Handball is in the eye of the beholder

Paris is a city of contradictions. It is “à la fois” welcoming and slightly distant. It is almost like the woman you fall madly in love with who never quite returns her favour.

If you travel to any European country and use any part of their language, they are complimented, surprised and delighted. Not so Paris; their citizens and denizens will return that slightly sardonic stare and even more curled lip.

But Paris speaks to me in a different way. She clutches her treasure tightly, but also allows you the briefest glimpse, that takes you away from the banal into a world of history, richness and culture.

I love to walk from the Jardins des Tuileries, occasionally looking behind me at the Palais du Louvre, up towards the Place de la Concorde. Crossing the bridge I see the Assemblée Nationale, the magnificent Musée d’Orsay and walk back towards the Latin Quarter.

It is with sheer joy that I dip in and out of the many art galleries in this vicinity.

You see, I enjoy looking at paintings. I can do it for hours. In fact I can lose myself just staring at one painting. I never take an audio guide, I want to find the meaning myself, the beauty within, the hidden symbolism.

Perhaps that is why handball is so intriguing for me. It is an art form, and its very nature is artistic on so many levels. The blue floor of the VELUX EHF Champions League is like a blank canvas upon which a coach can present the image of what the sport should look like. The colours, the movement, the light all add to the final product which unfolds before our eyes.

And much like art, we all have our favourite style. A style that speaks volumes about those that conjure it and present it to us.

If I may compare the two teams this weekend to two different schools of art - I would say that PSG are Cubists in style whereas Flensburg are Impressionists.

The Cubists by their nature base their style on straight lines, on cubic shapes. It is the interweaving of planes in muted tones.

They are almost robotic. They analyse, disassemble and reassemble in an abstract form.

Watch Paris this season. The small tactics and interplay is functional and stark in its presentation. Every so often they break from the form and we get the joyous genius of a Hansen, Karabatic, Narcisse or Abalo, but for the most part we get the simple shapes.

In the same way that I am not drawn to the Museum of modern Art in Paris, I am not drawn as a neutral to watch Paris.

There is no doubting it is effective and we see their handball from a multitude of viewpoints, much as the Cubists sought to achieve. But it is not an art form that draws me in. It is not aesthetically pleasing to me. It is not even “Avant Garde” as the Cubists wished to be, but a return to a former time.

Having said that, there is no denying the power that exists in their art: It demands attention whether you like it or not.

Flensburg by total contrast are impressionists. They give the impression of “free” handball, whereas in theory it is strictly thought out. And much like the impressionist paintings there is open composition and inclusion of movement.

In fact with this team, there is a sense of perpetual motion. The small thin brush strokes of the painters are depicted in their mobile, athletic players, each interchanging to give an accurate depiction of the quality their coach demands.

The edges are blurred somewhat in that they seem to occupy and not occupy space at the same time such is the swiftness of their movement.

This weekend brings together clashes of modernity and past, swagger and functionality, legato versus staccato, style and simplicity.

Each of us will have their preference.

I can’t wait for the game, but given the choice of art styles, I would prefer the Musée de l’Orangerie; to sit awhile among the impressionist master Monet and his “Water Lilies”.

The Cubists I will leave for those who understand it better.

But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then so is art.

And by extension so is handball.