907) the
dandy Manfred asks “Why do you walk there? What lures you there?” To
which the narrator replies: “I like to walk through Prague at night. I feel I
can catch every sigh of her soul.”39 He recounts: “Thus we went day after
day. Most often we wandered through the streets at dusk and by night,
when in the deceptive light of the moon the dimensions of all things
expand to grandiosity. From the embankment we watched the river
flowing through the city with a mournful, funereal solemnity, and looked
up at the bleak silhouette of the Castle, from which wafted the melancholy
of a ruin.”40
Of a later generation, but influenced by the fin-de-siècle writers, Franz
Kafka wrote minutely about his walks in his diaries. “Small cities also
have small places to stroll about in,” he noted.41 He observed people in
cafes, streets and squares, and in synagogues.42 Alert to modern
innovations, he wrote: “On the Josefsplatz a large touring car with a
family sitting crowded together drove by me. In the wake of the
automobile, with the smell of gas, a breath of Paris blew across my
face.”43 He noted a “Beautiful lonely walk over the Hradschin and the
Belvedere…”,44 and how “one pillar of the vault rising out of the Elizabeth
Bridge, lit on the inside by an electric light, looked ... like a factory
chimney, and the dark wedge of shadow stretching over it to the sky was
like ascending smoke.”45 Again and again he noted observations from his
walks around the city, yet the story “Description of a Struggle” was his
only specific literary reference to Prague topography. Much of his other
work, however, uses aspects of the city anonymously.
A German-language Jewish writer of the same generation but very
different temperament, literary journalist Egon Erwin Kisch (1885–1948),
called the Raging Reporter, began his career in 1905 as an apprentice at
the Prager Tagblatt, then moved to Bohemia, the second-largest German-
language paper in Prague. His speciality there was local reportage with an
emphasis on crime, which provided material for his local-colour sketches.
As Harold Segal observes: “There was no section of the city that he did
not come to know well, but his predilection was for the out-of-the-way
places, the narrow lanes and alleyways, the cheap pubs, wine cellars,
cafés, and raunchy cabarets” of his early sketches. These appeared
regularly in the Sunday feuilleton section, headed “Prager Streifzüge”
(Prague Rambles); and were collected in 1912 as Aus Prager Gassen und
288 Chapter Twelve
One day in April 1920 I arrived in Prague for the first time
At the station as sad as ashes huddled a dejected crowd
They were emigrants
And there I first saw the world I shall never understand
Midday was noisy but this was twilight and the station stretched far into
the suburbs.54
Over and over, in countless works, the prolific Nezval drew upon his
walks in the city. From the long poem “Edison”:
Nezval repeatedly emphasized the magic aspect of the city. His poem
“City of Spires” begins “Hundred-spired Prague / With the fingers of all
saints / With the fingers of perjury / With the fingers of fire and hail / With
the fingers of a musician.” It goes on to conjure “the fingers of
beggarwomen and the whole working class,” “the fingers of a mummy,”
“the fingers of church bells and an old pigeon loft,” “the fingers of
chimney-sweeps and of St Loretto.” It moves on to “the sunburnt fingers
290 Chapter Twelve
of ripening barley and the PetĜin Lookout Tower” and “the cut-off fingers
of rain and the Týn Church on the glove of nightfall” and ends “With the
fingers with which I am writing this poem.”56
His 1935 Paris wanderings, some of which were undertaken with
fellow Surrealist Toyen after the hospitalization of their companion Štyrský,
prompted him to write:
Nezval suggested: “In the Golden Lane in the Hradþany / time almost
seems to stand still / If you wish to live five hundred years / drop
everything take up alchemy.”61
During and after the Second World War, artists and writers in and
connected with the Surrealist-related Group 42 continued this fascination
with the poetic qualities of urban life. JiĜí KoláĜ’s (1914–2002) early
poetry, as in the collection Ódy a variace (1946) emphasizes close
observation of the city’s moods and times of day.62 Ripellino points out
that the night walker – noþní chodec – “becomes the protagonist of an
entire period in Czech art and letters”63 who is particularly memorable in
František Hudeþek’s (1909–1990) paintings, drawings, and prints of a
looming, faceless, yet ethereal night walker.64 Vladimír Holan’s (1905–
1980) První testament (1940), tells of a “vrátký kráþivec” (small unsteady
walker) during the Nazi occupation, who is not a dandy but a sad collector
of “verbal detritus.”65
Subjects from the city’s periphery fascinated Group 42. Ripellino
observes: “The poets and painters of Group 42 resolved to describe in
obsessive Surrealistic detail the most desolate aspects of the metropolis,
placing special emphasis on the sordid existence in the industrial slums
ringing the city where the houses are lost amid swamps and weeds.”66
Thus, artist František Gross (1909–1985) often painted the industrial
outskirts, in particular repeatedly painting the LibeĖ gas reservoir in the
1940s.67 Likewise, paintings by František Janoušek (1890–1943),
photography by Miroslav Hák (1911–1978) and photos by JiĜí Sever
(VojtČch ýech, 1904–1968), and poems by Ivan Blatný (1919–1990)
emphasize the periphery, the crumbling, the abandoned aspects of the
city.68 Thus, flânerie remained significant for certain Prague creative
figures, although ultimately Prague flânerie was seriously curtailed under
Communism, when surveillance of the intelligentsia was not uncommon.
To conclude, the Prague writers and artists limned here are but a few of
the most significant characters in the city’s rich history of flânerie. If we
allow some latitude for regional and chronological shifts in the nature and
meaning of flânerie, we can begin to ask what constitutes a flâneur in a
given period and place, as well as what a flâneur’s purpose (stated or
unstated) might be, and which spaces attract the flâneur. Some points to
ponder: first, there are multiple Czech terms for walkers, but although the
Czech language has adopted many French words (for example, garaž,
pasaž, montaž), “flâneur” is almost nonexistent, while chodec is frequently
used in contexts where one might expect “flâneur” (particularly in the
work of Nezval). Second, flânerie is usually considered a solitary practice,
but the Prague writers provide evidence that to some extent it could be
292 Chapter Twelve
practiced with a friend or lover. While it may be that Kafka’s walks with
friends, or the companionate walks described by Karásek or Steiner-Prag,
were more other-focused than strictly flâneurial – presumably the walkers’
attention was often on each other rather than on their surroundings –
Leppin’s description of Severin teaching Zdenka multi-sensory flâneurial
techniques is quite striking – especially given that Leppin’s portrayal of
women typically focuses on their sexuality. The possibility of flânerie à
deux should not be dismissed, especially when we consider the fact that
both French and Czech Surrealists often wandered in pairs.
Finally, Prague flâneurs were clearly aware of French flânerie –
Neruda spent time in Paris, and Baudelaire was much read by Czech
intellectuals—but the practice appears to have come very naturally to all
three major Prague ethnic groups (Czechs, Germans, Jews), which
suggests – not surprisingly – that flânerie developed among inhabitants of
both Paris and Prague at similar points in the cities’ histories. Prague
flânerie has a strong relationship to a fascination with local history and
geography, combined with a desire to record aspects of the city before or
shortly after its alteration. This passion for local history (“Pragensie”) has
spurred the production of numerous books over the past 150 years,
although not all such works relate to flânerie. Even the early Prague
Surrealists, who emphasized modernity, were drawn to aspects of the past,
particularly objects and places uncannily reminiscent of their own
childhoods. However, unlike many of the earlier Prague flâneurs, the first
Prague Surrealists were not antiquarians or preservationists; like their
Paris comrades, they sought “objective chance” and a “revolution of the
mind” that encompassed psychological, social, and political change. In
this, they were thwarted by historical circumstances far beyond their
control. Nonetheless, along with the Paris Surrealists they were
instrumental in developing a nineteenth-century mode of observant
strolling into a potentially transformative early twentieth-century practice.
Notes
1
My thanks to the Nottingham Institute for Research in Visual Culture and the
Urban Culture Network at the University of Nottingham for their support of the
conference The Flâneur Abroad, and to the conference participants for their
comments. Additional thanks go to David Cooper of the University of Illinois at
Urbana-Champaign, for his linguistic advice.
2
Angelo Maria Ripellino, Magic Prague, trans. David Newton Marinelli (Berkeley
& Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 38–41. Ripellino’s
unclassifiable love song to the city is a veritable—if labyrinthine—guide to literary
and artistic Prague up to 1968. Another useful English-language text for flâneur-
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 293
hunters is Alfred Thomas, Prague Palimpsest: Writing, Memory, and the City
(Chicago: University of Chicago, 2010).
3
Jan Amos Comenius, The Labyrinth of the World and the Paradise of the Heart,
trans. Howard Louthan (Paulist Press, 1998), 63. Comenius was exiled as a result
of the 1620 battle of White Mountain, when Habsburg domination of the Czech
lands commenced and the Counterreformation took hold there.
4
Langweil’s model is on permanent display at the Museum of the History of
Prague. It can also be explored online at http://www.langweil.cz/index_en.php.
5
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 38–41. Ripellino notes various terms for walkers,
including poutník (pilgrim), chodec (pedestrian), tulák (vagabond), kráþivec
(walker), kolemjdoucí (passerby), and svČdek (witness).
6
See Linda Marie Mayhew, “Eccentric Cities: Nikolai Gogol’s Saint Petersburg
and Jan Neruda’s Prague” (Ph.D. diss., Austin: University of Texas, 2005), 109;
also Thomas, Prague Palimpsest: Writing, Memory, and the City, 88.
7
See Ripellino, Magic Prague, 29. Neruda’s “Obrázky policejní,” part of Pražské
obrázky, can be found in Jan Neruda, Studie krátké a kratší (Prague: Topiþ, 1911).
Herrmann and Kukla wrote voluminously on Old Prague. See for example Ignát
Herrmann, PĜed padesáti lety: Drobné vzpomínky z minulosti, I, Sebrané spisy
(Prague: Topiþ, 1926) and Karel L. Kukla, Ze všech koutĤ Prahy: Rozmarné
obrázky z pražského života (Prague: Jos. R. Vilímek, 1894). On Kisch, see below.
8
For an overview of Prague history, see for example Peter Demetz, Prague in
Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City (New York: Hill and
Wang, 1997). Derek Sayer, The Coasts of Bohemia: A Czech History (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998) and Derek Sayer, Prague, Capital of the
Twentieth Century: A Surrealist History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 2013) are also useful in understanding these cultural complexities. On the
literary and cultural renewal of the Czech language, see Hugh LeCaine Agnew,
Origins of the Czech National Renascence, Pitt Series in Russian and East
European Studies No. 18 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1993).
9
Johannes Urzidil, The Leo Baeck Memorial Lecture 11: The Living Contribution
of Jewish Prague to Modern German Literature, trans. Michael Lebeck (New
York: Leo Baeck Institute, 1968), 8.
10
See Ripellino, Magic Prague, 160–1.
11
Countless Czech-language books discuss Old Prague. English-language
scholarship focuses primarily on the demolition of the Jewish Ghetto. See for
example Cathleen M. Giustino, Tearing Down Prague’s Jewish Town: Ghetto
Clearance and the Legacy of Middle-Class Ethnic Politics Around 1900 (East
European Monographs, 2003) and David Ira Snyder, “The Jewish Question and the
Modern Metropolis: Urban Renewal in Prague and Warsaw, 1885–1950” (Ph.D.
diss., Princeton: Princeton University, 2006).
12
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 28.
13
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 30–1.
14
See Scott Spector, Prague Territories: National Conflict and Cultural
Innovation in Franz Kafka’s Fin de Siècle (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2000), 6, 177, 243.
294 Chapter Twelve
15
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 110–11.
16
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 124–25; Ignát Herrmann, PĜed padesáti lety: Drobné
vzpomínky z minulosti, IV, Sebrané spisy (Prague: Topiþ, 1938), 131–32.
17
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 114–16.
18
“Adrian got lost in the old Jewish cemetery. He recalled the wise rabbi Jehuda
Lev, ... about whom he had read much, and went to look at his grave. He walked
among the many tombstones, stopped at the larger sarcofagi, and as he knew
Hebrew, interpreted the inscriptions.” “Adrian zabloudil na starý židovský hĜbitov.
