Notre Dame de Paris

I did eventually pluck up the courage to walk down to Notre Dame. I wasn’t sure I wanted to but knew that, sooner or later, I would have to, especially as I have a lot of work in Paris this year.

I knew it would be painful, I hadn’t bargained on it being quite so difficult.

Notre Dame and I have developed a very close relationship over the years. I’ve got to know her very well. I’ve been privileged to see parts of the cathedral most people never see. I’ve shared the thrill with many of my groups of performing there.

I’ve heard the great organ at full volume and felt it vibrate in the very depths of my being.

I’ve witnessed the joy of the faithful venerating the holy relics of the passion. I’ve shared the excitement of the procession of clergy bringing the Crown of Thorns to the altar on Good Friday.

I’ve been deafened by the pealing of the great bells. I was there for the 850th birthday celebrations.

I have helped hundreds of students over the years to understand the meaning of the statues and reliefs on the facade. I have been to the Cluny museum and seen the remains of the original statues from the gallery of Kings.

I have marvelled at the scale and the colours of the rose windows. I’ve studied the details.

I’ve been there at sunrise, at sunset, on scorching summer days and in the depths of winter.

I have got to know this building. I feel comfortable in it’s company. We have history. We are, we were, friends.

I was on a plane when Notre Dame burned. I had no idea it was happening. When I landed, my phone started pinging with messages from concerned friends. Slow to cotton on to what I was reading I eventually realised something devastating was happening in Paris and turned on the news. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Tired and jet lagged I got into bed and cried myself to sleep.

The following day I waited for news. It was touch and go, then it maybe wasn’t quite as bad as we feared, the rose windows were saved, the facade was not about to collapse. The President was promising a full recovery. It would be long but it would happen.

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, things didn’t sound so good. The delicate operation to remove the melted and fused scaffolding could yet lead to the collapse of the building. It was fifty fifty.

So I was dreading seeing my old friend. I kept putting it off. Then it was decided. I wasn’t far away. I’d go. As I approached from St Michel along the river, I saw the facade. It looked the same as it always had, I paused, relieved, and then my heart lurched. It didn’t look the same at all.

I remember the last visits to my grandmother when her memory was failing. Her beloved face was so familiar to me but the life, the light had gone out of it.

Seeing Notre Dame was just the same. Something fundamental was gone. I wasn’t even sure what it was. There was nothing behind the facade. I tried to remember what was missing. I struggled to rebuild in my mind what was no longer there, the soaring roof, the spire. I tried to erase the hoardings and the cranes from the picture. I wanted my friend back just as I had wanted my grandmother back.

I hadn’t been prepared for any of this. The memories of my grandmother’s last weeks, the feeling of loss, the horror of the building site around the cathedral.

I had persuaded myself that this was just another chapter in the history of a great building. That it would be restored and I would incorporate the Great Fire of 2019 into the story of the building just as I talk about the damage caused by the revolution and Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration of the cathedral in the 19th century.

Now I wasn’t so confident, now I was looking at the empty shell of my dear friend and fearing things would never be the same again. Would I recognise the old Notre Dame in the restored and possibly transformed building? Would I be able to find my friend again? I turned right up rue St Jacques towards the Sorbonne with a heavy heart. I wasn’t sure I would.

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