Paris – David Enzel

A Lifetime of Love for Paris

October 27, 2025October 10, 2025

For nearly fifty years, I’ve carried a love of Paris. For a long time, I thought it was an inheritance—a gift from teachers, photographers, French cousins, and friends. But only recently have I realized that Paris now belongs to me.

The seeds were planted early by my very first French teacher, Mrs. Stewart in Pittsburgh, who always made me feel valued and welcome. She made French not just a subject but a joy—something expansive, a new world opening before me. Later, a college professor urged me to take my first trip to France—a visit that included meeting my French cousins, who graciously introduced me to the City of Light and its culture, followed by a month at the University of Aix-en-Provence.

In Paris, seeing the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées for the first time was overwhelming. I didn’t just see grandeur; I felt the weight of history that has transpired there. Standing on the Champs-Élysées, I was struck by the horror of Nazi Germany marching down it in victory on June 14, 1940, and the profound relief and pride of the American and French armies liberating Paris on August 25, 1944. The German occupation lasted just over four years, and the liberation, led by French and U.S. forces, was met by jubilant Parisians in the streets. That same day, Charles de Gaulle entered the city to proclaim, “Paris! Paris outraged! Paris broken! Paris martyred! But Paris liberated!” The following day, he marched triumphantly down the Champs-Élysées, embodying the spirit of France restored. The weight of those moments in history made me appreciate even more the resilience and beauty of the city I was discovering. I think of those events every time I see the Champs-Élysées.

Yet Paris was only the beginning of my French journey. In Aix, I met a teacher from the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium who shared my love of the country and its language. I also met Marica from Mexico, who was simply fun to be with. One day, we rented a paddle boat on Lac d’Esparron in the south of France. We lost track of time, missed our bus back to Aix, and ended up laughing as a kind stranger gave us a ride to the train station in Manosque so we could make our way home. It’s a small story, but one I treasure—a reminder of youth, friendship, and the kindness of strangers.

That same summer, I discovered the music of Véronique Sanson. I loved her then and still do now. I remember listening to her voice while visiting the calanques of Cassis, marveling at their sharp white cliffs and turquoise but icy water. Somehow, the beauty of those landscapes fused in my mind with the beauty of her songs. Even now, hearing her music carries me back to that summer.

After moving to Washington in 1979, I kept up my French. At Georgetown University and the Alliance Française de Washington, I found kind and influential teachers who nourished my love of France and its language and culture. Through them, Paris stayed alive for me, even when I was far away.

I wish I had photographs from my first trip to France. I’ve since learned that even imperfect photos are worth keeping because they hold memories words can’t always capture. Photography, for me, is a way to preserve what matters most.

It was my father who made these experiences possible, investing in my education and my first trips abroad, shaping me in lasting ways. My teachers opened doors, and friends gave me stories to carry.

Now, with my camera, I carry them all forward. Every photograph I take in Paris is a way of honoring those who helped me get to know the city. Paris is a presence that has grown inside me over a lifetime, stitched together by people, music, landscapes, and light. Just as I once linked Véronique Sanson’s songs to the calanques of Cassis, I now link my own photographs to the Paris I love. Paris lives in my memory, my images, and my heart.

Centre Pompidou — A Place I Came to Love

October 4, 2025

I first visited the Centre Georges Pompidou in 1977, the year it opened. The building felt shocking in its modernity. I had never seen anything like it — exposed pipes and bold colors, right in the heart of Paris. How could this belong in the same city as the Louvre or the Assemblée Nationale?

The idea for the Centre took shape in the late 1960s, when Paris was still unsettled by the protests and strikes of May 1968. President Georges Pompidou, who loved modern art, wanted to create a cultural center that would feel open, democratic, and alive. His vision was to combine a public library, a museum of modern art, and spaces for music and performance under one roof — a place where tradition and the avant-garde could meet.