VzpomnČl moudrého rabbiho Jehuda Lva, ... o nČmž tolik þítal, a šel se podívati na
jeho hrob. Procházel se mezi spoustou náhrobních kamenĤ, zastavoval se u vČtších
sarkofágĤv, a ježto znal hebrejsky, Ĝešíl nápisy.” “bezdČky zde cítil ponížení
starobylého, ted’ již zboĜeného ghetta, neþistotu a kal jeho otluþených budov, jeho
klikatých ulic a uliþek, plných hemživého obyvatelstva, jak vyšlo ze svých
dusných a ošklivých pelechĤ, ve stínu synagog, kam za pronásledování utíkaly
židovské rodiny...” “Díval se na kaménky, položené na náhrobky, Ĝešil rĤzné
odznaky a symboly, zdobící kameny, podoby lvĤ, ryb, kohoutĤ, rukou, konvic,
hroznĤ a hvČzd” (JiĜí Karásek ze Lvovic, Ganymedes (Prague: Aventinum,
1925), 42–3).
19
On the asanace, see Hana Volavková, Zmizelá Praha: 3. Židovské mČsto Pražské
(Praha—Litomyšl: Paseka, 2002), 66–79; Giustino, Tearing Down Prague’s
Jewish Town: Ghetto Clearance and the Legacy of Middle-Class Ethnic Politics
Around 1900; Snyder, “The Jewish Question and the Modern Metropolis.”
20
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 124–5; “ŽbluĖk. Obrázek života v noþní krþme” in
Kukla, Ze všech koutĤ Prahy: Rozmarné obrázky z pražského života, 165.
21
See Vilém Mrštík, Bestia Triumphans (Prague, 1897).
22
Miloš Jiránek, Dojmy a potulky (Prague: SVU Mánes, 1908), 69–73.
23
See Vrchlický’s cycle Pražské obrázky (Prague pictures): “Slavík v mČstČ,” “U
SemináĜské zahrady,” “Motiv z Hradþan,” in Mythy. Selské balady. Má vlast
(Prague, 1955), 413–14, 424, 426.
24
“stará zákoutí, staré chramy,” “úzké uliþky kĜivolaké,” “ghetto mystické,” “stará
nábĜeží,” “kríþi mČstem zkaženým novou dobou,” Vrchlický, “Stará Praha” from
cycle Pražské obrázky in Má vlast (1903) or in Mythy Selske balady Ma vlast
(1955).
25
Vrchlicky, “Staré synagogy” from cycle Nové hebrejské melodie in Západy
1907, translated in Ripellino, Magic Prague, 125.
26
The 2012 Schikaneder retrospective in Prague provided a fine overview of the
artist’s work and resulted in two useful catalogs: the shorter, English-language
Veronika Hulíková, Jakub Schikaneder, trans. Gita Zbavitelová (Prague: National
Gallery, 2012), and the in-depth, Czech-language Veronika Hulíková (ed.), Jakub
Schikaneder (1855–1924) (Prague: Národní galerie, 2012).
27
Hugo Steiner-Prag, “Hugo Steiner-Prag to Gustav Meyrink,” in The Golem,
trans. Isabel Cole, Gustav Meyrink (Vitalis, 2007), 267, 269.
28
Gustav Meyrink, “Dr Cinderella’s Plants,” in The Dedalus/Ariadne Book of
Austrian Fantasy: The Meyrink Years 1890–1930, ed. and trans. Mike Mitchell,
trans. Maurice Raraty (Sawtry, Cambs: Dedalus, 1992), 268–9.
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 295
29
E. F. Bleiler, “Introduction,” in The Golem/The Man Who Was Born Again: Two
German Supernatural Novels, trans. Madge Pemberton, Prince Mirski, and
Thomas Moult, by Gustav Meyrink and Paul Busson (New York: Dover,
1976), xii. A superior translation of this novel is: Gustav Meyrink, The Golem,
trans. Isabel Cole (Vitalis, 2007).
30
According to the Leo Baeck Institute’s finding aid to Steiner-Prag’s papers, the
artist not only made many drawings and lithographs of Prague locations, but was
preparing a book on the Ghetto at the time of his death. (Guide to the Papers of
Hugo Steiner-Prag (1880–1945), 1899–1993,
http://findingaids.cjh.org/?pID=121512, accessed 27 July 2012).
31
Severin’s Road into Darkness, in Paul Leppin, The Road to Darkness, trans.
Mike Mitchell (Sawtry, Cambs: Dedalus/Ariadne, 1997), 67.
32
Severin, in Leppin, The Road to Darkness, 68.
33
Severin, in Leppin, The Road to Darkness, 78–80.
34
Severin, in Leppin, The Road to Darkness, 90–1.
35
Severin, in Leppin, The Road to Darkness, 94–6.
36
Severin, in Leppin, The Road to Darkness, 142.
37
“Lidé chodili mimo nČj, a on chodil mimo lidi” (JiĜí Karásek ze Lvovic, Gotická
duše, reprint, 1905 (Prague: Aventinum, 1921), 12).
38
“Byla noc. Stál na Hradþanech pĜed klášterem barnabitek. V aleji, jež byla
prochazištČm sesazených králĤ, temnČ šumČlo” (Karásek ze Lvovic, Gotická
duše, 29).
39
“Proþ tam chodíte? Co vás tam láká?” and “Chodím Prahou rád za nocí: tu jako
bych postĜehoval každý oddech její duše” (JiĜí Karásek ze Lvovic, Román Manfred
Macmillena (Prague: Aventinum, 1924), 22–3).
40
“Vycházeli jsme tak den co den. NejþastnČji jsme bloudili ulicemi za soumraku a
za noci, kdy v klamném mČsíþním svČtle rozmČry všech vČcí rostou do
grandiosnosti. S nábĜeží jsme se dívali na Ĝeku, protékající mČstem s truchlivou,
smuteþní vážností, a na pochmurnou siluetu hradu, z nČhož vanula melancholie
jako ze zĜíceniny” (Karásek ze Lvovic, Román Manfred Macmillena, 98).
41
Franz Kafka, Max Brod, ed., The Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910–1913, trans.
Joseph Kresh (New York: Schocken Books, 1949), 46.
42
Kafka and Brod, The Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910–1913, 62, 68, 72.
43
Kafka and Brod, The Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910–1913, 76.
44
Kafka and Brod, The Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910–1913, 170.
45
Kafka and Brod, The Diaries of Franz Kafka 1910–1913, 178.
46
Harold B. Segal, “Introduction,” in Egon Erwin Kisch, The Raging Reporter: A
Bio-Anthology (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 1997), 11, 12, 14;
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 29–30.
47
Guillaume Apollinaire, “Le Passant de Prague,” in Apollinaire, œuvres en prose,
ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1977), 83–93; selection from “Zone”
translated in Derek Sayer, “Surrealities,” in Central European Avant-Gardes:
Exchange and Transformation, 1910–1930, ed. Timothy O. Benson (Los Angeles:
Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2002), 92.
48
Thomas, Prague Palimpsest: Writing, Memory, and the City, 115.
296 Chapter Twelve
49
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 116. ýapek’s essays on the “humblest art” were
published as NejskromnČjší umČní in 1920. For a detailed study of his ideas on this
topic, see Alena Pomajzlová, Josef ýapek: NejskromnČjší umČní/The Humblest Art,
trans. Branislava Kuburoviü (Prague: Obecní dĤm v Praze, 2003).
50
For more on DevČtsil, see Matthew S. Witkovsky, “Avant-Garde and Center:
DevČtsil and Czech Culture, 1918–1938” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania,
History of Art, 2002); Esther Levinger, “Czech Avant-Garde Art: Poetry for the
Five Senses,” Art Bulletin, 81: 3 (September 1999): 513–32; Rostislav Švácha, et
al., DevČtsil: Czech Avant-Garde Art, Architecture and Design of the 1920s and
30s (Oxford: Museum of Modern Art, 1990).
51
“Prayer on the Sidewalk,” in Jaroslav Seifert, The Early Poetry of Jaroslav
Seifert, trans. Dana Loewy (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press,
1997), 12–14.
52
“Electric Lyre,” in Seifert, The Early Poetry of Jaroslav Seifert, 54.
53
“Paris,” in Seifert, The Early Poetry of Jaroslav Seifert, 58 (originally published
in Revoluþní sborník DevČtsil, 1922).
54
Thomas, Prague Palimpsest: Writing, Memory, and the City, 116–17; VitČzslav
Nezval, Antonín Bartušek, and Josef Hanzlík, Three Czech Poets, trans. Ewald
Osers and George Theiner (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1971), 28.
55
VítČzslav Nezval, Edison, trans. Ewald Osers (DvoĜák, 2003), 9.
56
VítČzslav Nezval, Prague with Fingers of Rain, trans. Ewald Osers (Highgreen,
Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books, 2009), 17–18. A different translation,
entitled “City of Towers,” can be found in VítČzslav Nezval, Antilyrik & Other
Poems, trans. Jerome Rothenberg and Milos Sovak (Copenhagen and Los Angeles:
Green Integer Books, 2001).
57
”Shirt” (1935), in Nezval, Antilyrik & Other Poems, 23–7.
58
Translated in JiĜí Všeteþka and VítČzslav Nezval, Pražský Chodec/A Prague
Flâneur/Le Passant de Prague/Der Prager Spaziergänger/ (Prague: Martin
Dostoupil, c. 2011), passim. This book offers selected passages in five languages;
no full English translation has yet been published.
59
“Ale mým oþím nutno stále házeti potravu” (quoted in Josef Vojvodík,
“Oralizace a olfaktorizace oka. K psychologii þichového vnímání v díle JindĜicha
Štyrského,” UmČní 48, no. 3 (2000): 137).
60
Štyrský in ýeské slovo, 30 January 1935, quoted in Karel Srp, et al., New
Formations: Czech Avant-Garde Art and Modern Glass from the Roy and Mary
Cullen Collection (Houston: The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, 2011), 149.
Many of Štyrský’s photographs are reproduced in Karel Srp, JindĜich Štyrský,
trans. Derek Paton (Prague: Torst with The Museum of Decorative Arts, Prague,
2001).
61
“U alchymistĤ,” in VítČzslav Nezval, Zpáteþní lístek (Prague: Fr. Borovy,
1933), 25; translated in Ripellino, Magic Prague, 92.
62
Jan Grossman, “Horeþná bdČlost JiĜího KoláĜe” in JiĜí KoláĜ, Náhodný svČdek:
Výbor z díla: Verše z let 1937–1947 (Prague: Mladá fronta, 1964), 186–7; “Ráno,”
in JiĜí KoláĜ, Ódy a variace (Prague: Dílo pĜátel umČní a knihy, 1946), 47; also
“Litanie,” 15–16 and “SvČdek,” 31.
Prague Flânerie from Neruda to Nezval 297
63
Angelo Maria Ripellino, Magic Prague, trans. David Newton Marinelli
(Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 58.
64
Marie Klimešová, VČci umČní, vČci doby: Skupina 42 (Pilsen: Arbor vitae and
Západoþeká galerie v Plzni, 2011), 49–51.
65
Vladimír Holan, První testament (Prague: Fr. Borový, 1940), 9–10.
66
Ripellino, Magic Prague, 58.
67
See František Gross, František Gross (Prague: Obelisk, 1969).
68
On Hák, see Klimešová, VČci umČní, vČci doby: Skupina 42, 72–7. See Ludvík
Souþek, JiĜí Sever (Prague: Odeon, 1968); Ripellino also suggests the following
poems by Ivan Blatný: “Tabulky,” Kytice, 6 (1947); “Den,” Blok, 1 (1947); “Hra,”
Kritický mČsíþník, 1947, 385–90; and “Podzimní den” in Tento veþer, Prague 1945,
28.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALEXANDER MCCABE
I stand a whole head above the two columns [of the moving crowd]. I see
hats, a sea of hats. Most of them are black and hard. Now and then you see
one fly off at the end of an arm, revealing the soft gleam of a skull. Then
after a few moments of clumsy flight, it settles again.4
To be away from home and yet to feel at home everywhere; to see the
world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain unseen of the
world … the lover of universal life enters into the crowd as though into an
immense reservoir of electricity … It is a self insatiably athirst for the
non-self, who, at each moment, renders and expresses it in more living
images than life itself, ever unstable and fleeting.10
Was it they, too, who brought me up this hill? I can’t remember how I
came here. Up the Dautry stairs, no doubt. Did I really climb the one
hundred and ten steps, one by one? What is perhaps even more difficult to
imagine, is that I am going to go down them again shortly. … I look at the
grey glimmering of Bouville at my feet. … Those little figures that I can
make out on Boulibet Street, in an hour I will be one of them. … they think
it is their town, “a nice respectable town.” They’re not afraid, they feel at
home. They have never seen anything but the tamed water that runs out of
their taps.20
The “tamed” water of the taps suggests the inhabitants’ blissful ignorance
of the abyss of the sea at their doorstep, while they go about their petty
lives, in contrast to Roquentin’s acute awareness of it from his hill-top
vantage point. Having decided to leave Bouville, he has been transported
unawares to the top of the hill, to a totalising panorama of the peripheral,
provincial urbanity he has now transcended, and with it, his existentialist
flânerie: hence his confusion on suddenly finding himself at the summit
unable to account for the process of climbing of the stairs that his previous
phenomenological mode would have prioritised. 21 The end of his
flâneur’s existence and his overcoming of the coastal landscape is thus
directly linked to his return to Paris and potential reintegration with the
collective.
