{"id":114958,"date":"2017-09-05T13:00:22","date_gmt":"2017-09-05T17:00:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=114958"},"modified":"2017-09-05T13:41:16","modified_gmt":"2017-09-05T17:41:16","slug":"visit-musee-edith-piaf","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/05\/visit-musee-edith-piaf\/","title":{"rendered":"A Visit to the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Mus\u00e9e Edith Piaf.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

When Edith Piaf died in 1963, at the age of forty-seven, she was the most famous singer in France. But Bernard Marchois,\u00a0founder and docent of the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf, was afraid the petite songstress, whose extraordinary voice elevated her from the street corners of working-class Belleville to the stages of the world\u2019s largest music halls, would fall into oblivion after her death. \u201cHer public will never forget her, but the media can. Piaf must not die a second death,\u201d he told me, in French, sitting on an ornate Victorian couch once owned by Piaf herself.<\/p>\n

Paris is filled with strange museums\u2014from the museum of absinthe to the museum of carnival equipment\u2014but the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf is among the strangest. Marchois has kept the same hours since its founding fifty\u00a0years ago, in 1967: Monday through Wednesday, one P.M.<\/small> to six P.M.<\/small>, strictly by appointment only. He pointedly speaks no English (\u201cJuste une<\/em>,\u201d he corrected a prospective American visitor, \u201cUne<\/em>, pas un, parce que vous \u00eates une jeune femme.\u201d) To those who call, he dictates the address and door codes to a residential building in Belleville. The museum occupies two small rooms of a fourth-floor apartment that adjoins Marchois\u2019s own.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Faint notes of \u201cLa vie en rose\u201d float down the hallway. Inside, one is greeted by a life-size cardboard cutout of the four-foot-eight\u00a0Mome Piaf\u2014the little sparrow, as she was affectionately called. On a rocking chair sits a large teddy bear that matched her in height, a gift from one of her many lovers. The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in photographs, framed letters, fan mail from the equally famous, her collection of china plates, her birth certificate, her awards, and painted portraits of her, often with her mouth open in the exquisite agony of song. Short headless mannequins model her dresses, all black, and side tables are crowded with her shoes and gloves. The two cramped rooms have the quality of a shrine, and according to Marchois this is intentional. \u201cWe did not want to make a traditional museum,\u201d he said. \u201cWe wanted to make a space that felt inhabited.\u201d<\/p>\n

There is no signage or explanatory text in the museum: Piaf\u2019s life story is assumed to be known by the visitor. Heavy furniture, brought over from the sprawling apartment where she lived in the final years of her short life, crowds the space. But she lived in these rooms once, too, for a brief time, in 1933, when she still sang in the streets and drank in the bars, transient and unknown.<\/p>\n

While visitors browse, Marchois drifts unobtrusively, offering information only when solicited. He has written two books on Edith Piaf, and collaborated on many others, but he seems to prefer to ruffle papers and discreetly\u00a0point out the donation dish. He is an orderly man, and he keeps a strict schedule\u2014visitors who arrive ten minutes late may find him peevish. Yet when at ease, and talking about his favorite subject, Marchois is an excellent storyteller, with animated facial expressions\u2014his glasses enlarge his blue eyes\u2014and a dry sense of humor.\u00a0Marchois\u2019s Edith\u00a0Piaf\u00a0is a wholesome one\u2014if she was seen as an alcoholic, it is only because her delicate constitution couldn\u2019t process alcohol, and a single beer caused her to wobble. If she abused painkillers, it was only to combat her rheumatoid arthritis long enough to appear on stage before her fans.<\/p>\n

He told me of two visitors who were, as he put it, \u201csensitive.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s here!\u201d one told him, eyes wide, refusing to cross the threshold into the museum. The other held her hands above one of Piaf\u2019s black dresses and proclaimed, \u201cIt\u2019s getting warm.\u201d She asked Marchois if he wished to move the museum to a larger space, then told him it would never happen. \u201cShe likes it here,\u201d the woman told him.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd why does she like it here?\u201d I asked Marchois, willing to delve into the metaphors of the supernatural to draw him out. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he replied, with a shrug. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to ask Edith yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marchois first met\u00a0Piaf in 1958,\u00a0when he was seventeen\u00a0years old and she forty-three. His parents\u2019 friends had dragged him to a party at\u00a0Piaf’s house. He had never heard of the singer before and he was unimpressed by the small rumpled woman, who woke past two P.M.<\/small>\u00a0and greeted her guests with a sleep mask on her forehead and curlers in her hair. But then, she announced that it was time to practice her songs for her performance at the Olympia that evening. Her guests fell silent, and she singled him out\u2014the sullen teenager sitting on the floor by the piano. She stared straight at him while she sang, performing for him alone. It was as if she had said to herself, He doesn\u2019t like me now, but he will see. And see he did. Marchois fell under her spell and never re-emerged. \u201cHow did you like it?\u201d she asked him after the rehearsal, and he gaped at her, struck dumb. She told him to meet her at the artist\u2019s entrance of the Olympia. After that, he went every single evening. He never missed a Piaf concert in Paris. When her health began to rapidly deteriorate, he held her elbow to walk her onto the stage, propping her against the piano before the curtain rose. And five years after her death, when even radio Montmartre, the station of traditional French oldies, began to play Piaf less and less, and the same three compilations of Piaf\u2019s music rattled around in the record stores, he approached her friends and collaborators, and founded the museum dedicated to preserving her memory.<\/p>\n

\u201cPardon me for my indiscretion,\u201d I said to Marchois, \u201cBut did you ever start a family of your own?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no, no,\u201d he said. \u201cNo, no.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo would it be safe to say that Piaf has been your one great love?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlatonic!\u201d he said. \u201cPlatonic love, yes. That\u2019s why I close the doors between our apartments at night: she has her rooms and I have mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Marchois is in the second half of his seventies now, still young among those who once knew Piaf, but older by other measures. One day, he knows, he will no longer be able to greet visitors, quietly sharing his love for Piaf, as he has done for the past fifty years of his life. The arrangements have been made: the collection of memorabilia\u2014the porcelain urns she once owned, the letters from Jean Cocteau, the portraits\u2014will be absorbed into the archives of the French Ministry of Culture. And this apartment will lie empty, awaiting its next tenants. Perhaps, if they are sensitive, they will hear the strains of \u201cLa vie en rose\u201d still lingering in the air.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nadja Spiegelman is the author of<\/em>\u00a0I\u2019m Supposed To Protect You from All This, and coeditor of<\/em>\u00a0Resist!, a feminist publication of comics and graphics.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  When Edith Piaf died in 1963, at the age of forty-seven, she was the most famous singer in France. But Bernard Marchois,\u00a0founder and docent of the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf, was afraid the petite songstress, whose extraordinary voice elevated her from the street corners of working-class Belleville to the stages of the world\u2019s largest music […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1222,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[5964,26556,3450,30420,3294,30421,3225,270,13375],"class_list":["post-114958","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-concert","tag-edith-piaf","tag-jean-cocteau","tag-la-vie-en-rose","tag-montmartre","tag-musee-dedith-piaf","tag-museum","tag-paris","tag-singing"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nA Visit to the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Nadja Spiegelman on the songstress Edith Piaf and the museum devoted to her memory.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/05\/visit-musee-edith-piaf\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Visit to the Mus\u00e9e d\u2019Edith Piaf by Nadja Spiegelman\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 5, 2017 \u2013   When Edith Piaf died in 1963, at the age of forty-seven, she was the most famous singer in France. 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