In 1971, an international competition was launched, drawing more than 600 entries. The jury, chaired by French architect Jean Prouvé, chose the radical proposal of two young architects: Renzo Piano, born in Genoa in 1937, and Richard Rogers, born in Florence in 1933 to a British family. Their design turned architecture inside out. By pushing structure, escalators, and utilities to the exterior, they left the interior wide open and flexible. Prouvé admired their daring — it was exactly the step into a new era that Pompidou had hoped for.

Over the years, as I returned to the Pompidou, I grew to love it. The plaza in front of the museum always recharged me. Young people sprawled on the ground, laughing, playing music, filling the courtyard with life. That sense of openness was not an accident — Piano and Rogers wanted the Centre to be a crossroads of art and community.

I also remember riding the exterior escalator, climbing above the rooftops of Paris. From there, the city unfolded — Sacré-Cœur glowing on the horizon. It reminded me of Piano’s later projects, like the Shard in London and The New York Times Building in Manhattan, always searching for lightness and views. Rogers, for his part, went on to shape landmarks such as Lloyd’s of London and the Millennium Dome. Both would eventually win the Pritzker Prize — Piano in 1998, Rogers in 2007 — but here in Paris, their collaboration was at its boldest.

Now, the Pompidou is closed for renovations, with reopening planned for 2030. I don’t know when I will see it again. What I do know is that I will miss it.

The Pompidou began as something I thought was too modern, almost jarring, and became a place I adore. It carries with it the daring of its architects — one Italian, one British — and the conviction of a president and jury who believed Paris could take a step into a new era. For me, it became just that: a space of art, of community, of Paris itself, bold and alive.

Notre-Dame Reborn

September 28, 2025September 19, 2025

When I stepped inside the restored Notre-Dame de Paris on my recent trip, my jaw dropped. I had braced myself to see scars from the 2019 fire — blackened stone, lingering smoke, a cathedral permanently marked by disaster. Instead, I found a space so clean and luminous it felt renewed. The air was clear, the stone brighter than I remembered, and nothing betrayed the night when flames nearly brought this monument down.

That fire broke out on April 15, 2019. It destroyed the spire and much of the roof, and left the world watching in disbelief as one of the most recognizable buildings in Europe seemed on the verge of collapse. In the days that followed, President Emmanuel Macron promised the French people that Notre-Dame would be rebuilt “within five years.” At the time, it sounded impossibly ambitious.

And yet, in December 2024 — just over five years later — the cathedral reopened to the public. The restoration was a massive undertaking. Carpenters and stonemasons worked with traditional tools and materials, rebuilding the roof frame in oak and covering it again in lead. Specialists cleaned centuries of soot from the interior stone, leaving the walls brighter than I ever remember seeing them. The cost was staggering, estimated at around €700 million, but more than €840 million was pledged, much of it from private donors, corporations, and foundations, with the French state overseeing the effort.

Investigators never determined a single definitive cause for the blaze. Arson was ruled out. The most likely explanations point to either faulty electrical wiring or a cigarette left smoldering on the scaffolding that surrounded the roof. Whatever the origin, the fire became a national trauma — and the restoration a matter of pride.

One of the most striking aspects of the restoration is what cannot be seen: the measures put in place to protect the cathedral from another disaster. Notre-Dame is now equipped with advanced fire detection sensors, a sprinkler system designed to protect the attic timbers, and strict new safety protocols for any construction or maintenance work. Dedicated fire safety teams are trained specifically for the building, and regular inspections are built into its ongoing care. The new oak roof frame may look medieval, but it is now guarded by twenty-first century vigilance.

Now, walking through the nave and looking up at the soaring vaults, you would not guess at the near loss of this building. The absence of smoke stains, the brightness of the walls, even the feeling of clarity inside the space all speak to what was achieved. Notre-Dame does not look like a survivor so much as a rebirth — a reminder of how cultural treasures can be both fragile and resilient.

For me, the experience was moving not only because of what I saw, but because of what I didn’t. I saw no evidence of catastrophe. Instead, I saw continuity — a cathedral that, having nearly perished, now feels more present and alive than ever.