In La Chute, Clamence has no such hope of return from the brink of
existence to the geographical centre.22 He reminisces about the beauty of
Paris, and, still more rapturously of a panorama observed from Mount
Etna. Significantly, he lyricizes about this in terms of high altitude,
panoramic vision and clarity of light, all antithetical to his experience
roving the streets of Amsterdam. In the middle of the Mediterranean, Etna
is also an image of centrality, of the epicentre of European civilisation and
a volcanic portal to the Earth’s core. However, Clamence opts for life in
exile to a cold, wet, city below sea-level, because in being closer to the
periphery one is seemingly closer to nothingness. Beholding the grey
The Flâneur in the Fog 303
abyss of sea and fog he comments: “You understand then why I can say
that the centre of things is here, although we are situated at the extremity
of the continent.”23
Like Roquentin’s, Clamence’s narrative also culminates in a
psychological transcendence of the peopled landscape he had roamed. In
his case this takes the form of feverish flight rather than up-hill
transportation. His psychological transcendence relates thus to a
physiological rise in body temperature rather than a topographical rise in
altitude. The increased temperature difference between his body and the
landscape is then further enhanced by the beginning of snowfall, at which
point the protagonist-narrator literally reaches euphoria, achieving the
same detached and homogenising view of the rest of the urban population
in opposition to the subject that Roquentin had achieved on the hilltop. In
semi-delirium he proclaims:
I have again found a summit, that I am alone to climb, and from whence I
can judge everyone … I am going out, I am going, swept away along the
canals by my stride, … On the Damark, the first tram rings its bell in the
humid air, ringing the awakening call to life at the extremity of Europe
where, at the same moment, hundreds of millions of men, my subjects,
wrench themselves from bed, with bitter mouths, to make their way to
joyless labour.24
The contrast between this image and that of the Baudelairean flâneur is
stark and emblematic. The feverish, bed-ridden nightwalker projects
himself between black canals in an empty city on the brink of existence,
observing a physically absent crowd of workers. His evoked crowd has
expanded exponentially to encompass the totality of humanity, now utterly
homogenised by a dominating gaze that has reached the extremity of
detachment from the collective insofar as it now literally no longer sees it.
The French existentialist novel thus represents a sinister extrapolation
of the nineteenth-century flâneur’s mode of being. His habitual subjectivist
wanderings through peopled urban landscapes is a direct inheritance, but
his radical estrangement from the collective, inherent to a
non-participatory gaze, has rendered the social interactions he witnesses
arbitrary to the point of the absurd. The poetics of the crowd and of the
city have given way to stark surface description of nauseating sensory
input in the case of Sartre’s text, detached, ironic judgement in the case of
Camus’s, and a shift in gaze from cityscape to seascape; from the social to
the abyss. A further inversion is inherent in that the nineteenth-century
flâneur’s self-conception as an invisible, dissolved subject in the crowd is
replaced by pretentions of transcendence on the part of the most fallen of
304 Chapter Thirteen
Notes
1
While neither Camus nor des Forêts would have willingly accepted the term
existentialist in qualification of their thought or fictional output, rejecting
association with Sartrian philosophy, I have opted for the term ‘existentialist’ in
relation to all three of these novels insofar as both Camus and des Forêts engage,
however parodically, in the literary tradition initiated, in the French context, with
Sartre’s La Nausée.
2
“C’est le seul moyen de posséder un peu une ville: y avoir traîné ses ennuis
personnels” (J.-P. Sartre, “La Reine Albemarle ou le dernier touriste,” in
Fragments, ed. Arlette Elkaïm Sartre (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 66. Translations
provided throughout are my own.
3
Fredric Jameson, Sartre: the origins of a style (New York: Columbia Univ Press,
1984), 185.
4
“Je domine les deux colonnes de toute la tête et je vois des chapeaux, une mer de
chapeaux. La plupart sont noirs et durs. De temps à autre, on en voit un qui
s’envole au bout d’un bras et découvre le tendre miroitement d’un crâne; puis
après quelques instants, d’un vol lourd, il se pose” (J.-P. Sartre, Œuvres
romanesques (Paris: Gallimard, 1981), 54.
5
Elizabeth Rechniewski, “When and why did the flâneur die? A modern detective
story,” Literature and Aesthetics, 17, no. 2 (2007): 100.
6
G. Hartmann, Criticism in the Wilderness cited in Sven Birkerts, “Walter
Benjamin, Flâneur: A Flânerie,” The Iowa Review 13, no. 3/4 (1982), 166.
7
“une anti-poétique de la ville” (Gianfranco Rubino, “De Roquentin au dernier
touriste: poétique(s) et anti-poétique(s) de la ville,” Cahiers de l'Association
internationale des études françaises, no. 50 (1998), 277).
8
Sartre, Œuvres romanesques, 198. Roquentin’s blindness to his body-for-others
(“le corps-vu” as opposed to “le corps existé,” in Sartre’s technical writings) is at
the heart of his experience of Nausea: in Being and Nothingness, Nausea is the
term ascribed to the experience of the body (le corps existé) being revealed to
The Flâneur in the Fog 305
20
“Est-ce que ce sont elles, aussi, qui m’ont conduit sur cette colline? Je ne me
rappelle plus comment je suis venu. Par l’escalier Dautry, sans doute: est-ce que
j’ai gravi vraiment une à une ses cent dix marches? Ce qui est peut-être encore plus
difficile à imaginer, c’est que, tout à l’heure, je vais les redescendre. … Je regarde,
à mes pieds, les scintillements gris de Bouville. … Ces petits bonshommes que je
distingue dans la rue Boulibet, dans une heure je serai l’un d’eux. … ils pense que
c’est leur ville, une ‘belle cité bourgeoise.’ Ils n’ont pas peur, ils se sentent chez
eux. Ils n’ont jamais vu que l’eau apprivoisée qui coule des robinets …” (Sartre,
Œuvres romanesques, 186).
21
Des Forêts’s Le Bavard gives an ironic presentation of flâneurial aspects of the
narrative of existential crisis. The protagonist indulges in an extended narration of
the snow-covered streets and architecture of the provincial sea-side town landscape
he roams in order to analyse its influence over his psychology, only to confess
ultimately that this whole section of the narrative was a fabrication and that no
such influence was undergone. See des Forêts, Le Bavard, 74-9.
22
Clamence’s ironic nostalgia for a previous life as a successful humanitarian
“dandy” in Paris has significance beyond the diegetic, as does Roquentin’s parallel
exile to the North. These geographical northern brinks have cultural signification
beyond the convenient abundance of gloomy imagery: for many Parisian observers,
existential thought had arrived with an influx of innovative anguished literatures
and philosophies from the North (from Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Ibsen
to Chekhov, Kafka, Heidegger). Camus’s, Sartre’s and Des Forêts’s choice of
setting is part of a general situating of this particular aspect of their fictional
thought in an intellectual context in opposition to the centre of the philosophical
tradition: Athenian-Roman-Parisian humanism.
23
“vous comprenez alors pourquoi je puis dire que le centre des choses est ici,
bien que nous nous trouvions à l’extrémité du continent” (Camus, Œuvres
complètes, vol. 3, 703).
24
“J’ai encore trouvé un sommet, où je suis seul à grimper et d’où je peux juger
tout le monde … je sors, je vais, d’une marche emportée, le long des canaux …
Sur le Damark, le premier tramway fait tinter son timbre dans l’air humide et
sonne l’éveil de la vie à l’extrémité de l’Europe où, au même moment, des
centaines de millions d’hommes, mes sujets, se tirent péniblement du lit, la bouche
amère, pour aller vers un travail sans joie” (Camus, Œuvres complètes, vol. 3,
763).
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DANIEL ACKE
The link between Brussels and literary flânerie (that is, flânerie enhanced
by the literary text) is not evident at all, for several reasons. First of all, we
have to take into account the historical conditions and the specific urban
development of the city. Unlike the capital of France, with its expansive
vistas, major waterway and winding backstreets through historically and
culturally diverse neighbourhoods, Brussels is rather a small city generally
more well-known for its individual monuments than for the walkways
between them. Voltaire had qualified Brussels as a “sad city.”1 Although,
at the end of the nineteenth century, Leopold II tried to give a
Haussmannian appearance to his kingdom’s capital, and the subsequent
development of art nouveau added to the city’s architectural repute, a
century later the co-ordinated large-scale destruction of old buildings,
which were replaced by unfortunate modern ones, turned Brussels more
and more into the antithesis of intelligent and charming urbanism. From
artists James Ensor to contemporary writers Pierre Mertens and Patrick
Roegiers,2 all lament the mutilation of an endlessly moribund city which is
undeniably ugly and chaotic, and where the word “architect” is an insult.3
The second reason that makes the presence of flânerie and its literary
image in Brussels problematic (and which is probably not unrelated to the
first reason mentioned) is that until now Brussels has not given birth to
great literary myths, expressed in memorable works. We lack great novels
about this city, as they exist for Paris, Dublin or Barcelona. Many stories
are set in Brussels, but most of the time the city is a mere background, and
these texts fail to convey its magic. 4 This lessens the likelihood of
encountering the theme of flânerie in the context of the city – it is seldom
308 Chapter Fourteen
adds ironically: “What is a capital where one cannot drown oneself? Ghent
has the Escaut, Liege the Meuse; Brussels has only a feeble stream which
they call the Senne, a pathetic fake.” He notes the hilly landscape of the
city: “Then imagine at the centre of the flattest country in the world a city
which is all mountain” (Loreley, OC, 186). 10 This makes real flânerie
impossible: “any flâneur there becomes out of breath.” There are of course
also positive aspects, like the amazing view (the “trouées”) from the top of
the city; or the pleasure of the contrast between the web of small medieval
streets and the more noble and elegant area around the rue Royale. But
again Paris serves as reference point: “it is Parisian life in a narrow circle.”
If Nerval recognizes the risk that Brussels might lose its identity by
imitating Paris, the Belgian capital nevetheless remains a “satellite” of
Paris: “Brussels is a moon of Paris, a friendly satellite even so, which one
can reproach with having lost much of its Brabançon originality from
imitating us” (OC, 196-7). 11 Baudelaire too, criticises this spirit of
conformity, but in a much nastier way.
Indeed, his case is a slightly different one. No writer hated a country
more than Baudelaire hated Belgium and a city than he did Brussels. We
have to recall the circumstances which brought Baudelaire to Belgium.
Disapointed by his Parisian milieu, harassed by his creditors, affected by
the condemnation by the French court of his Fleurs du Mal, he hoped to
find better circumstances in Belgium and came to Brussels to give a series
of lectures and meet Belgian publishers. But his failure was cruel: the
public did not show up and the publishers were not interested. Moreover
Baudelaire was repelled by the materialistic spirit of the Belgian people.
His growing hatred led to the project of a book about the country, which
remained in note form.12 Reading his remarks on Belgium and Brussels
(often the distinction is difficult to make) one is of course struck by their
excessive character, due in part to the poet’s sombre mood; they are
nevertheless interesting from our point of view because through them we
sense the experienced gaze of the Parisian flâneur. The true signification
of Baudelaire’s judgements can best be grasped when we take into account
the passionate flâneur he had been all through his life. It is immediately
striking that he reserves a whole chapter to the “Physionomie de la rue.” In
Brussels, any vivid promenade is made impossible by the disgusting smell:
“Brussels smells of black soap.” No sights in the street can animate the
flânerie: “No life in the street.” The material circumstances are not
favourable: “No pavements, or disjointed ones (consequence of individual
freedom taken to extremes). Awful cobbles.” The urban landscape lacks
essential elements: “Bleakness of a town without a river” (OC, 823). 13
310 Chapter Fourteen
(Nerval had made the same remark). Sociability is not much developed
amongst the Belgians, zealous individualists who prefer to stay at home:
No shopwindow displays.
Flânerie past shops, this pleasure, this edification, an impossible thing!
