The Lost Arts

There were both too many metal guitarists for a stately ceremony on the Seine, and yet, too few. When the broadcast cut to a wide shot of the Conciergerie, it revealed nothing, nothing—a vast expanse of beige wall with a few ant-like figures crawling in its cracks. The primary image of the Paris Olympics Opening Ceremony was emptiness–literal, visual emptiness. Strangely, the planners seemed not to have considered the composition of the huge widescreen shots, so the set pieces on the Seine looked eerily unpeopled—strange puppet-like dancers on pogo sticks floated sparsely and aimlessly in the glowering sky above the Pont Neuf like the souls of the unbaptized in Limbo. A pre-recorded video set in a library was, the announcers intoned, meant to celebrate French literature. Not a word was spoken or read. The only parts of books we saw were the covers. The now-infamous banquet table-cum-catwalk was likewise curiously barren, looking awfully Lenten for the Dionysian banquet we are now assured was intended. Where were the overflowing cornucopias of voluptuous summer fruits? The steaming platters of roast meats dripping in fat? Where, in fact, was the wine? A self-serious sobriety reigned. Don’t you dare revel. In their haste to kill the Catholic God, it seems the French may have also caught Dionysus in the crossfire.