CHASING PAINT

Saturday, April 19, Day 18

April 22, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Packing went easily and well, which meant one less thing to distract me. Picked up a baguette with Brie to go from Miss Manon, and tucked it in my bag. Road the Metro to St. Michel with a line change, which showed me how confident I’d become with something I was nervous about when I arrived. I followed the cultivated, intelligent ladies who recorded the audio guide through the Rue de la Huchette walk, which gave me insight into medieval times. It was quite the disconnect, looking at stones carved ages ago while bobbing like a cork on the tide of tourists. What the guide had to say was insightful, but it was my first exposure to being caught up in a super touristy area lined with cheap trinket stores, cafés and the barbarian hordes. I bought a piping hot butter and sugar crêpe from a walk-by window, delicious camouflage that gave me a legit excuse to stand in the street when I paused to look and listen. Eventually, the audio guide led me to Rue Jacob. I sat under a tree in a courtyard garden of the oldest church in Paris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and devoured my baguette with Brie.

Among the gifts of the day, was watching fitful sunlight bloom and fade translucent colors through the stained glass onto the flagstone floors of the Church.

The audio guide explained exactly how the whims of royalty and the depredations of war had influenced the church’s interior. I sat on one of the small wooden chairs that have been in every church I’ve visited in Paris (as opposed to pews) and felt the centuries stretching behind me. Thought about the enduring power of faith, no matter how human being have twisted or denied it. One thing the audio guide pointed out was how the St of Rue St Severin had been gouged out of the stone street sign by the revolutionaries, who wanted to erase the influence of church. It’s the day before the resurrection is celebrated in the Christian world, as it has been for 2014 years. The older I become and the shorter my string gets, the more I am astonished at the ability of us short-attention-span monkeys to conceive of and create such a thing as art.

A little bit further along, I found myself on Rue Buci, which rang a distant bell. ‘Number three on the fifth floor’ floated up out of wherever I store information that hasn’t been accessed in 43 years, like the fortune in a Magic 8 ball. I thought I’d just walk over and see if there was, in fact, a number 3, and if it had a fifth floor. And yeah, there it was. The garret I lived in when I first came to Paris, before I tripped and fell into modeling and my life spun off in an unanticipated direction.

I took a couple of photos to show Robert and noticed a motorcycle’s mirror was in one of the shots. Appropriate, as this was a pure stare in the rear view mirror of my life moment.

On I went. I happened by Ladurée at 4, just when my blood sugar fell into the cellar. I decided to sit down and have tea and a salted caramel macaroon or two. Upstairs I went. Blue velvet, gleaming silver, Earl Grey tea, sugar. I wrote postcards to my loved ones and contemplated the many pleasures of Paris. Time well spent.

My time is done here, though so much is left undone. It will have to suffice. I don’t know how or if this will manifest in my work. For all the riches of this city, I love my life, my real life. I will be glad to get home and be with my darlin’ Robert, my spoiled rotten dogs, and my studio. And, when they get back from their travels, my beloved children. Out of the rear view and into the present moment. But not just yet. Ten more days to go.

I’ve heard the King of Holland is going to throw a party, his first birthday as the national holiday. Good thing I’ve got that tangerine scarf. Heading for the CDG airport at 7am and the next chapter in this travelogue; Amsterdam, and the Rijksmuseum.

Friday, April 18, Day 17

April 21, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday was my last visit to the Louvre. After a maudlin start, I knew I could either be all elegiac Canon In D Major sad, or bask in my good fortunate Pharell Happy. I chose happy. Packed my backpack carefully, refilled my bottle with Perrier, made sure I had my sketchbook and pencils*, Nook, maps, and back-up battery pack**. No line at the Metro ticket machine, and a seat was open on the train, double win.

Galloped into the Louvre, with my iPod blasting Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,’ blessing my Des Ami des Louvre card, straight into the arms of the Flemish, Dutch and Germans on the second floor of the Richelieu wing. I followed my eyes and heart. At some point, I began taking photos of women with books or swords.

Bonus points if they carried both.