Everyone stays home! (OC, 827).14
The streets show the grotesque spectacle of people who collide with each
other as in a herd: “The manner in which the inhabitants bump into each
other and carry their walking sticks” (OC, 826).17 Some of Baudelaire’s
descriptions have a racist connotation aspect:
Overall, it is indeed the same race as in former times. Just as the people
who piss and vomit in the Kermesses by the Ostades and Teniers still
express precisely joy and Flemish antics, so we find in the present-day the
same gawky types of Northern primitive painters (OC, 830).19
It is clear that for Baudelaire the urban public space of Brussels does not
permit any form of flânerie.
What we read in Nerval and Baudelaire is partly confirmed by the
naturalistic and decadent writer Joris-Karl Huysmans, another experienced
The Flâneur in Brussels 311
flâneur, who wrote extensively on Paris.20 His two short texts on Brussels,
the “Carnet d’un voyageur à Bruxelles” (1876)21 and “La grande place de
Bruxelles” (1876), 22 are in the form of traveller’s impressions, with
numerous descriptive remarks involving an extraordinarily rich
vocabulary. Both texts suppose the perspective of the walker in the street
who looks around. The first and also the longest of the two texts 23 is
conceived as a railwaytrip to Brussels: it begins with the arrival in the
station and ends with departure. But between these two moments, the
essay develops the narrative of a promenade, whose point of departure is
situated on the famous Grand-Place, where many people are gathered and
a brass band is playing. After a moment they leave the Place, and
Huysmans decides to follow the musicians through the narrow streets until
they enter a café. Then, obviously tired of all the noise and the people, he
escapes: “I fled, and crossing Brussels again from one side to the other, I
wandered about the Leopold quarter and arrived at the Musée Wiertz.” He
visits the museum of this bizarre painter as well as other places which
apparently are not even worth mentioning until, once again exasperated, he
looks for shelter in a café: “Shattered, exhausted, weary from having
looked these armies of monuments, these anonymous building in blue
stone, adorned with spies at their windows, I abandoned myself to the
Maison des Brasseurs.” In the evening he circulates in the centre of the
city, bored by the disappointing entertainment, finally reaching his
disagreeable hotel. The next morning it is raining, he has once again to
look for shelter, this time in the cathedral which he then has to leave
because there is a mass going on. Endless rain drives him to the art
museum. Finally, having exhausted all possible curiosities during a stay of
several weeks, he returns home.
We have to pay special attention to the fact that his moving around in
Brussels does not correspond at all to the pleasures of flânerie, but rather
to an exhausting walk, as his language illustrates. None of the conditions
of the Parisian promenade seems to be fulfilled. The streets are narrow: “a
maze of passages and streets which blur into each other and only become
distinct near the quays of wood and lime.” The pavement is awful, leaving
you having to negotiate puddles and mud: “Mud up to the ankles, sheets of
water on the pavements poorly protected by asphalt.” In the evening the
streets are badly lit and there is hardly anything to see and to do:
The square is black, the avenues deserted, all the life of Brussels retreats to
the place de la Monnaie and in the Galeries Saint-Hubert. … with the help
of what potions, what opiated balms, could one succeed in putting an end
to the interminable evening?
312 Chapter Fourteen
People do not correspond at all to the basic canon of beauty, but are close
to the monstrous:
A full-bellied man, his fizzog crooked, teeth running the gauntlet of his
gums, his backside squashed on a table, legs beating the retreat on a chair’s
legs, singing, half-asleep, stupefied by Diest beer and Hasselt alcohol.
disappearing chins, noses like trumpets or arches, the whole tribunal of old
goddesses who were waiting for the end of twilight to ride in cavalcade in
the clouds, a broom between their thighs.
The manners are rough: “beer pumps continually on the go,” women
“downing … pints,” etc., 26 “Shadowy hideousnesses”: 27 this is how
Huysmans sums up all these awful creatures. As to the sensations, we are
struck by their roughness and intrusive character. People roar in the
streets, they blow their noses “like trumpets,”28 the music is deafening, bad
smells are all around. In the street, Huysmans did not see distinct
individuals, but a moving mass of people:
The Flâneur in Brussels 313
Skulls of shaven apes, snouts all over the place, noses deformed by warts
like stuffed animals and purple potatoes which stick out of thick
moustaches, mugs like drunken ducks, delirious boozy women, faded into
a burlesque jumble in the swirling clouds of smoke [our italics] 29
*
314 Chapter Fourteen
If the model of the Parisian flâneur does not seem applicable to Brussels,
this does not mean that other forms of literary walking are not possible.
Two examples taken from Belgian twentieth-century literature, the
surrealist writer Marcel Lecomte and the contemporary poet William Cliff,
offer interesting examples of the poetic appropriation of walking through
the city.
Marcel Lecomte (1900-1966) is a writer linked to the Brussels
Surrealist movement, of which the painter René Magritte is of course the
most celebrated member. One of the particularities of the Brussels
Surrealists is that with restricted resources they aim to achieve the greatest
effect. This is how Magritte proceeds in most of his famous paintings: the
goal is not to depict strange creatures or appearances, as in the art of Dalì
or Max Ernst, but, taking advantage of a familiar context, to modify it by
small changes of size, colour or unusual connections which provoke a
surprise, and a departure from daily life. This operation was discussed by
Paul Nougé, the head of the group, who distinguished two orders of
surprise:35 one that arises from the appearance of unknown and
unexpected things (for example, a monster), and one that results from the
difference between what we expect and what really happens. It is this
second order of surprises that delighted the Surrealists and led to the
exploitation of all kinds of cliché. This way of proceeding can be applied
to painting, photography and literary texts (Nougé, for example,
manipulated stetereotypical sentences taken from a manual of grammar).
To this almost experimental procedure, Marcel Lecomte gives a rather
esoteric interpretation. He believed that we have to distinguish two stages
in artistic creation, first of all the object is “dépragmatisé,” this means
removed from its utilitarian context, then, by the way of meditative
attention, recreated in a new context, which gives us some insight in the
“secret of things.” 36
But our particular interest in Lecomte lies in the fact that walking in
the city, especially in Brussels, offers him the occasion to apply these
principles and to find inspiration for his literary texts. Besides some
travels, he stayed his whole life in Brussels, in rather poor conditions,
regularly leaving his attic room for the cafés of the Galeries Saint-Hubert,
or to walk across the city. Lecomte’s unpublished diary of the fifties37
offers interesting insights into a kind of walking which is no longer a form
of traditional flânerie. Indifferent to the aesthetic or unaesthetic aspects of
a rapidly changing city (whose transformation was mentioned earlier),
Lecomte creates his own conditions for the observation of the city by his
acute attention to every kind of sign around him which is at odds with
daily life. Let us take some examples:
The Flâneur in Brussels 315
In fact his journal constitutes the laboratory where the writer notes his
experiences from his promenades or his time in cafés. This material is
integrated into short urban narratives,39 which mostly have the same
structure and take the point of view of a walker in the city focused on a
disturbing event (“dépragmatisant”) that leads to a rupture with daily life.
Even if other cities are mentioned (London, Amsterdam, Paris) Brussels
has a key role in this narratives. The city is present several times in
“L’agression,” and in “Discrétion.” The references are precise: “Rue du
Midi,” “rue de Turin;” the “boulevard J.” could be boulevard Jacquemin.40
We sense Brussels behind the initial in the narrative “Denis”: “in the
outskirts of B.” The identity of the city is not revealed but a reader familiar
with Brussels will quickly recognize some locations, even if the described
city is not Brussels as such: in “The daily meeting,” we recognize “a
certain passage”; nevertheless this gallery belongs to a city close to the
sea.41 Even if Brussels is clearly signalled, Lecomte likes this kind of
mixture, which plays its part in calling into question the background of
daily life. In “L’agression,” the Belgian capital evokes Turin. And in
another Lecomte’s texts, Turin is itself seen through the paintings of
Chirico:
with its long shadows, factory chimneys, vacant land, suburbs, unremarkable
settings, silence, the absence of movement... These descriptions play a role
in the dynamics of the narratives: the city is the place where, for the lonely
walker, a mysterious revelation takes place through signs and coincidences.
In a way similar to Paris for the French surrealists, the imaginary Brussels
in Lecomte is part of a quest that leads to the other side of things (“l’autre
côté des choses”).
there is Brussels
ten centuries of constructions of demolitions
of couplings proliferations and cortèges
of men bloated with useless importance like these towers
these cathedrals and these clouds which disappear in a day
(“Bibliothèque royale,” MC, 77).45
The Flâneur in Brussels 317
It is
The most the most the most
City
In the world
(MC, 91).46
hands off!
don’t touch our ugliness
V.D.B.47
take your hands
out of my knickers (MC, 92-3)48
This kind of walk also often acquires an erotic dimension when Cliff is
going around looking for a companion. In several poems Brussels is an
important place from this point of view. Similar to Baudelaire, Cliff
evokes the ephemeral encounter where the gaze of a possible lover has a
major importance. Beyond eroticism, in such encounters Cliff can find a
mirror of his own misery (see for example “Les ivrognes,” EB, 20).
Furthermore the movement of walking itself is for Cliff often a symbol
of time passing and never fails to suggest mortality:
The Flâneur in Brussels 319
the city where my footsteps wander and lose themselves (FN, 59).
let us leave this place, departure is a dart / which can make us see the green
air of a new sky (FN, 96).
Cliff is becoming aware of the fact that walking means creating new life,
this in opposition to his more frequent typical romantic belief that
moments lost in the past are worth more than the present we have (see
MC, 31).
Finally it appears that the real site of this profitable walking is the
poem itself. In Marcher au charbon, walking becomes a metaphor for
writing: the rhythm of walking is echoed in the rhythm of the typical
regular verses of Cliff’s poems. Similar to walking, poetic writing implies
steps and consists of “counting step by step / what one’s life makes of
banal experience” (“compter pas à pas / ce que sa vie lui rend de banale
expérience,” MC, 11). In addition writing is associated with travel. Similar
to productive walking in the city which can overcome the feeling of
dispossession by time passing, poetical writing is a way to compensate for
the emptiness of existence.
Notes
1
Voltaire speaks about Brussels as a “triste ville” in a letter to M. Formont, dated
April 1st 1740 (Voltaire, Correspondance, 13 vols (Paris: Gallimard, Bibliothèque
de la Pléiade, 1964-1993), vol. 2 (1739-1748), 283).
2
See the items “Bruxelliser,” “Promoteurs” and “Urbanisme” in Patrick Roegiers’
personal dictionary about Belgium entitled Le Mal du pays. Autobiographie de la
Belgique (Paris: Seuil, 2003).
3
On this point, see Pierre Mertens, “Ce sont des villes,” in Robert Frickx and
David Gullentops (eds), Le paysage urbain dans les lettres françaises de Belgique
(Brussels: V.U.B. Press, 1994), 73-81. See “Architecte, Architeck, Architek” in
Roegiers, Le Mal du pays.
4
Jean-Baptiste Baronian, “Bruxelles, une ville de passage,” Cahiers Simenon, vol.
2, Les lieux de la mémoire (1988), 111.
5
On these authors see René Maurice, La Fugue à Bruxelles. Proscrits, exilés,
réfugiés et autres voyageurs (Paris: Éditions le Félin, 2003).
The Flâneur in Brussels 321
6
See the chapters Rhin et Flandre (IV. Bruxelles; V. Théâtres et Palais) and Les
Fêtes de Hollande (I. Retour à Bruxelles) in Nerval, Œuvres complètes, ed. J.
Guillaume and Claude Pichois (Gallimard: Bibliothèque de la Pléïade, 1993), 186-
98 (henceforward OC).
7
“Ce beau théâtre n’a en ce moment qu’un seul défaut. Il est fermé.”
8
“bizarre statue ... personnage symbolique et difficilement définissable.”
9
See for example in Voyages en Europe, ed. Michel Brix and Hisashi Mizuno
(Paris: Editions du Sandre, 2011), 62, 78, 96 and 315.
10
“il n’y a pas de grande ville sans fleuve.” “Qu’est-ce qu’une capitale où l’on n’a
pas la faculté de se noyer? Gand a l’Escaut, Liège a la Meuse; Bruxelles n’a qu’un
pauvre ruisseau qu’il intitule la Senne, triste contrefaçon.” “Imaginez ensuite au
centre du pays le plus plat de la terre une ville qui n’est que montagne.”
11
“tout flâneur y devient poussif.” “c’est la vie de Paris dans un cercle étroit”.
“Bruxelles est la lune de Paris, aimable satellite d’ailleurs, auquel on peut
reprocher que d’avoir perdu, en nous imitant, beaucoup de son originalité
brabançonne.”
