It is a Tuesday morning, sometime around 8am. I take my place amongst the tightly aligned chairs on Avenue Théophile Gautier. As well-dressed Parisians make their way down the avenue, I raise my eyes above bent notebook pages. I take the last few sips of my cafe. 

As I sit and observe the passerby, I begin to contemplate the cultural differences between Parisian and  culture. I think back to the first time i wondered around a local liberarie. I was shocked to see how little they asked for some of my favorite works of literature in original French text. As i mentioned this to my host mother, one could only imagine the mortified look upon the her face as i told her how much a novel could run you at Barnes & Noble. 

It seems to me that art is far more accessible in Paris. Here, educating oneself and becoming well versed in art and literature is a priority, whereas many Americans simply disregard Art within their lives. I assume it is by no mistake that half of the streets I pass along my morning walk to school happen to take the names of painters, poets, composers, etc. On the corner of my apartment building, printed on a blue plaque is the name "Théophile-Gautier" which, according to a google search, I discovered was an homage to Gautier - the French writer and art critic. 

As I went into further depth, i learned that Gautier had not been as acclaimed as many if his contemporaries (which may explain why I hadn't heard of him). Through he had not seen tremendous fame, Gautier had been respected amongst the Parisian romantics. His literary style reflected certain aspects of his contemporaries, but his moralist tendencies had set his work apart.  Even writers such as Baudelaire took inspiration from his work - particularly in his themes regarding the horrors of life and death. 

As I began to read a few of his works, I came across one which I found particularly compelling, and very much relevant to my earlier thoughts. His piece "Le poète et la foule" comments on society's questioning of the significance of art. The piece discusses the artists ability to shed light on the realities of society. This brought me back to my initial thoughts about the lack of regard Americans have for art and the significance of art education. As I look through my host family's extensive collection of literature, I find myself identifying more and more with Parisian culture than my own. 

Le poète et la foule

La plaine un jour disait à la montagne oisive : 
" Rien ne vient sur ton front des vents toujours battu ! "
Au poète, courbé sur sa lyre pensive, 
La foule aussi disait : " Rêveur, à quoi sers-tu ? "

La montagne en courroux répondit à la plaine : 
" C'est moi qui fais germer les moissons sur ton sol ; 
Du midi dévorant je tempère l'haleine ; 
J'arrête dans les cieux les nuages au vol !

Je pétris de mes doigts la neige en avalanches ; 
Dans mon creuset je fonds les cristaux des glaciers, 
Et je verse, du bout de mes mamelles blanches, 
En longs filets d'argent, les fleuves nourriciers.

Le poète, à son tour, répondit à la foule :
" Laissez mon pâle front s'appuyer sur ma main. 
N'ai-je pas de mon flanc, d'où mon âme s'écoule, 
Fait jaillir une source où boit le genre humain ? "