We'd spent a wonderful day by the sea on the local edge of the famous calanques. We'd figured out the bus schedule and came up with a route home that would include a bus change in a new neighborhood. It was a fine idea and we enjoyed watching people getting off work, coming and going from the underground and the waves of buses and trollies. We sat out rush hour in a tiny corner cafe that had a toilet in the basement down a tight metal spiral staircase, but with the walls hung with lovely ink & pen drawings of the street perhaps fifty years ago. We ate a pastry and had water and coffee.
Our next stop was Cours Julien, the famous avant-garde neighborhood lately renowned for its street art. It had been on our list but our list was too long—or we've gotten too short. Time had gotten shorter. Something like that. This is one of those meanders that's too vaguely planned, so it lacks proper context going in and lots of confusion (well, lots of questions) going out.
Like: who is Cofre? What are the rules of the street artists? What is a violation of those rules? What are the rules of the wall owners? What is a violation of those rules? Who gives a fuck about rules? (Who said that?) What is the relevance of permanence? Of performance? Of commodification?
Marseille offers some interesting perspectives, and not just in the the Cours Julien neighborhood. We saw it in the Panier (old town) when we walked over that hill from the old cathedral while headed back to Vieux Port sort of as the gulls would walk, but faster. We kept seeing things we had no time to come back to but that asked for it. That includes some extraordinary murals. It also includes posted handbills announcing music, openings, readings, and other events in the neighborhood that piqued our interest.
We were at the end of our trip and, as usual, we finally knew what we came to see.
But what about some of those questions above? We've recognized a pretty clear etiquette in the street art we've looked at in Portland, San Francisco, Paris, Nantes, Umbria, Rome, Barcelona, and points between. Despite enormous differences in artistic expression and intent, everyone except a shit head leaves good stuff alone. Yet everyone accepts that it's all temporary. I think I was most struck by that in Cours Julien, but I've learned that it's also because of city and neighborhood rules in Marseille, which I found interesting. Cours Julien and the Panier neighborhood. The tourist bureau even promotes tours like the self-directed one we were on. We've been having good luck on our quest to find some wonderful art before it's painted over—or probably after something else was painted over.
Our Cours Julien experience coincided with what might be called a special exhibition but which was actually an outpouring of grief and high regard for Antoine Cofre—the nom d'spraycan of a young, inspirational graffiti artist from Marseille who had recently died in Egypt. Look him up on-line. Apparently, while he was renowned as a tagger locally and while he was capturing a following beyond, his dad had no idea what he did when he was out at night. Go figure.
With more time in town, we'd have come back to this neighborhood for the nightlife. Lots of clubs. Lots of music. On this late afternoon, the plaza was uncrowded, kids were playing around the fountain and pond. There were bakery and cookery smells. Restaurants were just returning to life. Trees were gathered in clusters. Old people and young gathered with them. The painted walls were too many to quickly absorb. We needed more time.
But this evening, we'd set our sights and reservations on a restaurant—on the edge of the old port—that had been smelling awesome for days. One more full day in Marseille and another restaurant exploration; then out early the next morning. We'd been away from home for 40 days. We'd never done that before. And it had not felt rushed except for having to run with our luggage when we switched trains in Milan.
We knew how much more there was to explore in Marseille. I wish we'd come here before. A great visit. A great trip. Another day. The easy parts. Then we had to fly home.