12
“Sur la Belgique,” Baudelaire, Œuvres complètes, ed. Claude Pichois (Paris:
Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléïade, 1976), 817-976. Our references are to this
edition, henceforward OC.
13
“Bruxelles sent le savon noir.” “Pas de vie dans la rue.” “Peu de trottoirs, ou
trottoirs interrompus (conséquence de la liberté individuelle, poussée à l’extrême).
Affreux pavé.” “Tristesse d’une ville sans fleuve.”
14
“Pas d’étalage aux boutiques. / Les flâneries devant les boutiques, cette
jouissance, cette instruction, chose impossible! Chacun chez soi.”
15
“Stupidité menaçante des visages. Cette bêtise universelle inquiète comme un
danger indéfini et permanent.”
16
“La physionomie est lourde, empâtée. / Têtes de gros lapins jaunes, cils jaunes.
Air de moutons qui rêvent.”
17
“Manière dont les habitants se cognent et portent leurs cannes.”
18
“Le visage belge, ou plutôt bruxellois. / Chaos. / Informe, difforme, rêche, lourd,
dur, non fini, taillé au couteau. / Dentition angulaire. ... Visage obscur sans regard,
comme celui d’un cyclope, d’un cyclope non pas borgne, mais aveugle. ”
19
“En somme, c’est bien la même race qu’autrefois. De même que le pisseur et le
vomisseur des Kermesses des Ostades et des Teniers expriment encore exactement
la joie et le badinage flamand, de même nous retrouverons dans la vie actuelle des
types ankylosés des peintres primitifs du Nord.”
20
See the Croquis parisiens, 1880, with an extended edition in 1886.
21
Joris-Karl Huysmans, “Carnet d’un voyageur à Bruxelles,” Le musée des deux
mondes, 15 novembre 1876 [http:// www.huysmans.org/carnet.htm]
22
Joris-Karl Huysmans, “La grande place de Bruxelles,” La République des lettres,
23 octobre 1876 [http://www. huysmans .org/bruxelles.htm]
23
The quotations are from “Carnet d’un voyageur à Bruxelles” unless indicated
otherwise.
24
“J’ai fui, et retraversant Bruxelles, d’un bout à l’autre, j’ai déambulé au travers
du quartier Léopold et j’ai atteint le musée Wiertz.” “Ereinté, fourbu, las d’avoir
322 Chapter Fourteen
regardé ces armées de monuments, ces bâtisses en pierre bleue, agrémentées
d’espions aux fenêtres, je suis allé m’échouer à la maison des Brasseurs.” “un lacis
de sentes et de rues qui s’enchevêtrent et ne se débrouillent que près des quais au
bois et à la chaux.” “De la boue jusqu’à la cheville, des flaques d’eau sur les
trottoirs mal cuirassés d’asphalte.” “Les rues sont mal éclairées, le soir; la place est
noire, les avenues désertes, toute la vie de Bruxelles se réfugie sur la place de la
Monnaie et dans les galeries Saint-Hubert.” “à l’aide de quels philtres, à l’aide de
quels dictames opiacés, peut-on parvenir à tuer l’interminable soirée?” “large
d’une enjambée, semble un ruban vert jeté au bas d’un ravin de briques roses.”
25
This quotation and the five following are from “La grande place de Bruxelles.”
26
“on gueulait à tue-tête la Brabançonne, on s’empiffrait des couques de Dinant,
on se gavait de pistolets au beurre, on pignochait des biscottes, on suçait la bouillie
verte des entrailles des crabes, on bâfrait des gaufrettes sèches, on déchiquetait des
anguilles fumées, et des violoneux raclaient leurs cordes, des taverniers pompaient
la bière, des mioches se troussaient le long des murs, d’autres vagissaient, d’autres
encore tétaient des femmes roses et, çà et là”; “des soldats se rigolaient, la panse
débridée”; “un homme ventripotent, la margoulette en zigzag, les dents courant la
prétentaine dans les gencives, les fesses se tassant sur les bois d’une table, les
jambes battant le rappel sur les pieds d’une chaise, chantonnait, somnolent, abruti
par la bière de Diest et l’alcool de Hasselt.” “mentons à retroussis, des nez en
trompette ou en arceau, tout le sanhédrin des déesses vieillies qui attendent la fin
du crépuscule pour aller cavalcader, dans les nuages, un manche à balai entre les
deux cuisses.” “Bruxelles, cette terre promise des bières fortes et des filles, ce
Chanaan des priapées et des saouleries!”; “les pompes à bière manœuvrent sans
relâche”; “engloutissent” “pintes,” etc..
27
“Hideurs enténébrées” (“La grande place de Bruxelles”).
28
“en claironnant” (“La grande place de Bruxelles”).
29
“Des crânes de magots chauves, des groins en désarroi, des pifs bossués de
verrues à peluches et de vitelottes qui saillaient écarlates dans le taillis des
moustaches, des trognes de pochards en goguette, des caboches d’ivrognesses en
délire, s’estompaient en un fouillis burlesque dans la fumée tourbillonnante (italics
are ours; “La grande place de Bruxelles”).
30
We are perfectly aware of the fact that the Baudelairean flâneur is not absolutely
the same as the one of the first part of the nineteeth century, but these differences
are not relevant in our context.
31
Louis Huart, Physiologie du flâneur (Paris: Aubert-Lavigne, 1841), see chapter
II.
32
“Nous ne reconnaissons pour flâneurs que ce petit nombre privilégié d’hommes
de loisir et d’esprit qui étudient le cœur humain sur la nature même, et la société
dans ce grand livre du monde toujours ouvert sous leurs yeux” (Auguste de
Lacroix, "Le Flâneur", Les Français peints par eux-mêmes [1840-1842], 2 vols
(Paris: Omnibus, 2004), vol. 2, 153).
33
“Un profond sentiment de tout ce qui est beau est la première condition de sa
nature” (Lacroix, ibid., 161).
34
See “Les Petites vieilles” and “Les Aveugles” in the Fleurs du Mal.
The Flâneur in Brussels 323
35
Des mots à la rumeur d’une oblique pensée (Lausanne: L’Age d’homme, 1983),
99.
36
See our interpretation of Marcel Lecomte’s aesthetics: “Marcel Lecomte,
critique,” in David Gullentops (ed.), Le Sens à venir. Création poétique et
démarche critique. Hommage à Léon Somville (Bern: Peter Lang, 1995), 65-81.
37
Manuscript in the Archives et Musée de la littérature of the Bibliothèque royale
in Brussels.
38
“Une curieuse fille au Passage. / Assez touchant visage de jeune provinciale.
Mais ce qui, très violemment, surprend et inquiète, c’est sa chevelure et la
disposition qu’elle lui a donnée. Ils frisent naturellement et elle les rejette sur le
dos, ce qui la transforme totalement. Si on l’observe de profil, on peut se demander
ce qui la pousse à agir de la sorte, s’il y a là détermination formelle ou
psychologique. Ou si c’est son être qui la pousse ici. Que peut-il se passer en elle
lorsqu’elle se regarde dans une glace?” “La place du Musée / Ce qui est ici
angoissant, c’est l’absence complète d’arbres (on pense à un admirable caveau. Le
sable est tout en dessin). Nemon disait un jour à C. l’importance que prenait pour
lui un arbre qu’il apercevait de sa chambre, rue Breughel [sic].”
39
See Marcel Lecomte, Œuvres (Brussels: Jacques Antoine, 1980). This book
contains La Servante au miroir, first published in 1941.
40
“L’agression” (101), “Discrétion” (105), “Rue du Midi” (120), “rue de Turin”
(101),
41
“Denis … aux environs de B” (135), “La rencontre quotidienne” (59, 62).
42
“Lorsque je lisais Hebdomeros, il me paraissait que je ne retrouverais avec tant
de précision en Italie et tels qu’ils sont arrangés peu s’en faut par Chirico, dans son
livre, les éléments des spectacles qu’il présente au lecteur et où il donne sa vision
poétique du monde. Or, à Turin, l’arrangement architectural des éléments du décor
donne immédiatement un enchantement chiricien” (ibid., 91).
43
The following abbreviations are used: Ecrasez-le (Paris: Gallimard, 1976) EL;
Marcher au charbon (Paris: Gallimard, 1978), MC; Fête nationale (Paris:
Gallimard, 1992), FN; L’Etat belge (Paris: Gallimard, 2000), EB; Immense
existence (Paris: Gallimard, 2007), IE.
44
See for example the poems of Armand Bernier, Bruxelles la mal-aimée
(Bruxelles: Le Cahier des arts, 1959).
45
“voilà Bruxelles / dix siècles de constructions de démolitions / d’accouplements
de proliférations et de cortèges / d’hommes bouffis d’importance inutile comme
ces tours / ces cathédrales et ces nuages qui s’en vont dans le jour.”
46
“C’est la ville / La plus la plus la plus / Du monde.”
47
Paul Vanden Boeynants (1919-2001), Belgian prime minister in 1966-1968 and
1978-1979.
48
“heureusement qu’il y a / tous ces coins oubliés remplis de crasse humaine / ces
coins trop crapuleux pour y fourrer vot’ nez // cette vitrine où la repasseuse / pose
encore ses fers de fonte / sur une cuisinière à charbon ces maisons à moitié
écroulées / où les gamins trouvent un coin pour se tirer la queue // bas les pattes! /
touchez pas à nos laideurs // V.D.B. / pas tes mains / dans mon slip.”
324 Chapter Fourteen
49
“Je cherche un restaurant entre des lèpres de bicoques,/ des hoquets d’enfants
sales, des carreaux noirs couverts de loques.”
50
“Tu vois ces maisons en lambeaux ces réservoirs de crasse/ ces trottoirs
éventrés rongés de grues et de mélasse.”
51
“nous pleurons en sentant notre viande malade / comme un morceau jeté aux
chiens des carrefours / et nous sommes si seuls ! dans cette ville atroce / seuls pour
marcher sur son tarmac seuls pour aller / demander à la nuit de nous ouvrir sa
fosse.”
52
“je vis une ombre noire courir devant moi / [...] cette ombre de mon être noir
qui avançait toujours me précédant/ comme pour m’avertir de la chute du temps”
(FN, 80); “la ville où mon pas erre et se perd” (FN, 59); “le sens à chaque pas
t’échappe un mort / à chaque pas s’étend devant tes pas” (FN, 58).
53
“la pluie s’arrête le ciel se déchire / un soleil si brillant craque aux fenêtres /
qu’on croit que la mort a dû fuir avec / les eaux souillées coulées dans les rivières
// j’aimerais m’arrêter à cet endroit / de la ville où mon pas erre et se perd /
m’asseoir regarder les gens défiler / un film sans fin un mouvement sans être.”
54
“allons partons d’ici le départ est un dard / qui peut nous faire voir l’air vert
d’un nouveau ciel” (FN, 96); “debout! il faut briser tout valérien abattement / la
vibration de l’Être aura raison de tes contraintes / lève-toi et marche! envoie le bic
se taire avec les gens / qui n’auront pas pu trouver le lieu vivant de leur
domaine” (MC, 31).