You can get a sense of the magnitude of the destruction and the effort involved in the reconstruction in this video:

Maison Européenne de la Photographie: A Home for Photography

September 20, 2025September 18, 2025

In the heart of the Marais in Paris lies the Maison Européenne de la Photographie (MEP). It isn’t a grand, imposing museum like the Louvre or the Musée d’Orsay. Instead, it feels intimate, almost hidden — a place where you can stand quietly before a single photograph, letting it work on you without distraction.

Encountering Marie-Laure de Decker

The exhibition that stopped me in my tracks was devoted to Marie-Laure de Decker. Before this visit, I knew nothing about her. Yet her black-and-white images held me still: the grain of film, the intensity of her subjects’ eyes, the strange balance of fragility and strength.

Her story is as remarkable as her photographs. De Decker began as a striking fashion model in Paris. She saved enough money to buy her first Leica and soon turned the camera on the world’s conflicts. Her photographs from Vietnam and Chad carry a rare humanity — not just war and suffering, but dignity, presence, and survival.

Two of her cameras, a well-worn Leica M3 and M4, are on display at the MEP. Ordinary tools, scratched and aged, yet heavy with history and courage.

More Than a Museum

The MEP is not just a gallery of images. It feels like a home for photography itself, where established masters share the stage with emerging voices. Its bookstore is a temptation all its own — shelves lined with rare catalogues, monographs, and books that open like personal invitations into other lives.

And when you step back outside, you’re in the Marais: narrow old streets, bustling cafés, a Paris scaled to human rhythm.

Marie-Laure de Decker – on display at the MEP

What Matters

Standing in front of de Decker’s work, I felt something I sometimes forget: the latest gear matters very little. What endures is the eye, the courage to see, and the willingness to be present.

The MEP reminded me why I fell in love with photography in the first place. It is not only about images. It is about memory, refuge, and meeting the world through another’s gaze.

If You Go

If Paris is in your plans, make time for the Maison Européenne de la Photographie. You may arrive expecting to see photographs. But if you linger, you might leave changed — carrying the weight of another person’s vision, and perhaps, a little more courage to see the world for yourself.

La Grande Arche de la Défense: A Modern Monument to Humanity

August 18, 2025August 18, 2025

La Grande Arche de la Défense (“The Great Arch of the Defense”), originally called La Grande Arche de la Fraternité, is a monumental building in the business district of La Défense, in the commune of Puteaux, west of Paris. Usually referred to simply as La Grande Arche, the 110-meter-high (360 ft) cube is part of the historic axis that runs from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe. The distance between the two arches is about 4 km (2.5 miles). Built as one of President François Mitterrand’s Grands Projets, it stands as a symbol of modern France.

In 1982, a national design competition was launched at Mitterrand’s initiative. The winning entry, by Danish architect Johan Otto von Spreckelsen (1929–1987) and engineer Erik Reitzel (1941–2012), reimagined the Arc de Triomphe for the late 20th century. Instead of commemorating military victories, their design celebrated humanity and humanitarian ideals.

Construction began in 1985, led by French civil engineering company Bouygues. In 1986, Spreckelsen resigned and transferred his responsibilities to his associate, French architect Paul Andreu, best known for his work on Charles de Gaulle Airport. Reitzel remained involved until the monument was completed in 1989.

The structure takes the approximate form of a perfect cube, with a width, height, and depth of 110 meters. Some have suggested it resembles a hypercube—or tesseract—projected into three dimensions. Built with a prestressed concrete frame clad in glass and covered in white granite from Bèthel, Italy, the Arche has a striking, minimalist presence.

La Grande Arche was inaugurated in July 1989 during celebrations marking the bicentennial of the French Revolution, including a grand military parade that passed beneath its soaring frame.

Sources: Wikipedia | French moments

The Institut de France: Guardian of Knowledge and the Arts

August 16, 2025

The Institut de France is a French learned society that brings together five académies, including the prestigious Académie Française, guardian of the French language. Founded in 1795 at the direction of the National Convention, it is housed on the Quai de Conti in the 6th arrondissement of Paris.

