All the Rowboats / Les barques
Boats immortalized by the painter wanting to escape from the canvas; violins behind glass, which no one plays anymore…: this song seems to blame museums for suffocating art, but it does so with a kind of joyful disapproval, with a delight even in imagining works of art breaking free from their gilded prison. I thought of the Louvre and Orsay museums that I visited, of the boats in certain Impressionist paintings... I stayed very close, in the French text, to the evocations of Regina Spektor and her subjective impressions in front of the artworks, which all seemed so familiar to me.
All the Rowboats
Written by
Regina Spektor
All the rowboats in the paintings / They keep trying to row away / And the Captains’ worried faces / Stay contorted and staring at the waves
They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames / For forever, forever and a day / All the rowboats in the paintings / They keep trying to row away, row away
Hear them whispering French and German / Dutch, Italian, and Latin / When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture / Marble, cold and soft as satin
But the most special are the most lonely / God, I pity the violins / In glass coffins they keep coughing / They’ve forgotten, forgotten how to sing, how to sing
First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up / Masterpieces serving maximum sentences / It’s their own fault for being timeless / There’s a price to pay and a consequence
All the galleries, the museums / Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs / They’re just public mausoleums / The living dead fill every room
But the most special are the most lonely / God, I pity the violins / In glass coffins they keep coughing / They’ve forgotten, forgotten how to sing
They will stay there in their gold frames / For forever, forever and a day / All the rowboats in the paintings / They keep trying to row away, row away
First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up / Masterpieces serving maximum sentences / It’s their own fault for being timeless / There’s a price to pay and a consequence
All the galleries, the museums / They will stay there forever and a day / All the rowboats in the oil paintings / They keep trying to row away, row away
All the rowboats in the oil paintings / They keep trying to row away, row away
Les barques
French kiss by
François Godin
Toutes ces barques du dimanche / Dont les rames restent relevées / Ces nuages de tempête / Qui menacent sans jamais se rapprocher
C’est le Louvre, c’est Orsay / Les musées sont de vastes mausolées / Toutes ces barques du dimanche / Privées du plaisir de voguer, de voguer
Les touristes, ça respecte / Les cordons de sécurité / Tant pis, je craque : devant le marbre / Je ne peux pas ne pas toucher
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Quoi de plus triste, de plus grotesque / Que de voir ces violons couchés / Sous vitrine, ils suffoquent / N’y aura-t-il plus personne pour en jouer, pour en jouer
On en rêve, mais c’est bête / Jamais on n’est seul devant les œuvres aimées / Dans la foule, les gens se pressent / On éteint les salles, il faut quitter
On met sous verrous, on séquestre / L’héritage des siècles passés / Voilà bien, oui, ce que c’est que / D’entrer au panthéon de l’humanité
Mais le plus triste, le plus grotesque / Ça reste ces violons couchés / Sous vitrine, ils suffoquent / N’y aura-t-il plus personne pour en jouer, pour en jouer
C’est le Louvre, c’est Orsay / Les musées sont de vastes mausolées / Toutes ces barques du dimanche / Privées du plaisir de voguer, de voguer
On met sous verrous, on séquestre / L’héritage, les trésors des siècles passés / Voilà bien, oui, ce que c’est que / D’entrer au panthéon de l’humanité
C’est le Louvre, c’est Orsay / Les musées sont de vastes mausolées / Toutes ces barques du dimanche / Prises au piège de leurs cadres dorés
Toutes ces barques du dimanche / Privées du plaisir de voguer, de voguer
The Rowboats
Translation of the
French adaptation
All these Sunday boats / Whose oars remain raised / These storm clouds / That threaten without ever coming close
It's the Louvre, it's the Musée d'Orsay / Museums are vast mausoleums / All these Sunday rowboats / Deprived of the pleasure of rowing around, rowing around
The tourists, they are respectful / Of the security ropes / I’m not: in front of the marble / I can't help but touch
What could be sadder, more grotesque / Than to see these violins lying down / Under glass, they suffocate / Will there be no one left to play them, to play them
We dream of it, but it’s pointless / We can never be alone in front of beloved artworks / The people crowd around, jostling / They’re turning off the lights – got to go
They lock up, they sequester / The legacy of past centuries / That’s the fate of works of art / Which enter the pantheon of humanity
But what’s saddest, most grotesque / Than to see these violins lying down / Under glass, they suffocate / Will there be no one left to play them, to play them
It's the Louvre, it's the Musée d'Orsay / Museums are vast mausoleums / All these Sunday rowboats / Deprived of the pleasure of rowing around, rowing around
They lock up, they sequester / The inheritance, the treasures of the past / That’s the fate of works of art / Which enter the pantheon of humanity
It's the Louvre, it's the Musée d'Orsay / Museums are vast mausoleums / All these Sunday rowboats / Trapped in their golden frames
All these Sunday rowboats / Deprived of the pleasure of rowing around, rowing around
The voice/piano demos of the French versions were recorded for the strict purpose of presenting my adaptation work. No broadcasting or public sharing on social networks, media or any other platform is authorized.
Any recording or public presentation by third parties of the songs in their French version is subject to my authorization as well as that of the rights holders of the original song.