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
UNDERGROUND, OVERGROUND,
WANDERING FREE:
FLÂNERIE REIMAGINED IN PRINT,
ON SCREEN AND ON RECORD
KEVIN MILBURN
he looks like. And, traditionally the flâneur has been assumed to be male,
in part because the flâneur’s natural domain, the public spaces of the city,
have been historically viewed as being inviolably masculine and shaped,
in part, by the direction and desire of the male gaze. Janet Wolff contends
there was no role as flâneuse available to women: “they could be
prostitutes, widows, lesbians or murder victims but the ‘respectable’
woman could not stroll alone in the city.”12 It is a view that has provoked
considerable debate. For example, concerning the era in which the concept
of the flâneur emerged (the term being first referenced in 1806,13 Elizabeth
Wilson argues that contrary to Wolff’s assertion, many lone women were
present in the public spaces of the cities, and that, like men, they were
often out “promenading.”14 However, a key difference was that women
nearly always undertook such activities whilst wearing some sort of
disguise. Given the faceless persona often associated with the flâneur, this
stance could be deemed appropriate, particularly when one considers that a
key desire of Baudelaire’s was to be “away from home, and yet to find
oneself at home everywhere; to see the world, to be at the centre of the
world; and yet, to remain hidden from the world.”15
Over time the flâneur’s gendered role has become even less stable and
attention has increasingly begun to be paid to aspects of female flânerie,
particularly with regard to its representation in works of popular culture,
including literature í particularly historical literary fiction16 and
contemporary fiction17– and film. With regard to the latter, Amy Murphy
puts forward the notion of the flâneuse in her study of Roman Holiday
(1953) and Lost In Translation (2003):
... thanks to which the flâneur hopes and believes he will be able to find
the truth of his being.”19
Along with Tester, a growing number of other social scientists,
including Jenks, Featherstone, and Pinder,20 contend that flânerie is not a
time or place specific activity. They argue that this oxymoronic mode of
detached engagement is a malleable concept as highlighted by its re-
emergence at regular intervals and in different guises. Perhaps one useful
way for us to regard the notion of flânerie is, in Featherstone’s words, as
“a way of reading urban texts, a methodology for uncovering the traces of
social meaning that are embedded in the layered fabric of the city.”21 Mike
Savage adopts a similar stance when arguing for the utility of flânerie as
an investigative tool. Continuing this theme, he contends one possible
reason for flânerie having been out of fashion for so long may have been a
misinterpretation of the intentions of the author most associated with it:
“Walter Benjamin’s interest in the flâneur… is not primarily concerned
with delineating it as an actual social type which existed in specific urban
historical settings, but as a theoretical, critical, counter to the idea of the
mass.”22
Providing strident opposing views to those presented by the likes of
Jenks and Savage, Michael Bull23 and Janet Wolff24 contend that any
engagement with flânerie serves little purpose besides perpetuating a
generalized aestheticization of urban experience and the individual’s
engagement with urban space. But it could equally be argued that to wish
away a tendency for such romanticization is futile, and that the main task
of researchers and artists should instead be to examine how this desire has
been adapted and expressed across different time periods and locations, as
well as in diverse artistic representations. If this latter view is adopted,
then a fuller understanding of this elliptical notion of the flâneur presents a
possible platform from which to examine the impetus behind and the
resilience of the urban gaze, and also offers a useful starting point for any
interrogation of its “taken-for-grantedness.”
As has already been alluded to, Charles Baudelaire í the bourgeois,
well-connected Parisian poet who also engaged with those on the fringes
of society í is widely recognized as having been an instrumental figure in
representing and embodying the position of the flâneur in relation to the
wider urban environment. His actions and work articulated its liminal role
both in society and in space, as sociologist David Frisby was later to allude
to, when commenting on “the marginality of the flâneur’s location within
the city (seeking asylum in the crowd) ... The flâneur’s gaze upon the city
is veiled… It is the metropolis at a distance.”25
Underground, Overground, Wandering Free 329
(usually crime or corruption) and a tone far removed from the corporate
optimism which typified most Hollywood films in the war years.”38
In this sombre, after-hours urban setting a new variant of the flâneur
thus emerges. The guise he most commonly adopted was that of private
detective, as investigated by cultural geographers including Schmid,39
Howell40 and Farish.41 However, moral ambiguity was central to noir and
the anti-hero was just as frequently a gangster or racketeer, as demonstrated
by Harry Lime, a character in Graham Greene’s novella, The Third Man.
But regardless of profession, these adrift-in-the-city men all possessed
traits associated with the flâneur, most notably there is a sense that they
can see us but we cannot see them. In true flâneur fashion, the character of
Lime is invisible for much of Carol Reed’s film adaptation, before finally,
and briefly, emerging from the expressionistic shadows, camouflaged in
black.
Many noir films relied to a considerable extent on their soundtracks for
their creative potency and on the influence of photography and art for the
impact generated by their striking cinematography and production
design.42 Thus films from the post-war period need to be understood within
a broader artistic mediation on urban representation, but nonetheless it is
difficult to underestimate the considerable degree to which films have
“contributed to the image, legibility and branding of our cities. Controlled
narratives … primarily male-authored and metropolitan, have shaped the
way we see ourselves in relation to the spaces we inhabit.”43 And this is
particularly true of noir films, a genre in which the city becomes “a realm
of dark spaces through which the sense of danger is visually constructed
… The social divisions of urban life are mapped out in these light and dark
spaces … The city is as much an actor in the accounts as the characters.”44
In many noir works the central character í usually a private
investigator operating from a detached, socially marginal vantage point –
often appears to be in possession of almost otherworldly abilities. In
looking at the special qualities possessed by stereotypical noir anti-heroes
such as Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade and Raymond Chandler’s Philip
Marlowe, Christophe Den Tandt has observed the ways in which the city:
This sense of the private detective possessing an all-seeing eye / ‘I’ is also
taken up in Paul Auster’s influential The New York Trilogy, particularly in
the first part of the novel, City of Glass. This story examines the nature of
identity in, and of, the city: how one constructs and inhabits identity,
projects it, and interprets the identity of others. The narrative plays on and
with the conventions of the pursuit thriller, with the central character,
Quinn, drawn into a voyeuristic relationship with Manhattan and with the
individual he is pursuing:
Private eye. The term held a triple meaning for Quinn. Not only was it the
letter ‘I,’ standing for ‘investigator,’ it was ‘I’ in the upper case, the tiny
life-bud buried in the body of the breathing self. At the same time, it was
also the physical eye of the writer, the eye of the man who looks out from
himself into the world and demands that the world reveal itself to him.46
Here a dialectic connecting the private detective, the flâneur and the urban
voyeur is revealed: although the apparent interest of all three is in the
crowd invariably there is a fundamentally more solipsistic and narcissistic
agenda at work, one principally concerned with matters of selfhood and
the feasibility of forging connections to the urban environment and to
other people within it; a feeling perhaps most succinctly summarised by
E.M. Forster in Howards End: “Only Connect! ... Live in fragments no
longer.”47
Fig. 15-1. Frank Sinatra album, No One Cares, Capitol Records, 1959.
Fig. 15-2. Frank Sinatra album, In The Wee Small Hours, Capitol Records, 1955.
334 Chapter Fifteen
Fig. 15-3. Frank Sinatra album, Point of No Return, Capitol Records, 1962.
Fig. 15-4. Frank Sinatra album, Songs For Young Lovers, Capitol Records, 1954.
loneliness. Two of the best known examples of this type of material were
“One For My Baby (And One More for the Road),” included on Only The
Lonely, and also that album’s title track. The latter song was composed by
the celebrated songwriters, Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, who
also wrote the sleeve notes for the album which expanded on its central
theme:
Underground, Overground, Wandering Free 335
Loneliness is many things to many people. For the keeper of the lighthouse
it is the loneliness that attends endless days and nights of watching the
angry sea. For the New York policeman on the dawn patrol it is the
measured loneliness of his beat to the accompaniment of the nocturnal
noises of the city.
The dejected urban persona Sinatra inhabited on this album and others
produced in the period was also reflected in the artwork that accompanied
them. These sleeves, owe a debt to stylistic conventions associated with
film noir and with the artist, Edward Hopper, who produced etchings and
paintings that attempted to reflect “modern urban anomie, exploring the
meditative mood of his subjects through the ... space he portray[ed],”48 as
demonstrated in works such as Night Shadows and Nighthawks. The sleeve
of the No One Cares album, in particular, echoes a trait discernible in
many Hopper paintings in that the subjects frequently seem to be
“anonymous and withdrawn, as if Hopper wanted to stress their
separateness from each other, rather than what brought them together.”49
The sense of despair on Sinatra’s downbeat saloon-song albums, which
alternated with his upbeat, swing albums, was pronounced, and at times
unremitting. Indeed, ahead of the release of In The Wee Small Hours
album, Capitol executives expressed concern that a “work so relentlessly
dark might be received as oppressive and alienating.”50 Meanwhile, it has
been said of Where Are You? (1957), a record dominated by Gordon
Jenkins’ mournful string arrangements, that, “the tempos are crawling ...
the mood is doggedly downbeat ... the anguish unfettered.”51 The
atmosphere on the album is perhaps best reflected by Sinatra’s rendition of
the Leonard Bernstein song, “Lonely Town”:
Conclusion
Frank Sinatra through his music, wittingly or otherwise, supplemented
scopic and literary manifestations of cities that owed much to the flâneur’s
poetic gaze in nineteenth-century Paris and strands of mid-twentieth-
century American painting and noir influenced fiction and cinema. These
artistic representations reflected Georg Simmel’s view of the modern city
as being “simultaneously the site of freedom and of isolation,”57 a
statement alluding to a central contradiction associated with the city,
namely that the pull of liberation it is seen to afford is a freedom
implicated in a resultant sense of drift and ennui.
The late 1950s work of Frank Sinatra can be viewed as part of a long
continuum of urban creative expression. Such art, as Stuart Allen states,
can vividly evoke ways in which people’s everyday experiences of city
life can be:
Notes
1
D. Pinder, “flâneur/flânerie,” in D. Gregory et al. (eds), The Dictionary of Human
Geography (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 256.
2
M. Savage, review of “Myth and metropolis: Walter Benjamin and the city,”
Environment D: Society and Space, 14: 6 (1996): 776.
3
P.M.R. Howell, “Crime and the City Solution: crime fiction, urban knowledge,
and radical geography,” Antipode 30 (4) (1998): 360.
Underground, Overground, Wandering Free 339
4
Ibid.
5
C. Jenks, Visual Culture (London: Routledge, 1995); K. Tester (ed.), The Flâneur
(London and New York: Routledge, 1994).
6
Howell, “Crime and the City Solution,” 357-78; Pinder, “flâneur/flânerie”; R.
Shields, “Fancy footwork: Walter Benjamin’s notes on flânerie,” in Tester, The
Flâneur, 61-80.
7
G. Bruno, “Ramble City: Postmodernism and ‘Bladerunner’,” October, 41
(1987): 61-74.
8
D. Stevenson, Cities and Urban Cultures (Maidenhead: Open University Press,
2003).
9
D.L. Parsons, Streetwalking the Metropolis: Women, the City, and Modernity
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); E. Wilson, “The invisible flâneur,” S.
Watson and K. Gibson (eds), Postmodern Cities and Spaces (Oxford: Basil
Blackwell, 1995); J. Wolff, “The invisible flâneuse: women and the literature of
modernity,” Theory, Culture and Society, 2: 3 (1985): 37-46.
10
Shields, “Fancy footwork,” 63.
11
Jenks, Visual Culture; Tester, The Flâneur, 146.
12
J. Wolff, “The invisible flâneuse,” 41.
13
Pinder, “flâneur/flânerie,” 256.
14
Wilson, “The invisible flâneur.”
15
C. Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in J. Mayne (ed. & trans.), The
Painter of Modern Life & Other Essays (London: Phaidon, 1995), 1-41 (9).
16
Parsons, Streetwalking the Metropolis.
17
D. Chisholm, “A Queer Return to Walter Benjamin,” Journal of Urban History,
29 (2002): 25-38; J. Susina, “The Rebirth of the Postmodern flâneur: Notes on the
Postmodern Landscape of Francesca Lia Block's Weetzie Bat,” Marvels and Tales,
16: 2 (2002): 188-200.
18
A. Murphy, “Traces of the Flâneuse: from Roman Holiday to Lost In
Translation,” Journal of Architectural Education, 60: 1 (2006): 32-42 (33).
19
Tester, Introduction in The Flâneur.
20
Jenks, Visual Culture; M. Featherstone, “The flâneur, the city and virtual public
life,” Urban Studies, 35: 5-6 (1998): 909-25; Pinder, “flâneur/flânerie.”
21
Featherstone, “The flâneur, the city and virtual public life,” 910.
22
M. Savage, “Walter Benjamin’s Urban Thought: A critical analysis,” in M.
Crang and N. Thrift (eds), Thinking Space (London: Routledge, 2000), 38 (33-53).
23
M. Bull, Sounding Out the City: Personal Stereos and the Management of
Everyday Life (Oxford: Berg, 2000).
24
Wolff, “The invisible flâneuse.”
25
D. Frisby, Cityscape of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity, 2001), 33.
26
W. Benjamin, Selected Writings: Volume 4, 1938-1940 (Cambridge, MA:
Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, [1938 2003), 19.
27
S. Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades
Project (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995), 39.
28
P. Parkhurst Ferguson, “The flâneur on and off the streets of Paris,” in Tester,
The Flâneur, 34 (22-42).
340 Chapter Fifteen
29
W. Benjamin, The Arcades Project (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard
University Press.1935] 1999).
30
Shields, “Fancy footwork,” 62.
31
T. De Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium Eater (London: Penguin
Classics, 2003).
32
G. Kennedy (ed.), The Portable Edgar Allen Poe (London: Penguin Classics,
2006).
33
W. Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism
(London: Verso, 1983).
34
A. De Botton, The Art of Travel (London: Penguin, 2002), 49.
35
M. Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles (New York:
Vintage, 1992).
