I found Paris, 1925 by Armand Lanoux at Rodney’s Bookstore in Cambridge, a used bookstore that I restrict myself from visiting more than once a month because I inevitably walk out of there with some gorgeous old book that gives me a fluttery feeling, like a lunchtime beer. I know it is wrong to find spiritual fulfillment from material acquisition, but I don’t care. They just don’t make them like this anymore.
Paris, 1925 by Armand Lanoux
I found this coquettish tome while browsing the French section — I liked the pictures of art, fashion, and music, and the accessibly-chunked French text. I paid $24 for the book, so it chagrinned me to go home and find it on Ebay for $7. But whatever, because my copy is inscribed in elegant script by the original owner:
Pearl R. Difon
Paris, France
7 août 1958
I would love to know how Pearl’s book ended up in Cambridge, MA, but I guess it’s not too much of a stretch. In any case, Paris in the 1920s was one of the most fertile creative scenes in modern times. After the brutality and bleakness of World War 1, the artists of Europe and America were hell-bent on gaiety and inspired expression… and what better place to be but Paris?
Here is a shot of some unidentified artistes frolicking at the Café de la Rontonde. “Jours et nuit passés à boire la vie avec une paille,” says the caption — something about drinking life through a straw. I love the painting of the cat above the totally rad-looking girl on the right.
Although the book is sprinkled with iconic paintings from the era — Pierre Bonnard, A.E. Marty, Van Dougen — it gives equal ink to the fashion world. Look at this masterpiece. I covet everything: the sweater, the bike, but especially the casual French sophistication.
As the caption explains (I think), the below photo is of the start of a cycling race called the Night of the Six Days. This is an indoor relay race that takes place for literally six days — see the people in the stands? Which requires more stamina: Riding for six days, or watching for six days? These French are fucking nuts. The man holding the pistol is perched on the shoulder of what appears to be the strong man from the French circus.
I bought the book promising myself that I’d translate it into English in order to hone my French skills, but it uses some weird brand of archaic French slang that not even Mr. P can decipher. “C’est igolo is nonsense,” he swears to me, and Google bears it out. Oh, shut up, you gorgeous book. I just want to gaze at your pictures.
