The Louvre

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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.

Mona Lisa Crowd

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.

Musée d’Orsay

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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.

London: Day 3

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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.

 

Taking Off

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After having just read Everything is Illuminated, the novel from which one of my favorite movies originated, I have a compelling urge to give a really long and obscure title of a search to my first real post while traveling, but I’ll restrain. It really all just started with taking off… in every way: off the ground, off work, off school, off the structure from which my life has built a security rope, keeping me tethered to reality as I know it.

We took off from the St. Louis airport with a few hitches. The left side of my face was swollen up around my eye, not quite as big as a softball, but close. Maybe more like a ping-pong ball, but when your own face is disfigured, you notice. The swelling wasn’t nearly as bad as when I had a bad reaction to poison ivy years ago and could almost be recognized as non-alien with both my eyes swollen shut. No, this was a bad reaction to who-knows-what that started a couple of days before the trip, leaving me swollen and covered in a spreading rash, despite a last minute steroid shot in the rear the day before hopping on the plane. I assumed security would be a drag looking a bit like a druggy-gone-wrong, but I was mistaken. It was just a hat kind of day for a couple of days in London.

My mom and I were in the last group to board, and by the time we got to the front of the plane I heard whispers that they were out of room for luggage. As the fullness of the under-supplied storage was obviously the fault of the remaining passengers who had yet to board, the flight attendants turned sour, nitpicking whether a little old lady should be allowed on with two tiny bags attached by a handle since the small carry-on officially, they pointed out, was two separate bags. By the time we got to the front of the line to be scrutinized, we were just told there was no room and our bags had to be checked. When we mentioned that we were told to keep our bags since we had a short connection to catch an international flight, they could have cared less. So we snuck our bags to our seats before a lady came to berate us a bit, telling us we should have boarded early (prior to when our section was called?) if we needed our carry-on bags to be carry-ons, then finally relenting and stowing one of our bags up front. Pissing off the flight attendants was not on my itinerary, but they were just set on being angry with us, and I was not about to miss my flight to London.

The rest of the trip went smoothly, besides pleasant talk shows about types of bombs that have been used for terrorism being streamed over the intercom at the airport in Minneapolis and hold-on-tight-cause-it-will-do-you-any-good turbulence over the ocean. London was bustling and I was beaming. I was back in the city I fell in love with in January, and this time, I had a functional camera.