36
Parkhurst Ferguson, “The flâneur on and off the streets of Paris,” 22.
37
Zelig was a 1983 Woody Allen comedy film, based on the premise that the
central character had a chameleon-like ability to blend effortlessly into an array of
historically important moments from different eras and places.
38
P. Simpson, Film Noir. The Rough Guide to Cult Movies (London: Rough
Guides, 2001), 180.
39
D. Schmid, “Imagining safe urban space: the contribution of detective fiction to
radical geography,” Antipode, 27 (1995): 242-69.
40
Howell, “Crime and the City Solution.”
41
M. Farish, “Cities in shade: urban geography and the uses of noir,” Environment
and Planning D: Society and Space, 23: 1 (2005): 95-118.
42
Ahead of the making of the thriller Force of Evil in 1948, it has been reported
that its director, Abraham Polonsky, gave the film’s cinematographer, George
Barnes, a book of Edward Hopper paintings so as to illustrate how he wanted the
film to look (Simpson (2001), 183).
43
A. Marcus and D. Neumann (eds), Visualizing the City (London: Routledge,
2007), 2.
44
M. Crang, Cultural Geography (London: Routledge, 1998), 82.
45
C. Den Tandt, “Down These (Gender-Divided and Ethnically Fractured) Mean
Streets: The Urban Thriller in the Age of Multiculturalism and Minority Writing,”
in GUST (written and edited by the Ghent Urban Studies Team), The Urban
Condition: Space, Community, and Self in the Contemporary Metropolis (010
Publishers: Rotterdam, 1999), 396.
46
P. Auster, The New York Trilogy (London: Faber and Faber, 1988), 8.
47
E.M. Forster, Howards End (London: Penguin [1910] 1979), 188.
48
J.A. Barter, ”Nighthawks: Transcending Reality,” in C. Troyen et al. (eds),
Edward Hopper (London: Thames and Hudson, 2007), 196 (195-210).
49
A. Butler, C. Van Cleave, and S. Stirling, The Art Book (London: Phaidon,
1994), 230.
50
J. Schwartz, “Sinatra: In the Wee Small Hours,” in S. Petkov and L. Mustazza
(eds), The Frank Sinatra Reader (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 249
(245-52).
Underground, Overground, Wandering Free 341
51
C. Ingham, The Rough Guide to Frank Sinatra: the songs, the films, the style
(London: Penguin, 2005), 172.
52
T.H. Adamowski, “Love in the Western World: Sinatra and the Conflict of
Generations,” in L. Mustazza (ed.), Frank Sinatra and Popular Culture: Essays on
an American Icon (Westport: Praeger, 1998), 26-38.
53
Tester, The Flâneur, 8.
54
Also in Paris at this time, Guy Debord and fellow Situationists were encouraging
the idea of the dérive: the drift, both in, and through, urban space.
55
Melisma is a style of singing Sinatra helped popularize in which one syllable is
extended over several notes.
56
D. Toop, Haunted Weather: Music, Silence and Memory (London: Serpent’s
Tail, 2004), 29.
57
D. Stevenson, Cities and Urban Cultures (Maidenhead: Open University Press,
2003), 24.
58
Stuart Allen, Foreword, in D. Stevenson, Cities and Urban Cultures
(Maidenhead: Open University Press, 2003), xii.
59
M. Savage, review of “Myth and metropolis: Walter Benjamin and the city,”
Environment D: Society and Space, 14: 6 (1996), 776.
60
D. Lynskey, “Children of the Night,” The Word, April, 2011: 98.
61
P. Sherburne, Dubstep. Magazine, published 31.1.2007; accessed 28.2.09.
http://www.emusic.com/features/spotlight/281_200701.html.
62
P. Connolly, review of Burial Untrue.
http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/music/review-23420236-cds-of-the-week.do –
published 12.11.2007; accessed 8.2.2009.
63
R. Koolhaas, “The Generic City,” in R. Koolaas and B. Mau (eds), S,M,L,XL
(Rotterdam: 010 publishers, 1995), 1253.
64
L. Barton, “The joys of driving at night,” published and accessed on 1.11.2009.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/nov/01/driving-at-night
65
E. Laurier, H. Lorimer et al., “Driving and passengering: notes on the ordinary
organization of car travel,” Mobilities, 3 (2008), 1-23; N. Thrift, “Driving in the
City,” Theory Culture Society, 21 (2004): 41-59.
66
M. Bull, Sound Moves: ipod culture and urban experience (London: Routledge,
2007).
67
J. Derrida, Specters of Marx: the state of the debt, the work of mourning and the
new international (London: Routledge, 1994).
68
T. Edensor, “Mundane haunting: commuting through the phantasmagoric
working-class landscapes of Manchester, England,” Cultural Geographies, 15
(2008); 313-33.
69
S. Reynolds, Retromania: Pop Culture’s Own Addiction to its Own Past
(London: Faber and Faber, 2011).
70
M. Fisher, Ghosts of My Life. Writings on Depression, Hauntology and Lost
Futures (Winchester: Zero Books, 2014)
71
D. Frisby, Fragments of Modernity: Theories of Modernity in the Work of
Simmel, Kracauer and Benjamin (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1986), 224.
72
Benjamin, The Arcades Project.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JAMES HARVEY-DAVITT
Poetic explorations of the city abound from the silent masters of cinema to
the present day. The critical insights of these films often merge the
political and the personal. From Chaplin’s tramp, to the experimental
works of Walter Ruttmann in Germany and Dziga Vertov’s Kino-eye in the
Soviet Union, these films seem to have something of Baudelaire’s “painter
of modern life” about them. The trend continues today in Woody Allen’s
existential musings and his travels through Europe. However, despite the
multitude of filmmakers and characters that wander these urban
environments, locating revelatory findings in its spatial-imaginary as they
do, the flâneur remains a surprisingly underdeveloped concept in film
theory. Yet a uniquely cinematic version of flânerie may at once work to
reinvent Benjamin’s figure of the flâneur, create innovative perceptions of
the cityscape, and the capabilities of cinema in general. It is with these
several reconstitutive possibilities in mind, that this essay questions
whether the flâneur might be a concept that intervenes in conventional
representations (of cities, of the wandering spectator) to political effect.
Certain aesthetic qualities (through which the cinematic flâneur is
produced) might themselves be indispensible to the production of politics.
In order to explore this idea, I consider the relationship between aesthetics
and politics in light of the writing of Jacques Rancière. Following
Rancière, I argue that the activity of the flâneur is absolutely political, with
the proviso that the politics of works of art should be understood as being
played out “in the reconfiguration of worlds of experience ... [and] in the
The Subject of Chantal Akerman’s News from Home (1977) 343
reprivatization of social spaces. She claims that “it was traffic that did him
in,”7 referring to the impossibility (in The Arcades Project)8 of the flâneur
manifesting any political agency amidst the vibrant modern city. For
Buck-Morss, as the male gender is privileged (and since female flânerie is
more like prostitution and support for capitalist society), a hierarchy exists
restricting who can and cannot be a flâneur: this she calls “the politics of
loitering.” Any political potential for the flâneur would need to
acknowledge women’s participation and potential for dissent. I develop
this further by taking into account the social movements that followed
feminism. In short, I suggest that the political potential of the flâneur
resides in the concept’s being taken-up and performed by a marginalized
body.
Unlike those scholars who have assumed the flâneur to represent a
highly-charged site of sexual politics, I follow Buck-Morss in rejecting the
flâneuse as a female alternative. An outright departure from patriarchy, in
the form of a replacement-term for it, is not the aim here – and indeed, to
occupy new, uncontested ground is not the work of politics at all. It is
rather a question of reconfiguring who is counted in that original term, and
that original order. To politicize the flâneur is, at the same time, to recast
what the flâneur itself constitutes. Redressing the position of the feminine
in these gender debates about flânerie, this approach contests the original
territory which the flâneur occupies, rather than seeking new ground for
the habitation of a flâneuse. As I will show, Akerman’s own intentions
seem to demand as much.
A second vital element in Buck-Morss’s piece regards the significance
of the self-reflexive relationship between Benjamin's Paris, and the Berlin
of his childhood:
The fusion of childhood history and collective history is the most puzzling
aspect of Benjamin's theory, one that was never analytically clarified. More
than a theory, it was an insight that the power of historical remembering, its
political strength as a motivation for present action, is the same, whether
one is remembering one's own life or a collective life never experienced
directly. He conceived of the past on both levels as a “dream-state” and
historical recollection which allowed its interpretation as “awakening.”9
The idea that innate and particular “knowledge” (as Rancière terms it)
reconfigures the languidly spectatorial into a spectatorial-act, also
reconfigures the activity of the flâneur: from passive stroller whose
function would be unimaginable today, to engaged perceiver whose
exponents can be found everywhere and anywhere. This leads to my
second problem with Mazlish’s argument. Like Buck-Morss, who assumes
equality between the sexes, I too would claim that the contemporary
existence of the flâneur is contingent upon a critical intervention, affecting
who can spectate nowadays, and who is the object of the spectator’s gaze.
Buck-Morss views the flâneur as a figure with creative agency, which
enables a productive ability to cast light upon the unseen. This is, I
believe, what is happening in News from Home. By using film as a way of
establishing a horizontal relationship with unseen spaces and populations,
Akerman makes flânerie a political activity. Yes, the flâneur has the
potential to re-present the domination of late capitalism. However, as
Akerman demonstrates, unseen margins (that are generally unaccounted
for), outside the dominant logic, do exist. This coming-into-vision of the
subjects on these margins is, for Rancière, what politics entails. His
interrogation of the meaning of politics reworks individual agency in
aesthetic terms, provoking consideration of what actually constitutes a
political act. Politics is:
whatever breaks with the tangible configuration whereby parties and parts
or lack of them are defined by a presupposition that, by definition, has no
place in that configuration – that of the part of those who have no part.
This break is manifest in a series of actions that reconfigure the space
where parties, parts, or lack of parts have been defined. Political activity is
whatever shifts a body from the place assigned to it, or changes a place’s
destination.13
“Wronging” Homogeneity
Chantal Akerman wholeheartedly refused to be grouped amongst
“women” filmmakers. “You wouldn't call Fellini a male filmmaker,” Ivone
Margulies quotes her as arguing in her important contextual study of the
filmmaker’s œuvre.16 Akerman has no interest in being identified in
gendered terms: “I am making Chantal Akerman's films,” she declares.
This is quite literally the case: her self-reflexivity (whereby her own story
is developed alongside, rather than subordinated to or foregrounded ahead
of the people of Manhattan) in News from Home, is itself a “wrong”: it
challenges ideas of the flâneur which suppose a re-presentation of the city.
She thereby makes visible what the realist mode makes invisible: an
iconoclastic approach to narrative hierarchies. I maintain Akerman is a
political artist by virtue of her rejection of gendering and of traditional
poetics: it is a “wronging” of given aesthetic categories.
Along with the part she plays within her own film, her own
relationship outside the film’s diegetic New York to the “real” New York is
a further reflexive dimension. Akerman’s awareness of the experimental
film scene in the seventies (an influence extending to Andy Warhol, Jonas
Mekas, and Michael Snow), with which she came into contact during a
lengthy stay between 1971 and 1972,17 is an important reference point.
Kenneth White has followed up this line of inquiry to suggest that
348 Chapter Sixteen
the next letter eventually appears on the voicetrack, the same sort of
(emotionally charged, albeit blandly quotidian) sentiments are read. It is
not at all clear why she makes the spectator hear this. What I would
suggest here is that Akerman's flâneur is offering an image of minority (the
comparative nothingness in a place of supposed frenzy), together with a
sound of minority (the sound of an intimate, personal discourse). However,
it is precisely by virtue of the difficulty with which we ascertain a
definable logic here that I believe another subject is implicated: the
spectator. In Akerman’s aesthetic approach (her formal foundation as a
political, cinematic flâneur), the spectator is anticipated. In other words,
there is no “logical” meaning handed down from Akerman to us: the
snippets of banality necessitate the involvement of a third party’s intellect.
As with the title of her earlier film, this is about “I [Akerman], you [the
mother], he, and she [the spectators].”