Today, the Institut oversees nearly 1,000 foundations, along with museums and châteaux open to visitors. It also distributes prizes and grants—amounting to more than €27 million annually in 2017—most of them awarded on the recommendation of the académies.

Faithful to the mission set for it in 1795, the Institut and its five académies continue “to contribute, on a non-profit basis, to the progress and influence of letters, sciences, and the arts; to honor useful inventions and discoveries; to recognize distinguished artistic achievements; and to reward noble deeds and the steadfast practice of civic and social virtues.”

Dancing in the Heart of Paris: Place Colette

August 16, 2025

Tucked beside the Comédie-Française, Place Colette is more than just a Parisian square—it’s a stage where the city itself performs. Named in 1966 after the writer Colette (1873–1954), following a request by her daughter to then–Minister of Culture André Malraux, the square has since become a beloved gathering spot. On warm evenings, people often come here to dance in public, filling the air with music and movement. It’s a joy to witness, and a reminder of Paris’s enduring spirit of playfulness.

Suggestion: If you’re nearby, try this walking route that includes Place Colette, the Palais-Royal, and surrounding streets. It’s a beautiful way to experience Parisian history and atmosphere at a relaxed pace.

La Maison de Molière: A Living Tradition in Paris

August 15, 2025

As a lover of France and its language, walking into the Comédie-Française feels like stepping into the heart of French culture. Founded in 1680 by decree of Louis XIV, it is the world’s oldest active theater company and the only state theater in France with its own permanent troupe of actors.

Its main stage, the Salle Richelieu, stands within the Palais-Royal complex in the 1st arrondissement. The setting is both grand and intimate — a space steeped in history yet alive with contemporary energy.

Often called La Maison de Molière, the theater honors the playwright most closely tied to its legacy. Though Molière died before the company was formally created, the Comédiens-Français still perform his plays and pay tribute to him each January 15.

The Comédie-Française is often associated with the classical repertoire, but creation has always been central to its mission. In 2023, I saw a modern staging of Médée d’après Euripide that showed just how vital and daring the troupe remains.

If you speak French, it’s worth buying a ticket. Sitting in that gilded hall, you’re not just a spectator — you’re part of a living tradition more than three centuries old.

Salle Richelieu, Comédie-Française, Paris © David H. Enzel, 2023

Where Paris High-Rises Become Art

August 15, 2025

The 13th arrondissement of Paris is dominated by modern high-rise buildings, a sharp contrast to the historic architecture of the city center. Many now feature large-scale murals by French and international urban artists. There are more than fifty in total. This thoughtful initiative—not just decoration, but deliberate place-making—aims to bring warmth to otherwise stark facades.

This inventive urban renewal effort brings color and character to the neighborhood, offering a different experience from the artistic treasures of central Paris.

A Parisian Museum, a Family’s Tragedy, and the Lessons of History

August 14, 2025August 13, 2025

The Musée Nissim de Camondo is a historic house museum of French decorative arts, located in the Hôtel Camondo at 63 rue de Monceau, on the edge of Parc Monceau in Paris’s 8th arrondissement.

The home was built in 1911 by Ottoman-born Jewish banker and art collector Count Moïse de Camondo, inspired by the Petit Trianon at Versailles. It was designed to house his remarkable collection of decorative arts and fine furniture.

Tragedy shaped its fate. In 1917, the Count’s only son, Nissim, was killed in World War I. Shattered by the loss, the Count withdrew from society and dedicated himself entirely to perfecting his collection. When he died in 1935, he left the house and all it contained to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, stipulating that it become a museum in Nissim’s memory.

Just nine years later, the Count’s last surviving heir, his daughter Béatrice, was deported to Auschwitz along with her family during the Nazi occupation of France. None survived. The Camondo family line ended, leaving the house as its sole surviving legacy.