Luminous Black: Soulages at the Pompidou

A long black line twists around the Centre Pompidou as hundreds of Parisians wait to enter the Pierre Soulages exhibition. A flurry of black hats, black tights and black boots await to blend into black canvases.

For the past 30 years, Soulages has been creating paintings comprising almost entirely of only one color, black. The canvases are so black, they are beyond black, "outre-noir", as he calls it. The artist coats think black globs onto thin black streaks creating rich, shiny textures and infinite abstract images. When you stare into one of these unnamed black holes, you can see nothing and everything. Is the painting of the universe, a starless sky, a duck or a cow? If the title would give any indication, it is just "Painting 222 x 175 cm". The painting is everything that you project onto it.

For me personally, the painting is the essence of Paris-- "noir lumineux" or luminous black. Parisians are almost often dressed in black, with sleek black hair draped onto thick black peacoats. They radiate the theme of Johnny Cash's song, "The Man in Black": "Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day/ And tell the world that everything's OK/ But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,/'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."

The Soulages exhibition features a movie in which the artist describes stained glass windows that he made for a cathedral, which were, of course, black. Normally, stained glass windows are brightly colored gems that filter the light of the heavens, reflecting divine beauty. Soulage's blacks are so bright, so shiny that they reflect millions of prismatic colors. They are nothing short of heavenly. It is the "noir qui brille," the black that shines.

And so are Parisians. Like Johnny Cash or the black stained glass windows, Parisians seem to acknowledge the darkness, the pain and the suffering of life. This allows light and beauty to filter through. It makes them incredible artists, fashion designers, seekers of beauty in aspect of their day. The other night, I saw that some Parisians had replaced a wrecking ball on a crane with a giant disco ball. All night long, white flecks of light danced all over a construction site and hundreds of office buildings and modern apartments. Young couples making dinner and tired janitors stood wide-eyed at the window, hypnotized by the white lights caressing the darkness.

When I return to Los Angeles, I wear black. The black of mourning, the black of infinite possibilities, the black of Paris. Until things are brighter, I am "la femme" in black.