Then come the required contradictions – the “wrongs” – to this
“aesthetic of homogeneity.” For instance, the sudden disregard for the
constantly employed static camera, in order to turn the viewer –
inexplicably – three-hundred and sixty degrees, when stationary at a
pedestrian crossing. Also of interest is a long tracking sequence, taken
across the length of one whole street, uptown to downtown, in an abrupt
shift from the immobile camera. In this moment of “wrong,” one might
presume a sociological purpose to this tracking shot: a journey from the
poverty-stricken Harlem down to Wall Street’s fat cats. Instead, this is just
a road: yellow taxis, the odd stop for lights, and endless grey buildings
(perhaps Buck-Morss's statement - “it was the traffic that did him in” - has
some resonance here!). It does indeed seem clear that the dream of a
distanced poetic critique of the city is too romantic – perhaps too logical or
predetermined – for Akerman. However, to consider this perspective is to
attempt to apply the kind of exterior framework which Akerman herself
rejects. News from Home's nestling in the murky corners of Manhattan
confronts its spectator with both the unfamiliar and the mundane. Unlike
the poetic representations of Baudelaire, or the ideological elements of
Benjamin, Akerman has no framework to which the city must conform. By
consistently refusing tension or a moment of climax, by travelling to the
hidden depths, Akerman's flâneur allows the subject to speak on its own
everyday terms. It shares Benjamin’s fragmentary method in the Arcades
Project: the collation of unattached ideas, which reject the possibility of a
singular “truth” in their being observed. A recurring rejection of a
concrete, homogeneous style, and a refusal of definitive interpretation: this
amounts to the setting-up of a new model for flânerie.
350 Chapter Sixteen
The Filmed-Subject
As Buck-Morss explains of Benjamin's flâneur, there are serious discrepancies
preventing the relevance of the early-modern model today. The flâneur
must develop with contemporary Manhattan in order to exist. Their
activity remains the same, but in post-industrial society, the landscapes –
human and artificial – are different. This is made clear in News from Home
by the way transport is represented. In line with the “aesthetic of
homogeneity”, a static frame is employed throughout. In turn, the
protrusion of this frame (and of the voiceover) by cars and trains enacts
the “wronging” of this aesthetic. The sights and sounds of transport are
foregrounded throughout (with particular attention to the metro), and
produce a shift from Benjamin’s flâneur (concerned with the rituals of the
consumer), to a contemporary model based on modern loitering habits.
The metro – as familiar to New Yorkers as it is to Londoners, Parisians,
and Berliners – brings not just thousands of workers dedicated to their
city-based employment each day. It also anticipates potential flâneurs-to
come. In order to capture her filmed-subject, Akerman goes underground.
My second point considers the subway sequence as an example of what I
believe to be an exemplary illustration of the flâneur’s political potential.
This sequence goes right to the heart of the existence of the flâneur in
contemporary times, and makes clear Akerman’s avoidance of
representation which allows her subjects to represent themselves. By
affording excessive screen-time to people and places of little – or rather,
indiscriminate – regard, the flâneur is able to reconfigure the sensible, and
show the unseen.
The subway scene (Fig. 16-1) is an example of Akerman blurring the
inside/outside, public/private binary: a further dismantling of hierarchies.
As well as incorporating the modern-day commuter-vessel into her
flânerie, this long-take onboard the carriage confronts the people shown
with the spectacle of a camera. The passengers’ reactions say something
quite profound about the contemporary existence of the flâneur. Some are
apparently ignorant of the camera's presence. These are the same sorts of
people who disregard the camera when Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat
terrorizes the passengers on the Tube:24 a sign that to be recorded, even to
be held prisoner in the makeshift studio of a subway carriage, is itself, part
of the everyday. Some smirk, and turn sharply away, acknowledging
Akerman's existence, and furthermore, the possibility of being captured in
the frame when they do not want to be seen. These two responses tell us
very little about the contemporary, political, cinematic existence of the
flâneur. Perhaps it is the panoptical version of a biopolitical society, as
The Subject of Chantal Akerman’s News from Home (1977) 351
Fig. 16-1. Chantal Akerman, News from Home (1977): Akerman stands in the
centre of the carriage, her camera obstructing the boarding and alighting
passengers.
others have suggested: we are all flâneurs, aware of the existence of the
popular practice of cultural observation, and accepting or rejecting the
other's look accordingly. However, this view is complicated when one
elderly man steps on to the carriage and stares directly down Akerman's
lens. Something else is suggested: these are not all flâneurs, but are all
individuals, each with their own unique response to the existence of this
camera on their train. What does this moment imply about the possibility
of a cinematic flâneur?
This incident illustrates an individual capacity of Akerman’s subjects,
to accept or reject the camera’s subjection. Akerman, the political flâneur,
attempting to cast light on the unseen, is therefore forced to accept the
possibility that the people of her perceptions may “break the fourth wall.”
The removal of the hierarchies which previously determined particular
roles for observer and observed, creates an obstacle for this sort of
politicized, subjectivating approach by a flâneur: one may simply leave the
frame. What better way to illustrate the absolute refutation of this idea of
immanent representation in the panopticon of modernity: we are not in the
Foucaultian biopolitical, whereby “everything is political.” Rather, as
Rancière indicates, politics is more than the mere organization of power. It
352 Chapter Sixteen
The Filming-Subject
This final element requires a return to Buck-Morss’s observations on
Benjamin, and in particular his fusion of individual and collective history.
This goes some way towards explaining the coexistence of these images of
Manhattan and the old letters Akerman reads. Benjamin's insight into the
potential for social “awakening” when an individual remembers is
recognizable in Akerman's revisitings. She is both revisiting the notes of
her mother (warning, as she did, about the dangers of this city) and
The Subject of Chantal Akerman’s News from Home (1977) 353
revisiting the city itself (its hidden depths, back alleys, hoods and vacant
streets). What is the “awakening” one experiences when a letter is read
which says “be careful when you go out at night, New York is dangerous,”
only for this moment of inevitable horror never to appear? Perhaps the
“awakening” is that people from small-towns need to manage their own
domestic issues, before speculating about the fantastical happenings in the
city. If this is the case, it infers that the city is far from dangerous, whereas
there is something poisonous inherent in the insular nature of small,
localized communities. Paradoxically, that the only narrative “action” that
occurs is from the country-folk’s familial and domestic relationships,
challenges a more widely-held assumption about whose story counts as
noteworthy. Viewed this way, the focus on small-town Belgium in contrast
to “The Big Apple” recasts perceptions as to where would be an exciting
locale to capture on film. Whether it is the first or second inference that is
intended here, the “awakening” provided in the fusion of these individual
and social portraits reinforces the motives of Akerman’s flânerie in
general: both carry the intention of challenging and recasting dominant
perceptions.
The final sequence (Fig. 16-2) of the boat departing from Manhattan
leaves open the question, where is Akerman going after she leaves the
island? One can find out that the Akerman did return to Belgium after
shooting, so, perhaps, she is leaving for home in urgent response to her
mother's pleas. Does she simply miss her family too much to stay? As the
letters continue, the mother's letters reach a level of emotional blackmail:
“Father will have no-one to look after him,” she says. In the journey that
leads up to her arrival at the boat and the departure from Manhattan, the
voicetrack of this particular letter is drowned out by the transport. The
sound of gulls then clouds it further. This sequence and the moments
leading up to it guide me towards some final thoughts on her familial
relationship with her mother, her social relationship with Manhattan, and
the motivation behind Akerman’s film.
By juxtaposing mundane-city and dramatic-country, Akerman is able to
interpret the warm sentiments of home as constricting of her own personal
freedom – akin to the wives and mothers of the Sirkean melodramas to
which Jeanne Dielman alludes.25 Akerman's flânerie – her filming-subject
– is testament to the emancipation she experiences as a filmmaker,
ethnographizing at free-rein. As her mother is inaudible beneath these city-
sounds, one can surmise that when the screen goes black, she simply
continues her flânerie: be it in New York (A Couch in New York),26 Paris
(Le Captive),27 Cologne (Les rendez-vouz d’Anna)28 or returning home to
Belgium (Golden Eighties,29 Women from Antwerp in November).30 The
354 Chapter Sixteen
Fig. 16-2. Chantal Akerman, News from Home (1977): The final image: a long-
take, departing the island, the famous skyline shrinking and fading amidst the
clouds.
flânerie of the filming-subject – the sum of Akerman's voice and ideas, her
mother’s words, the city’s landscape – is a transient being. It creates the
kind of space of confusion that Benjamin referred to as a “dream-state.”
Akerman's retreading of the old ground she visited between 1971 and
1972, combined with the letters she received, forcefully argues that cinema
– with its interplay of the visual and audible senses – enables a possibility
for “awakening.” Therefore, the cinematic flâneur – in its multimedial and
multidimensional capacity to combine, contrast, compare and critique
differing geographical and social perspectives – carries the potential to
reconfigure worlds of experience. The politics of Akerman’s filming-
subject stems from her performance of the contradiction between two worlds
in a single world: the pitting of the minor-rural-individual consciousness
against and within the major-urban-collective consciousness.
other words, to attempt to locate the activity of the flâneur in the filmed-
subject is to seek out a “wrong” performed by those in the frame. To
discuss a filming-subject is to argue that Akerman herself embodies the
function of the apparatus, in order to reconfigure worlds of experience.
Akerman’s filming-subject performs a “wrong.” It is in this way that we
can understand Akerman herself as doing something political. As Rancière
states, for art to be political, one must reconfigure “the given perceptual
forms.”31 The flâneur – itself a given perceptual, perceiving form - can too
be reconfigured, rather than renounced altogether, in order to exist
politically. The political potential Akerman therefore encapsulates with
News from Home is an exemplary illustration of how the cinematic flâneur
can be political. In the creation of a new world of experience - in the
socially and geographically disparate sonic and visual tapestry that News
from Home is – Akerman exemplifies what Rancière calls “the politics of
works of art.” The cinematic flâneur of News from Home presents an idea
of cinema as a space which resituates bodies, interrogating politics’ own
field of aesthetic possibilities.
Notes
1
Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics (London, New York: Continuum,
2006), 65.
2
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1977.
3
Jacques Rancière, Short voyages to the land of the people (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2003), 4.
4
Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics (London, New York: Continuum,
2006)
5
Ivone Margulies, Nothing Happens: Chantal Akerman's Hyperrealist Everyday
(Durham: Duke University Press, 1996), 11.
6
Jacques Rancière, Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy (Minneapolis, London:
University of Minnesota Press, 1999), 21-42.
7
Susan Buck-Morss, “The Flâneur, the Sandwichman and the Whore: The Politics
of Loitering,” New German Critique, 39 (Autumn 1986): 102.
8
Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project (Cambridge MA: Harvard University
Press, 1999).
9
Buck-Morss, “The Flâneur, the Sandwichman and the Whore,” 133.
10
Bruce Mazlish, “The flâneur: from spectator to representation,” in Keith Tester
(ed.), The Flâneur (New York: Routledge, 1994), 43-60.
11
Gilles Deleuze, “Postscript on the Societies of Control,” October, 59 (Winter
1992): 3-7.
12
Jacques Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator (London, New York: Verso,
2009), 17.
13
Rancière, Disagreement, 29-30.
356 Chapter Sixteen
14
Ibid., 27.
15
Ibid., 30.
16
Margulies, Nothing Happens, 12.
17
Ibid., 6.
18
Kenneth White, “Urban unknown: Chantal Akerman in New York City,” Screen,
51:4 (Winter 2010): 378.
19
Margulies, Nothing Happens, 11.
20
Jacques Rancière, Aesthetics and its Discontents (Malden, Cambridge: Polity
Press, 2009), 41.
21
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1975.
22
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1972.
23
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1974.
24
Directed by Larry Charles, 2006.
25
Margulies, Nothing Happens, 85
26
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1996.
27
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 2000.
28
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1978.
29
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 1986.
30
Directed by Chantal Akerman, 2008.
31
Rancière, Politics of Aesthetics, 63.
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CONTRIBUTORS
European and North American fiction and poetry from the nineteenth
century to the present. In her thesis, she examines how the experience of
meeting monuments and statues extends beyond the esthetical realm,
entangling political and existential threads. She is the author of several
essays where she investigates the occidental imaginary of urban statues
and she is co-editor, with Francesco-Paolo de Sanctis, of the collective
volume Writing the Intensity of Art (in press).
Tatiana Senkevitch received her Ph.D. in Art History from the University
of Michigan. She specializes in Baroque Art and Architecture, in various
forms of the Neo-Baroque, and in Russian art and architecture. She has
also written on perspective theory in early 20th century theory, the
Bologna school of painting, commemoration of the Poltava Battle, and
allegories of power. She was a recipient of a Getty Research Institute
Fellowship. She has taught as a Lecturer at the University of Southern
California, Cornell University, and University of Toronto. Currently, she
is at work on the book examining the formation of academic theory in
relation to public art institutions in France.