This One is Ours

by Kate O'Donnell

  There is an article about the new craze for protest signs and posters. The posters are amazing. They feature the same imagery – the factory with the fist – as the ones Delphine and I looked at online and in the metro. These ones use fluorescent inks in greens and yellows and hot pinks, and shout: Your house is on fire. I can’t tear my eyes away. I forward one, two, three to Crow. Maybe we could use this idea if she needs posters again sometime.

  She sends back: !!!!

  Her reaction is more affirming than Olivier’s had been. When I’d first brought up the posters from 1968, he had laughed. ‘Everyone loves these,’ he’d said, scrolling through them on my phone. ‘I do like the simplicity. But I don’t know if my father would hang these in an exhibition.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ I’d agreed. But afterwards I wondered if I did agree. These are historical documents, they’re creative expressions of the time, and they’ve become iconic imagery. What is it that excludes them from worth as art?

  I watch the city pass by, and I sketch what I think the subterranean route might have been that the train took to get here. And onto this map I mark the things I saw on the metro that I would have missed if I had walked:

  The fat baby of a begging Roma woman bobbing out of its sling.

  A canoodling young couple.

  A tiny old woman in a fur coat with a tiny dog on her lap.

  The building, the École des Beaux-Arts, is itself a work of art – though I’ve thought that about every building in Paris.

  Inside, we are a small class of about eight people, so we can get close as Véronique shows us Li Hua’s work Arise, which is full of fear and movement. She talks about Matisse, John Banting, Picasso, Warhol – and even mentions the Atelier Populaire.

  And then it is our turn. Choosing what to draw for the linocut is very stressful. Usually when I draw I can just flip to the next page if I’m not happy or rip a page out. But this time I have to decide on something I would be happy to print again and again. Oh! The pressure!

  Olivier is more confident about choosing an image for his linocut. ‘I thought I’d experiment with light and dark,’ he says to Véronique, and shows her a version of the tree drawing he’d done, the one of the haunted forest with the commanding trunks stretching up to the sky.

  I feel slightly happier when I learn we’re just working on little squares. I tell myself that it’s just a practice. Just a first go.

  And so I start my first linocut. I figure a word is a simple place to begin, and I go with Rêve, French for dream. I carve it mirrored, to print the right-way-round.

  I learn how to hold the lino up to the heater to make it easier to run the tool across it. I learn which tools work best for the kind of lines I want to make and how hard to press. I learn that the tools are sharp, and I subsequently have to learn the word for band-aid (un pansement).

  Once we are finished, we roll the ink onto our lino squares and run the press slowly over them. Holding onto the press wheel makes me feel like a captain steering a ship.

  I hold my breath as I peel the paper from the lino, and can’t stop a smile as the print comes away almost perfect. When I lay it out on a table and look over it, the imperfections (not enough ink rolled on, a little smudge, a bit of dirt trapped in the ink) actually give it extra life.

  Olivier gently pinches my finger, the one with the band-aid. ‘Nice.’

  For my second go I am bolder. I take a bigger square and I cut the simple map I made of Paris. Bordered by the périphérique, I outline each arrondissement and I slice the whole city through horizontally with the Seine. It’s an approximation of Paris, but Paris nonetheless.

  ‘Are you happy with it?’ asks Véronique, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘I am. I have an idea for my exhibition project,’ I say tentatively. ‘And I think this class is helping me get closer to being able to see it.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me more?’ she asks.

  I try to think where to start. ‘Maybe soon,’ I say, and we share a knowing, happy smile.

  I don’t even notice, but the workshop runs a little late.

  We step out into the evening around 7.30 and wander along the Rue des Beaux-Arts.

  ‘Remember I want to take you to Shakespeare and Company,’ I say to Olivier. He slings his arm over my shoulder.

  ‘A lot of sirens,’ says Véronique, tilting her head to listen.

  I hear them too, but there are always a lot of sirens in Paris. More than back home. Their tone here is more commanding too, at some kind of pitch that causes them to ring out: bee-barp bee-barp.

  ‘Until tomorrow, you two,’ says Véronique, and she strides off towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  We walk the other way, heading towards Shakespeare. At first, I’m distracted by having Olivier’s arm around me, and by imagining a stranger looking at us and what they might be thinking. Can they tell that I’m not French? Does the beanie knitted by my grandpa give me away? Do we suit as a couple? The tall thin artist with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and the short, big-hipped girl whose hair pokes scrappily from under her shabby hat?

  I soon realise there is a strange movement of people around us. The sirens shriek louder than ever. A feeling of unease grows in me and shifts like seasickness with the movement of my steps.

  ‘Wait, look at that.’ Olivier points, and his arm drops from my shoulder.

  I follow his arm to the sky, where ominous smoke billows above our heads.

  Remember, the world is ending.

  There are more and more people on the street. I feel crowded. Everyone is breathless; our pace increases and I have to run to keep up with Olivier’s long-legged stride.

  As we come out on the Place Saint-Michel, we see it.

  ‘Oh mon dieu,’ say voices around me. So many people with their hands over their mouths.