That carried me through the next three hours. My mood cycled from happy to be there, to sorry to be going. Finally, it occurred to me that the harder it is to part, the luckier I was to have been there. I had just taken a photo from the window with the Tuileries ahead, Eiffel Tower to the left and the city gleaming white in the distance, when an ear-splitting alarm went off, followed by a voice telling everyone to evacuate the Louvre, for reasons of safety.

The announcement, in multiple languages, alternated with the alarm. I wondered if someone had started humping the Venus de Milo, or if there was a shooter loose, maybe a bomb threat. I watched people wander by in the direction of the escalators as the announcement kept repeating, but it was like trying to turn the Titanic. No one seemed to feel any urgency. I started towards the stairs but didn’t rush any. I saw a security guard and asked him what gives. He shrugged one weary shoulder, blew a puff of exasperated air out of his lips as only the French can, and said, “It is a drill. You may ignore it.”

All righty then. No problem. I decided to consider it the lunch bell, since it was past 1pm. I went to Angelina’s and tucked into grilled sole and lemon hollandaise, with a basket woven out of shaved carrots in three colors, followed by noisette, and a macaroon for dessert. I did another little drawing of Joséphine on a postcard, this time for Robin. Afterward, I went back to where I started on Day One, the sculpture court, and sketched my favorite view of Roland, Furioso.

I walked in and out of the various levels of the sculpture court until I finally made myself quit stalling and leave. I took the Metro back to Saint-Paul, and, en route, took a sip of water. Or planned too, but when I unscrewed the top, it blew off with a bang, like I’d popped a champagne cork or fired a Glock. I sat there, stunned, sprinkled with l’eau mineral. No one was injured, and the guy next to me thought it was very amusing. I was obviously shocked down to my shoes. So kids, today’s lesson is don’t put water that’s carbonated in your water bottle, then walk all over Paris before you open it.

I left the metro without further incident, and walked over to a shop with scarves I’d liked and bought one in vivid Mandarin orange with white polka dots of varying sizes. Then I walked to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, thinking I’d have pigeon pie and mint tea for an early supper, but no, too late. Headed back and passed a Scandinavian clothes shop called Cheap Monday and bought a white tee shirt with C H E A P P A R I S printed on it in black lettering. Maybe you had to be there, but it cracked me up. I ended up eating a savory buckwheat crepe at Breizh café, a joint everyone raves about, but not me. Meh, is the best I can say. I scouted Monoprix for a cheap and sturdy tote in case my purchases max out my suitcase and pulled some Euros out of the ATM. Home to the apartment, where I started the laundry, nuked a couple of apples in the microwave and wrote this up. Tomorrow is my final day in Paris. I figure I’ll pack then just wander. Maybe do a ParisWalk from the audio guide.

*I’ve only needed one sketchbook, but it’s the one I bought at Sennelier (not too big, not too small, etc).

** I haven’t had to use the battery pack since I started charging the iPhone and its Mophie case at bedtime. The iPhone battery is down to 20% around 3pm, the way I’ve been using it. Hit the Mophie recharge and there’s usually 60% or so left by the time I’m done for the day by 6 or7pm. Mophie is a game changer, in a good way.

Wednesday, April 16, Day 15

April 19, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Bounded out the door – I could hear the clock ticking, counting down the hours until I leave on Sunday. Discovered I could order a noisette double, heck yeah. Onward to the Louvre via the Metro. Trotted towards the entrance via the Carousel, the gateway to the Louvre that’s like a high-end fancy mall, and skidded to a halt.

It’s 9:30am, and there’s a line stretching all the way back through the Carousel. What happened? Was there a sale? It looked like Filene’s Basement’s Running of the Brides, or Wal-mart before the doors open on Black Friday. No joke.

Armored with my Des Amis De Louvre card confidence, I forged past the twisting, shuffling line to the clogged security area and… yes! Open Sesame! The guards unhook the barrier and I waltzed right through and hand off my bag to security. I breezed by the giant anaconda line for tickets, zipped up the escalator, flashed my card at the actual entry point to the Richelieu wing, and moments later entered the sanctuary of the Cour de Marly. For the next thirty minutes, it was all mine.

