Day One
Our first week in London was kind of a blur. Both Mike
and I were severely jet-lagged, though he is more used to the experience than I am and more adaptable overall. I kept asking
him if it was really normal to be unable to sleep until 4:30 am or to wake up again and again for hours at a time. Shouldn’t
I be over this by now? What if I will never sleep properly again? Isn’t there something wrong with me, really? I didn’t
quite believe him when he said it would pass.
In any case, there was no time to think about it. We
were off to Paris the weekend after our arrival in London.
Our group arrived at the Gare du Nord via the Chunnel
and checked in at the Ibis hotel nearby (nondescript, but efficient business chain hotel). Mike and I dumped our bags in the
room and were immediately off to the Musee d’Orsay to use every moment of our two-days-one-night in Paris. We assessed
the line and decided it would be best to get lunch first (at the little café across the street: endive salad with thinly sliced
smoked duck, very nice) then we went back and waited in line for about an hour to get into the museum.
The Orsay is a beautiful example of the recycling of
public space: a 1900 railway station converted into an art museum showcasing some of the best 19th and early 20th
c French art: Van Gogh, Gaugain, Monet, Manet, Cobert, Renoir, Cezanne, Degas and lots of etc. I expected to love the Van
Goghs and did, especially the painting of his room at Arles, to which no reproduction can do justice: the colors are saturated
and intense and the perspective is skewed ever so slightly, as if you’re standing in the doorway of a room with a crooked
floor. It pulls you right into the frame. Very odd effect. Or perhaps it was just jetlag.
The real surprise for me was Manet: I’ve always
liked his work well enough in reproduction, but seeing it in person was a completely different experience. Dejeuner sur l’Herbe
(translation should be something like "racy picnic") is here, and his Olympia, the nude Odalisque of the famous Parisian prostitute
that raised such a scandal when the painting debuted in 1865. Not that artists hadn’t painted prostitutes before, but
the portrait is neither coy nor subtle, nor is the technique. Manet’s Olympia is formidable, indifferent to her suitor’s
flowers, and positively icy to the viewer, who she stares down, not blinking for over 140 years now.
We were booted out of the Musee d’Orsay at closing
and made our way through the Jardin des Tuileries toward the Place de la Concorde under a turbulent sky. It’s deep spring
in Paris; everything is blooming and the tree canopy was so thick it almost completely sheltered us from the pouring rain.
We didn’t even need our umbrellas. The rain released the perfume of the gardens, our unique Evening in Paris.
There was a brief lull in the rain as we got to the Champs-Elysees,
so we didn’t stroll I’m afraid, but walked as quickly as possible to the Arc d’Triomphe, another landmark
of Paris. About half way there the skies opened up, with strong winds that pushed the rain horizontally and turned umbrellas
inside out. We bolted for a plywood overhang in front of a store under renovation and huddled there with a cluster of lively
young Middle Eastern immigrants and some elderly natives. One of those laughing shrieking moments that need no translation.
We all got drenched from the knees down, despite raincoats and umbrellas. But it was wonderfully romantic too!
After the Arc, the rain hit hard again, so we dashed
into a restaurant on the Avenue George V (called appropriately enough The George V) for splendid boeuf bourguignonne, wine
and camembert. The place was packed with tourists and Parisians (both Middle Eastern and homegrown) everyone very animated
and amiable, laughing, drinking, chattering and smoking.
Except for a few furtive attempts at looking cool in
high school, I’ve never smoked and am generally a crab about it in public spaces. But for some reason in Paris I didn’t
mind. The middle eastern men at the next table were smoking something that smelled faintly of mint, and occasionally I got
a whiff of a particularly mellow cigar that brought back childhood memories (my best friend’s dad smoked them when I
was a kid). Besides, the second hand smoke from French cigarettes doesn’t seem as harsh. By the time I was ready to
leave Paris, I found myself actually craving a cigarette when a smoker would light up. (This might have been a problem if
I’d stayed longer.)
The rain had dissipated by the time we were done with
dinner, so we made our way back to the Ibis, had a good soaky bath and caught a few minutes of a Marilyn Monroe movie, with
songs in English and dialogue dubbed into French. I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow and had the first full night
of sleep I’ve had since we left the US. Apparently Paris cured me of my jetlag.
Day Two
A beautiful morning in Paris. The hotel is in a neighborhood
that is mostly business, but partly residential, and our room overlooks an old office building with apartments tucked into
corners and eaves, each with its own pretty rooftop or patio garden. Mike and I are already trying to figure out a way to
live here in retirement. Prices for apartments in Paris are not as discouraging as London prices, but they’re not encouraging
either.
We check out at 8am and leave our bags in a locker at
the Gare du Nord, and are off to the Louvre. It doesn’t open until 9, but I’ve heard horror stories about the
lines, so already feel late.
The Metro lets us off in the rear of the Louvre complex,
so we enter through the Cour Caree, a quiet dignified inner courtyard. At this hour we have the area to ourselves, with a
scattering of Parisians using it as a short cut to work and an old gentlemen out for his morning stroll with his cocker spaniel.
Swallows lace in and out of the archways, and a little woman carrying groceries breaks into song as she steps under one of
the archways. A scrap of song so plaintive and sweet that it makes you want to weep echoes through the courtyard and fills
the Cour Caree. A purely Paris moment.
The line at the Louvre entrance is quite reasonable at
8:30 am, and when it opens at 9 we’re among the first 100 people in the door. Though it might make more sense to tackle
the big-show items at once, we want to be sure to see the Northern paintings, so we head there first. (It will be impossible
to see the entire Louvre if we want to see anything else of Paris by the time we have to meet our party at the Gare du Nord
at 5, so we skip the ancients entirely. I know. Very sad. But we had to prioritize. Ancients and decorative arts will have
to wait for another trip.)
