Versailles

My inexplicable childhood obsession with Marie Antoinette was revived once I walked through the gates into Versailles. I remembered the drawings I did of her in sixth grade for a book report. Now, I was surrounded by the backdrops I had once doodled.

History comes alive when you walk through the palace. Its impossible not to imagine mobs of revolutionaries, fed up with “eating cake,” shoving past you as you navigate the halls. An audio-guide mentioned the rooms Marie Antoinette had decorated and I could almost see her ordering someone to find the right drapery. Her bedroom and her bed were still intact. She walked where I walked. I could see the door she would have slipped through to try to escape.

Knowing the end of the story, I don’t know why I had such a fascination with her. I’ll blame the book I read in sixth grade. I think it focused on her childhood rather than her beheading. Still, striding through the gardens I couldn’t help but think that it would have been nice to be royalty. Surrounded by flowers and trimmed hedges, looking out to what looked like miles of topiary and lakes, kept pristine just for you to enjoy, followed by the wild hills of France in the background, the gardens were the most tranquil part of my initial trip. I could have stayed there a lifetime.

Unfortunately, my camera died steps into the palace so I only have a few photos to show for the day, until I steal some I took with my mother’s camera, but there really is no way to capture the overwhelming nature of everything about Versailles in a photograph, or a few paragraphs for that matter.

Love Locks in Paris

The bridges were covered. I’ve spotted a few throughout Italy, but Paris trumped them all.

The Louvre

Where art goes to die.

I hate saying this as an artist and a lover of art, but I absolutely detested the Louvre. All I could think about while shoving through the crowded halls were quotes from art critics I’ve read over the years. The idea that museums are graveyards just kept popping into my head. All of this amazing art was completely taken out of its original context and piled on top of each other like dung. Paintings were layered high and wide on each wall. Cases were crammed full of ancient artifacts, then layered themselves. The museum became a warehouse where artwork could be stored and cataloged, not appreciated. All that was left were the specters of true masterpieces that once were and would only be again if removed from that environment.

I truly was looking forward to visiting the Louvre, and I may sound harsh, but walking through that museum may have been my most depressing moment as an artist. I had to keep asking myself, what’s the point? Rooms filled to the brim with decadence and luxury made my stomach sink. It all just seemed like such a waste. I kept thinking about how many hours of work went into just one room and comparing that to the number of seconds it took for the streams of people to filter through.

To make matters worse, the Louvre map highlighted about twenty must-see works. Signs pointed you in the right direction so you wouldn’t miss what the museum deemed worthy of your time. Like horses with blinders, people herded to the likes of Winged Victory and, of course, the Mona Lisa. When I got into the room that housed the museums most prized painting I just wanted to turn around, find the closest illuminated sortie sign, and get out. Past a huge mob of cameras and shoving tourists, past a rope and security guards to contain the masses, past an open space to assure no one got close, behind a wall of semi-reflective glass, the Mona Lisa gazed back, unaffected by the frenzy she was causing. I didn’t even try to fight my way to the front. The view would have been half my reflection and half a let down. I found myself craving a book that contained an image of the Mona Lisa since seeing the painting, alive as it was meant to be, was not an option. I took pictures of the hoards of people instead of the artwork.

I will admit, there were moments when my spirit lifted a little. The fact that most of the tourists I was surrounded by didn’t realize that there were more than twenty masterpieces in the Louvre meant half a dozen or so pieces that I really love were both out of the path of the stream and not being hovered by cameras. For those, I tried oh so hard to just block out everything else and only see the painting, get inches away, and admire.

The Louvre made me appreciate other museums that make an effort to showcase the artwork housed within. And the fact that this is the largest art museum in the world gave me hope in the system—no other gallery is as monstrous. I have hope that the Louvre is the great flood and there will never be one like it again. If there is, I will know not to have my hopes up when I go and to bring a mental image of a blank wall to place behind every piece I see.

Paris: Day 3

Musée d’Orsay

I have a love affair with Manet. Not Monet and his waterlilies. Manet.

Walking past paintings that I have idealized for years was like finally meeting a pen-pal after a hundred summers of letters. There, undeniably in front of me, were the brush strokes I had memorized, but never been able to fully envision. I could stand back and be mesmerized by the paintings for hours, but I’ve seen photographs in books that have kept me far enough from the artwork already. Standing just inches away you could see where the paint is so thin, the canvas still shines through, and although Manet didn’t paint with thick paint, you could still make out the bold marks he would have made with his hand right about where my face was. There lie proud Olympia. There were the bathers gazing out at me.

The museum boasts much more than Manet as well. Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Degas, Serrat, Van Gogh and so many more are housed within the museum’s walls.

Ah, Van Gogh and your yellow paint eating habit, thank you for the madness that brought us this incredible artwork: the color combinations, the thick, delectable paint, the perspective. A large room was devoted to him and paintings I had never seen. Some of them, a feast for the eyes, others, experimental works that lead him to his greatness.

Standing in a long line and a sudden downpour was definitely a small price to make it into the museum. I just hope my eyes wont forget what the paintings really looked like, that they wont too quickly turn back into the distant photographs I already knew.

Paris: Day 2

This gallery contains 13 photos.

Paris: Day 1

This gallery contains 14 photos.

London: Day 3

In three days we were able to knock out most of the usual tourist attractions in London, as well as spend some time soaking in the art. We hit up the National Gallery and Tate Modern, although we missed out on the Tate Britain, full of gorgeous Turners, so I’ll have to see that again when I come back. Still on medication I had to take it easy on the bitters, which was hard for me to do, but Mom got her fish and chips at a pub, so all was well.

Our last day in town started with a full English breakfast. Mom didn’t know what she was getting herself into, but she seemed to enjoy the baked beans, grilled tomatoes, ham, sausage, eggs and mushrooms. I had potatoes instead of the meat, and for this potato addict, I couldn’t be happier. I also don’t think we realized how good we had it in England with large mugs of coffee. The rest of Europe just hasn’t figured out the joy of a vat of warm liquid in the morning. Instead they just get a jolt from a small sip of espresso they call a coffee.

After breakfast we headed out to Notting Hill and Portobello Road where the streets are full of antiques and nick-knacks galore. You could spend all day wandering the market and your eyes would still find something new around every corner. The clothes on the other hand are the same in the shops and in every market around London. Its easy to spot other tourists by their three layered scarfs, locket clocks, and cheaply made tops. I own one of each from last time in London. I awkwardly strutted by the scarf stalls while wearing my own matching garment. One stall had wooden type from a printing press in London, and although I knew it was overpriced, I couldn’t resist. The designer in me was drooling over the slew of letters still stained with ink that had been used in the late 1800s. This was a piece of my heritage. How could I pass it up?

Lunch had to be at Borough Market. I really don’t understand why England has such a bad reputation for food, when fresh markets are filled to the brim with delectable edibles. After the best lentil fajita I’ve ever had, we wandered by fresh bread baked in flower pots, kegs of mulled cider, fruit, flowers, and cheese.

The evening was filled with swing dancing of course. London has my heart partly because of the selection of swing dancing every night of the week. There just happened to be a big dance while we were in town too. Porchester hall, a beautiful old ballroom, was filled with the sounds of a seventeen piece band playing great classics and occasionally a singer would come out for a Peggy Lee tune or two. The room lit up with all of the dancers and I can’t wait to go back for more.

 

London: Day 2

This gallery contains 12 photos.

London: Day 1

This gallery contains 9 photos.