  The Notre Dame burns orange. Flames leap and smoke billows.

  It’s like a movie. Like a nightmare.

  We hurry along, pushing through the crowd to get closer. Through the alleyways I visited on my first day, with the kebab shops and crêpes and felafel. The shops that sell souvenirs for tourists. We come out by the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, and we’ve got front row seats to history in the making.

  I watch Olivier’s face, transfixed by this scene, as we stand there, and I am reminded of the night he walked me home. When it felt like the world was ending.

  ‘Do you think anyone was inside?’ I ask, though even as I say it, I’m not sure why he’d know.

  The initial flurries turn into a quiet reverence, people comforting one another, just watching it burn. The image of Jean-Pierre Houël’s Storming of the Bastille flashes in my mind – that black smoke, those tiny people.

  Then my grandfather’s house flashes in my mind. As it was, when I was a kid, and how it is now. Rubble. Charred.

  Maybe things can’t last forever.

  Beautiful things can disappear.

  Accidents happen.

  What about the beehives? I wonder. Those poor bees.

  Some people begin singing.

  I don’t know the song, but they all raise their voices, and it’s magical to be among it.

  Terrible things happen, but sometimes they’re beautiful. Or stunning, or life-changing.

  And we stand there.

  Singing the cathedral down.

  Crow

  What did it smell like?

  Sofie

  Do you know, it didn’t smell like anything?

  That smoke was thick though.

  I know. And such a weird colour.

  Scary.

  Very.

  – Overnight chats with Crow

  Everyone talks about the Notre Dame fire for days.

  Friends (and not-friends, but people who like to be involved in d.r.a.m.a.s) from home
all message me, and I feel this really weird sense of responsibility and rele-vance, as I send photos and tell them how actually I was right there.

  In the heat of the moment I had posted a photo, taken from where we stood that evening on the Rue Saint-Jacques. It is the most-liked and most-shared post I’ve ever had, which is a bit disappointing. I’ve worked hard to build an audience for my drawing, and find followers and validation for the tiny beautifuls I capture. It feels a bit gross to be benefiting from this.

  I’m so glad the cathedral didn’t burn to the ground. I don’t know how that would have felt. The structure’s still standing, with only the roof gone. It is so strange and perversely wonderful to think I was there to watch it happen.

  But I also get it and find myself a bit obsessed. I draw a sketch of the cathedral and loop lines around and around it, to mark all the times I go to check in on what’s happening with salvage and repair. There are always many people checking in. I do it in spite of myself. I know that it’s just a building and that terrible things happen all the time, that in the grand scheme of terrible things it is not the most terrible; the internet is ablaze with sympathies and criticisms alike.

  At least the bees are safe!

  I read the newspaper headlines and there are more and more things I understand as I find the French language easier. Crise! they say. Crisis.

  Since the fire, so many billionaires have donated to a rebuilding fund and millions of euros are piling in. I think it’s amazing, and staggering. I find it hard to imagine that amount of money.

  Crow sends me an image she found online. It’s a poster. Sorry for the inconvenience. We are trying to change the world.

  The poor are getting poorer and the rich are getting richer, and people are speaking up. They’re making plans. They’re saying enough is enough! There’s no life on a dead planet.

  It’s not our fault, say the richies. It’s not our fault we’re good at our jobs. We’re hard workers. If the poor worked harder, they would have more money.

  Mum got a promotion at work once, and I was excited imagining the presents she might buy me with her new money, only to be disappointed by something called a ‘higher tax bracket’ that meant, somehow, she had less money in her pay cheque each month.

  And where are the millions to rebuild Grandpa’s house? To turn climate change around? End poverty?

  I want to believe I can change the world, writes Crow. But I think we need to start by eating the rich.

  Delphine invites me to come to a meeting on Friday night, at her friend’s house out in the suburbs. She and her friends are preparing for a march – a manifestation, she called it. Manif for short.

  ‘We want them to declare a climate emergency and we want to show the government that we don’t agree with their proposed economic changes.’ When Delphine speaks, I feel moved, and I feel like I can change things too.

  I send a text message to Olivier: I’m going to a political meeting. Do you want to come with Delphine and me?

  No response.

  So we tell Claudette and Léon there’s an evening session for running club, and off we go.

  At the meeting I don’t understand a lot of the conversation and for once I don’t think it’s a language thing, but an ignorance thing. But I put a look on my face that hopefully shows I’m an ally. And that I should be there.

  I sit next to a girl called Manon, who has hair that curls and drops all the way to her waist.

  They talk and they’re so informed about subjects from climate change, to American politics, to the ramifications of Brexit, to gender violence. I wonder how do you decide what cause is worth fighting for the most?

  ‘Can you believe these billionaires have already donated all that money to repair the Notre Dame roof?’

  ‘I agree it’s outrageous, but is it so bad?’ says someone else. ‘It’s a cultural icon. Shouldn’t we preserve it?’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ says Manon. ‘Nine hundred million euros after just two days. These people could change the world if they wanted.’