Here’s the good thing about the giant lines, as long as you are not in one – it holds back the tsunami waves of people, dribbling them inside at a measured pace, which means you get more quality time with the art. The good thing about the Louvre’s holy trinity, those three works of art that are on every tourist’s hit list (Mona Lisa, Winged Victory of Samothrace, and Venus de Milo) is that they siphon off the casual tourist. Again, this means you get more time with the other 34,997 amazing works of art. You can even sit on the floor and sketch to your heart’s content. Like this:

My Des Ami Des Louvre membership has been worth every penny. Spent a quiet happy morning communing with statuary (Cour de Marly, Middle Ages, 19th-century sculpture) that made the Pygmalion’s plight completely understandable – special mention to the gallery of French Royal academy entry works). Look at this Cupid’s gesture, introducing a butterfly to a rose.

,And who doesn’t love a hot guy who reads?

My nominees for most fun couple:

I knocked off early to visit a restaurant suggested by my friend and fellow painter, Nancy Franke. Took a taxi driven by a man from Cameroon, who sang ‘Georgia on My Mind’ when he found out I was from Atlanta. Arrived at Les Papilles,  (30 rue Gay Lussac, 75005,) took a seat and waited for them to serve me what they were fixing that day. It’s a tiny place, near Luxembourg Gardens. I knew it would be good, I didn’t expect it to be one of the best meals of my life.

It began with a tureen of carrot soup. The soup plate had a stack of ingredients – slivers of carrot, something porky, dab of creme fraiche, a tiny bouquet of thyme on the top, a spice dusted on the side, dots of something on the bottom and croutons. Oh, and something with tiny green leaves and long thin stems – watercress maybe? I ladled the soup over that, stirred it up and tasted Nirvana. I ate two bowls, knowing so much more was coming but it was so good! And there was another serving left. You wouldn’t leave hungry.

This was followed by a copper pan of roasted vegetables and pork loin, and dish of polenta. The pork loin and vegetables came in a smoking hot oval copper pan. I know there were carrots and think in more than one color. Something red, probably a pepper? Snow peas, onions in thin rings, and bits of apricot. Another bouquet of thyme and several whole cloves of garlic. I ate until you could have cracked a flea on my belly. I left one piece of pork because I could not possibly fit it in.

Dessert came in a glass that widened at the top. Bottom layer of banana (and maybe some chocolate?), a layer of creme englaise type pudding, a layer of chocolate cream, a layer of cream and a layer of caramel foam. Hail Mary.

Espresso in a tiny cup, almost turkish, with a side dish of chocolate-covered coffee beans. I added two cubes of sugar to it (cubed sugar comes in cellophane packets on the table here and at the Cafèoteque place). I knocked it back, knowing full well it was all that stood between me and a coma. This took about two hours. I had to put my fork down for breaks. I didn’t read because my attention was fully commanded by the food. That almost never happens to me.

The restaurant is in a narrow room with a bar down the side and a little elevated area in the back. Warm wood and colorful tile on the floor and the stairs.

Kind of a masculine vibe. Not fancy, but clearly thought went into it, and the overall effect is cheerful, goodnatured and welcoming. Two people for service; a black woman who was a beauty with a dimple and kind look about her, and the guy who ran the bar and read the menu and talked with one of the patrons. Nothing snooty about it. They seemed to be serious about the food, not themselves. How refreshing is that? Oh, and it cost the same as the Café Marly burger.

Believe me, my words just don’t do it justice. It’s like saying Fred Astaire moved his feet.

When I finally surrendered and retired from the field, it took ten minutes before I could move. I decided a walk was called for. Google maps told me where to go and that it would take about half an hour. And that’s what I did. I have never walked by patisseries and felt not the slightest twinge of interest but today, not a flicker. Not just full, but truly satisfied.

I’ve been writing this ever since. Peppermint tea for dinner. If I can find the room.

Tuesday, April 15, Day 14

April 18, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I’ve started sending myself an email that has the exact addresses of the places I might visit – this makes it a quick copy/paste to Google maps walking directions, or using the Metro app for best public transportation route, or showing to taxi or Uber drivers what to plug into their maps.

