Parisian Life

Montmartre tales…

This hillock is the area of Paris that held onto its country roots the longest. The paintings of Georges Michel (1763 – 1843), the first real ‘Montmartrian’ painter, provide an exquisite depiction of the scene. As Jean-Paul Caracalla describes it: “a rustic hill, brisling with numerous windmills, with gardens, with vines encircling thatched cottages, spring water running all the way to the pond at Poissonniers, the marshes of Grange-Batelière, Chateau-Rouge, or the hamlet of Clignancourt.”

At the beginning of the 19th century, getting to the top of the hill took a good half an hour. It was possible to hire donkeys at the gate at Clichy, to make the climb with little effort. For a long while, the streets kept their country names: rue des Moulin (‘Windmill Street’) had not yet become rue Norvins, rue des Rosiers (‘Rosebushes Street’) was not yet called rue Girardon, rue de la Saussaye (‘Spring Street’) became rue du Chevalier de la Barre. At number 42 of the latter, at the end of the 19th century, a farm still stood where it was possible to get milk, cream, and butter. In addition, it was the campaign headquarters of George Clémenceau in 1876. As for the infamous Montmartre scrubland, a wasteland to the north-west of the hill, with windmills, rag and bone men, and derelict buildings that features in Renoir’s ‘French Cancan’, it disappeared with the creation of Avenue Junot in 1910.

Since, Montmartre has changed. The village has become a district, practically a brand in its own right. Nevertheless, it’s important to look out for the real Montmartre, the one hiding behind the clichés. Forget about the place du Tertre and let’s venture out to the ‘official’ edge of the hill. Just like in Venice, as soon as you get off the beaten track, the real world reclaims the land, as if Mother Nature is taking her revenge. A mere street corner, a different perspective, sometimes a simple post, and it’s no longer you that is looking at Montmartre, but Montmarte that’s spying on you…