  ‘But they don’t,’ I add. ‘Do you know, in a strange way, I feel lucky to have been there when it was on fire. I don’t think I’ve been part of history like that before.’

  Delphine leans in. ‘But you have.’

  I am confused.

  ‘We all are right now! We are witnesses to the sixth mass extinction. We’re on the frontline of history. And those in power are doing nothing. It’s up to us to make them sit up and pay attention.’

  I have never thought about climate change this way. We’ve always known about it. Learned about it at school. How can it be that children know there’s an emergency, but our governments knowingly sit by and just let it happen? I almost don’t believe it.

  But looking around at this group – they’re mobilising. They’re taking this seriously.

  I could make more posters. I’ve got the skills. I’ve got the words to say, ‘I would like to make some posters, if that would help you.’

  The group looks at me, their faces friendly, encouraging.

  I smile and say, ‘Donnez-moi vos slogans!’

  They give me their words and I sketch them out.

  While we paint and draw and paste, the world hums around me. I am part of it, but I am also somewhere else. I feel like this might be what people who meditate are trying to achieve. I love having something to put all my focus into. It’s how I always feel when I make art, but there is something more to it tonight.

  We talk about metaphors and rhetoric and sometimes I don’t understand exactly why something is clever or funny, but they take the time to explain some strange intricacy of language or some years-old reference from TV. I feel as though I learn more about the French language in four hours than I’ve done in class for two months.

  ‘Did you know …’ I say, channelling Crow, my voice cutting through the hubbub. ‘Did you know that half the coral in the Great Barrier Reef is completely dead? It boiled to death.’

  ‘Well, that makes me depressed,’ says Manon. ‘I’ve never even seen the Great Barrier Reef.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I add. ‘Don’t forget the pollution from sunscreen and the effect mining has on the coral reefs. And speaking of boiling, did you know that if you boil a frog in water really slowly, it never realises the water is getting hot and it just keeps swimming around until it dies?’

  ‘We are the frog!’ shouts Delphine. I can’t believe I ever thought she was a demure piano-playing French girl. I’m starting to wonder if she’s secretly Joan of Arc.

  Between us, we bring my sketches and their intentions to life. I help them fix bits of wood to the cardboard signs with thick gaffer tape. They call the tape ruban adhésif. I’m learning so many handywoman words!

  I feel proud once we are done. I am elated and exhausted in equal measures when it is time to leave.

  ‘Merci, Sofie,’ says Manon, kissing one of my cheeks and then the other. ‘À la prochaine.’

  I can’t stop thinking about all that dead, bleached, boiled-to-death coral. Shake it off, shake it off. There is absolutely nothing I can do about the coral. Though Delphine thinks there is. Maybe, maybe she is right.

  I feel guilty about my parents, who seem to get by without worrying all that much. I feel guilty about my easy life. About being able to come here.

  I call Hana to say all this and more. To pour my guilt out.

  ‘I am so privileged. How am I supposed to be part of this? How can I be outraged, when I’m part of the problem?’

  ‘You are privileged,’ she says. ‘We both are.’

  ‘I want to be part of the movement.’

  ‘You can be. Just do it. You have just as much to offer as the next guy.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do.’

  ‘Sof, we might be privileged, but we’re also smart enough to know it. And we may have had
it easy in terms of enough food and safe housing our whole lives, but we also have perspective. We can see those who have too much, and Mum and Dad have tried to keep our eyes open to the world. There’s no ivory tower here. I work every day with people who have completely lost perspective – if they ever had any to begin with – on what’s right and what’s good in the world. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘How can you bear to take their money then?’

  She’s silent for a moment. ‘Because I’m going to take their money, take it right out of their greedy hands. And I’m going to do something great with it. I know Dad doesn’t believe me, and he thinks I’ve sold out. But just wait.’

  My sister, an activist. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  I thought I’d try selling some prints and cards on the street. My cash stash is dwindling.

  I set up at the top of the Parc de Belleville and I send out some Insta stories to let my friends (in both countries) know where I am. Delphine lent me a picnic blanket that belongs to her parents and I’ve made a little sign with prices and information. I’ve tried to mimic the French style of writing with its loopy cursive letters. I line up my pieces on the blanket.

  I’ve sketched people, buildings, even particular trees (because there aren’t so many) around the quartier, and have copied them out multiple times on some beautiful card. I thought I’d charge two euro each, because they’re quite small.

  I won’t say my little art stall is buzzing with business.

  ‘How was your meeting?’ asks Olivier, appearing from around a nearby corner.

  ‘It was really interesting,’ I reply. ‘You should have come along. We made signs to carry at the protest.’

  I sell two illustrations to some cute-as-heck backpackers. The ones they choose are of a pair of lovers in beanies: one of the couple kissing on the forecourt of the Notre Dame and the second showing the pair photographing each other in a park. I want the tourist couple to think maybe the drawing could be of them (that’s why they bought them, of course). But surely Olivier knows I’ve drawn us. I’ve memorialised us in illustration and set ourselves into the world. I think it’s romantic.