Lyon isn't just a reflection of its rivers and its industry.
It's made up of them -- when you look down a street or across a valley, the fabric of each breath here is water and silk, the same way it's water and steel in Pittsburgh.
It's made up of them -- when you look down a street or across a valley, the fabric of each breath here is water and silk, the same way it's water and steel in Pittsburgh.
And so, since I was staying directly on the Eastern bank of the Sa么ne this time, I made a point of running alongside the river on the quai that runs north, running upstream in the midmorning between periodic bouts of rain.
I ran past a really clever bench/picnic construction that was elegant and simple and ideal for a riverside.
There I found a tiny eye looking out over the river, but just beyond there was an inviting bend in the path, and so instead of turning around I continued.
But then more.
and more.
It turns out there is a public art project with over a dozen installations along the banks of the rivers of Lyon, scattered across the city, turning the river quai network into one gigantic linear art museum, of a sort.
Later I found other work by different artists on other parts of the river, including these brilliant and varied hopscotch boards which utilize the various flags and symbols of current and former French colonies and regions across the globe.
The first time I went running in Lyon, there was a point where the river was full of sculling teams, and one scull in particular was very near me on the eastern edge of the bank.
The last time I ran in Lyon, I ran past four men, alike in age, all pushing 65 or 70 perhaps, preparing a skull.
It felt as if I had slipped easily across 55 years and perhaps they were the same boys I'd seen two days before. The confidence was fully woven now, draped across each of their movements like a cloak. They were comfortable on the water, chatting as they tucked their shoes against the edge of the dock and prepared to push away, checking over oars and slipping into the scull with the practiced air of men who were once 12 themselves, on this same river, and were shouted at by a coach who is only a memory now.
It felt good. Time is a flat circle. It can become a series of repetitions, improvements, evolutions, and continuations. We return to the beginning and find it different because we are different, and so we begin again.
The river is the river. Always flowing and yet always here.
And in some moments we are simple creatures. We move to live, and live to move.
I ran through veritable tunnels of green.
And then I discovered the masks.
Just one or two, at first
and more.
Hundreds, perhaps, eventually, scattered along the wall, serene and haunting and beautiful.
It turns out there is a public art project with over a dozen installations along the banks of the rivers of Lyon, scattered across the city, turning the river quai network into one gigantic linear art museum, of a sort.
These masks are the work of Pascal Marthine Tayou, an artist from Cameroon.
They were beautiful. It's been in place for many years and so a few were damaged, which created a striking effect.
Later I found other work by different artists on other parts of the river, including these brilliant and varied hopscotch boards which utilize the various flags and symbols of current and former French colonies and regions across the globe.
and of course, the buildings along the banks of the river were also art all by themselves.
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The first time I went running in Lyon, there was a point where the river was full of sculling teams, and one scull in particular was very near me on the eastern edge of the bank.
The members of the crew were young -- boys of perhaps 12 or 13. Their coaches were chasing them in a small orange skiff with an outboard engine, shouting guidance that carried over the water between bursts of droning from the motor.
There was an earnestness in young faces, there was a shaky confidence to the crew -- one could almost see that confidence weaving itself out of the water and the air and the morning mist. A consistent yelp from one of the boys punctured the morning on each stroke -- to assist with coordination, I suppose.
As I ran I saw many other sculls, all full of young people, all engaging in something that is so clearly part of the fabric of life in Lyon. Crew is a part of the culture here.
There was an earnestness in young faces, there was a shaky confidence to the crew -- one could almost see that confidence weaving itself out of the water and the air and the morning mist. A consistent yelp from one of the boys punctured the morning on each stroke -- to assist with coordination, I suppose.
As I ran I saw many other sculls, all full of young people, all engaging in something that is so clearly part of the fabric of life in Lyon. Crew is a part of the culture here.
The last time I ran in Lyon, I ran past four men, alike in age, all pushing 65 or 70 perhaps, preparing a skull.
It felt as if I had slipped easily across 55 years and perhaps they were the same boys I'd seen two days before. The confidence was fully woven now, draped across each of their movements like a cloak. They were comfortable on the water, chatting as they tucked their shoes against the edge of the dock and prepared to push away, checking over oars and slipping into the scull with the practiced air of men who were once 12 themselves, on this same river, and were shouted at by a coach who is only a memory now.
It felt good. Time is a flat circle. It can become a series of repetitions, improvements, evolutions, and continuations. We return to the beginning and find it different because we are different, and so we begin again.
The river is the river. Always flowing and yet always here.
And in some moments we are simple creatures. We move to live, and live to move.