Since the Louvre is closed today, I have options – Do one of the audio walks, visit one of the small museums or head for a market. The weather – a few degrees cooler than is has been helps me choose, and I call Uber for a ride to the Musée Jacquemart André, 158 Boulevard Haussmann. This is an exquisite jewel box of a museum, that reminds me of the Frick in New York City.

They also have a free app, that I preferred to the audioguide offered at the door ( I tried both) https://itunes.apple.com/en/app/musee-jacquemart-andre-application/id582936499?mt=8. It is a sad truth that the dim lighting required to preserve the works and the placement of paintings can mean that the Fran Hals portrait that’s a muted glimmer high up in a darkened corner in dim room in real life, is as clear and vivid as if I held it in my hand the sunlight, with subtleties of texture and brushwork easily visible on my iPhone screen.

What the screen lacks is scale and three-dimensionality, what reality lacks is everything else. This is not true (or as true) with sculpture. Even dark rooms and remote placement offers more to direct experience that the flattening screen image.

Back to this mansion, which was a marvel of its age, with walls that would sink down into the basement by way of hydraulics to accommodate tout Paris society. The version the museum puts out is charming and civilized – they loved each other and both loved art and he had pots of money which they spent hand over fist on the best art they could find. They differed only in that he preferred the Venetian artists and she championed the painters of Florence. I take it a face value and my visit is a pure pleasure.

This includes my brunch, since I’d had nothing but that cup of tea. I lined up at the café door promptly at noon. I expected pastries and maybe a sandwich but it was ever so much nicer. The regular menu blew my skirt up by naming every dish after a painter; Watteau, Bellini, Chardin, Mantegna, Fragonard, Ruysdael, Canaletto, Van Dyck. There was a special themed menu (as did the Isabella Stewart Gardener when I visited Boston in December) created for the current exhibition; De Watteau à Fragonard, Les fête Galantes. I opted for duck breast in honey and soy, with risotto and It was divine.I read my Nook, glanced around the cheerful company from time to time, and cleaned my plate down to the shine.

Two French ladies were seated next to me and they sounded like finches perched on a fountain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmdBSn-34E8 A rapid and variable sequence of warbles, with a lyrical, burbling undercurrent. The French language seems to have a naturally musical quality. Perhaps it’s better to listen to the sound uncontaminated by meaning than be distracted by content.

I took in the special exhibit and, once again. the preparatory drawings seemed superior to many of the finished oil paintings.

Refreshed in spirit, off to the Joséphine exhibit at the Musée de Luxembourg (19 rue de Vaugirard) The audio guide was something of a hagiography, and I quickly realized how few facts I knew about her or Napoléon. The exhibition claimed the 5’6″ Napoleon was average height for the times, though as you can see by her charming fur-lined and beribboned walking boots, Joséphine wore flats. That is why I have spent most of the evening chasing biographies of Joséphine around the Internet instead of writing my blog. I have sworn to have lights out early, as bleary vision is the bane of the museum visitor.

Dropped by the jewelry store that has the bracelet I’ve coveted. I’ve been back twice to look at it. I can’t justify it, but I decide if it’s still there, I’m going to get it. It’s as delicate as a filament in a light bulb with I Love This Life engraved on a delicate silver bar, a twisted thread of aqua blue tying it on. Very simple. I walked in, and walked out wearing it ten minutes later. From the bracelet to the optometrist. Secretly worried the frames wouldn’t be as fab as I remembered but no, still totes adorb. Moment of unexpected hilarity. As the clerk checked the fit of the glasses, she handed me a card to read, to check the acuity of the prescription lenses.

I started laughing. I couldn’t read it, but that was because it was in French. I could see it with perfect clarity.

A fantastic day.

Monday, April 14, Day 13

April 16, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Late start, but I’ve realized that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I am in Paris, so no worries. Decide to do something from my fantasy of a Paris trip; stroll to the Louvre along the Seine. En route I stopped at La Caféothèque (52 Rue de l’Hôtel de ville), a coffee shop with a TripAdvisor rep for excellent java. Little, odd-shaped rooms on multiple levels, a mix of chairs and comfortable, cushioned banquettes, nothing corporate about it, welcoming staff; it gets my vote. When strong espresso goes down like water, you know you are in excellent brewing hands. My noisette was smooth and silky and powerful. I’d say this is where good beans go when they die but since they roast their own beans on the premises, maybe an analogy of beans gone to hell in a hand basket is more accurate.