Many people complain about the organization of the Louvre,
but I didn’t find it very difficult. Yes, if you are looking for a specific minor work it can be hard to find, but if
you scan the walls as you enter a room and have a pretty good eye, you are naturally drawn to the works that most interest
you. And if your eye has had any art history classes at all, it will easily pick out the originals of many of those slides
you had to memorize for exams. Most Northern Renaissance and 17th c artists are represented here. Many Rembrandts
and Van Dycks, some nice small Bosch and Breugels. Several Hals, Holbeins and Memlings. A nice self-portrait by Durer as a
young man.
The gems of the collection, of course, are singled out
for special presentation and generally have walls or rooms of their own, often beautifully lit. We have two precious little
Vermeers all to ourselves for as long as we want them, as it’s so early in the morning. I’ve developed a special
affection for Vermeer, having seen a few of his paintings in DC and NY. These two, the Astronomer and the Lacemaker, make
me decide to "collect" them; that is to collect experiences of them, kind of the equivalent of a birder’s "life list."
(Quick! Girl in a yellow dress at 2:00!)
By the time we get to the French galleries it’s
starting to get crowded. I have Dorthea Beard at NIU to thank for my interest in 19th c French art, God bless her. And all
the greats are here: David, Ingres, Gericault, Delacroix, Gerard and on and on. There’s a special gallery designated
exclusively for immense famous paintings that will bowl you over. In fact, I think that’s the name of the gallery: "Excuse
moi. Ou est les grosse peintures ala "bowl me over," si vous plait?" But yes, all the big paintings you ever saw in art books
are here, and they are even more amazing than you imagined: Gericualt’s Raft of the Medusa, a painting that changed
the entire dynamic of art; The Coronation of Napoleon, commemorating the moment when Napoleon snatched the crown from the
pope and made himself emperor; Delacroix’s Massacre at Chios, you can almost smell the dust and lingering gunpowder.
And of course and the beautiful Liberty Leading the People,
the quintessential painting of the French Revolution. We are quite moved. It’s most interesting to be in a country where
people still care rabidly about little things like government and politics. Libertie Equalitie Fraternitie. Say what you will
about the French, they still care enough to take to the streets for their ideals. Even now. American tourists roll their eyes
and complain about how it ties up traffic, and why can’t they just sit down and be quiet? But we might take some lessons,
mes amies.
Pole-axed, we exit the grosse picteurs gallerie into
the Italian Renaissance. Things are bustling here, with herds of Japanese tourists, unruly school children and DaVinci Code
aficionados. The film opened in Europe last week and we were warned to expect hordes around all the relevant pictures. We
expect a long line for the Mona Lisa, but voila there she is. They let you simply crowd around it now, favoring a lassiez
faire approach that seems to work quite well. And no, it’s not so very small, nor is it dark, which is always what you
hear. It’s lovely. Serene and balanced. The only disappointment is that we can’t get as close to it as we’d
like, what with the barricade and the guards and the bulletproof glass.
Of course, the Louvre has other DaVincis, too. The more
famous works draw big crowds, especially now that there’s a film and a best seller about them, but all of them are jewels,
and we lingered around the less celebrated pieces for quite some time without getting jostled or elbowed. And of course there
are other Italian Renaissance works by other artists! (Overheard in the Italian Renaissance room: "I’m not really up
on my religion…who was John the Baptist, anyway?")
Exhausted by Italian painting, we exit through Italian
sculpture, intent on lunch and a trip to Notre Dame. Hey this Michel Ange guy is really good…oh yeah! Two of the sexiest
slave boys I’ve ever seen. Michelangelo clearly loved men.
All this marble reminds me that I should have made an
effort to seek out Canova’s Psyche and Cupid, a piece that has long been a favorite of mine in reproduction. I’ve
missed it. I’m not even sure it’s here. If I go back it might take hours to locate.
Then suddenly there it is. Luscious, sensual. A truly
beautiful work. It's said that Rodin got thrown out of the Louvre for running his hands over it and attempting to kiss the
breathy expectant lips of Psyche. He was right though, it wants to be touched, begs for it. If Michelangelo’s work suggests
he loved men, it’s clear that Conova loved women. It is a shame that you can’t touch it, but we take several pictures
of it from all angles. (See picture at the top of this site. Did you know that they let you photograph in
the Louvre? Or at least in most areas…and the same is true in several other museums in both Paris and London.)
Notre Dame is our next destination, by way of the Quai
along the banks of the Seine. We lunch at an open café at Pointe Neuf. Our table is next to a massive battered oak door that
must be 18th century, and is still actively being used for access to apartments above. Paris is full of atmospheric
tidbits like this.
The approach to Notre Dame is reminiscent of the approach
to some of the Buddhist temples at Nara, minus the sacred deer begging for food, of course. (Maybe the pigeons take that place?)
And the cathedral itself is oddly analogous to Todaiji in Nara. Both places are still very much active places of worship,
not merely historic sites. Both are immense. And both interiors are shrouded in deep shadows and subtle golden light that
make photography a challenge. You can’t use a flash or you lose the atmosphere; if you don’t use a flash you need
a long exposure and unless you are very steady, it blurs.
And the place is just too big to photograph, both inside
and out. I try, of course, but the results bear no resemblance to the reality.
After citron crepes at a nearby café, there is just time
enough to visit the Eiffel Tower before meeting our group at the railroad station. We don’t go up, but take several
standard snaps just before being caught in the rain one last time.