After two of delectable cups and one small postcard sketch, I galloped down the road to the Louvre. I breached the gates close to noon and it was a madhouse, confirming that my early morning arrival strategy is a superior approach. By noon the Louvre is trying to stuff twenty thousand pounds of tourist in a five thousand pound sack. I flashed my card, which worked its magic, but it still took fifteen tense minutes dodging through the masses to find a relatively quiet corner – French painters and a special exhibition of the artists who created the Louvre ceilings. Stopped in my tracks by Le Christ en Croix by Simon Vouet. It’s a standard-issue religious theme but it had a passage of such delectable color on the robe of a kneeling Magdalene that I couldn’t stop staring.

Photography in the ceiling sketches exhibit was not permitted, but the guards were delighted to let me draw. I stood and copied a sketch of two men by Charles Le Brun. By the time I was ready to stop, I felt calm and peaceful. Hand-eye time is very meditative – cue the alpha brain waves. Saw a lovely little painting of a Cuisse de Nymph rose by the incomparable Henri Fantin-Latour that I’m still thinking about, along with a Christ on a slab post-crucifixion painting, which is the last work of art I saw ten years ago when I had to leave the Louvre after a brief visit, and didn’t want to. That was the bit of grit in the oyster that resulted, years later, in the planning of this trip.

Walked around Place Saint-Sulpice in the late afternoon. Looked in the window of the store with that bracelet I like. It’s still there.

12 Random Observations

April 16, 2014 by Virginia Parker 3 Comments

In my imaginary Paris, there are no cars.

I’ve seen more Asian people in the Louvre in the last three weeks than I have seen in my lifetime, total.

Angelina’s is ground zero for thick, luscious, not particularly sweet hot chocolate, with a side of whipped cream.

Walking along the Seine over cobblestones is a tricksy, ankle-snapping risk, I don’t care what shoes you’re wearing.

Fascinated to see the way women actually moved in long skirts and corsets, via archival film footage in exhibits.

Pockets are absolutely essential, which is why I have only worn my otherwise ideal leggings once.

Most dangerous place in Paris is the stairs, whether marble (Louvre), wooden (apartment), escalator (Monoprix), stone (Seine) or concrete (Metro). Hiking up or down, it’s a compound fracture just waiting for a moment of inattention to happen.

I have to fight the urge to stroke, caress and pat the sculpture. And not bitch slap the people I see give in to the temptation.

Most useful tools; a tie between my iPhone (with a temporary global plan) and a small box of big safety pins, thick rubber bands, and large paper clips. I use these all the time.

I have never worn either coat I brought.

Skinny leg jeans are a must, Chucks are great, long thin scarves required.

Walking down the boulevard, lovers lean toward each other as if they are north and south poles of a magnet. I miss you, Boatie. Viva l’amour à Paris.

Sunday, April 13, Day 12

April 15, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Woke up to the sound of the church bells. Even in these modern times, in a secular city that worships at the altar of cuisine and couture, the bells toll as they have for centuries.
Today is a good day for an audio guided walk. But first, Instead of my usual grab and go noisette, I sit down in Miss Manon’s patisserie, order fresh orange juice, a noisette and an apple pastry, take out a postcard and a pencil stub, and start a little drawing. I knock back the noisette, and time disappears until I’m done. I stretch and look out at the passing street scene. The shoes alone are worth watching. People are carrying boxwood clippings under their arms. Ah, it’s Palm Sunday. I order another noisette, and set my little cup carefully on the postcard, twice. An authentic two-ring, Paris café stamp.

The audio tour begins with the incomparable view of Notre Dame from the bridge next to the Quai de Montebello. The third stop on the audio tour is Shakespeare and Company, the legendary English bookstore and holy ground for a writer. I go in with the fizzy feeling I had pushing open the door to Sennelier. Everything about it is appealing, from the quotes on the walls, a glass dome with a slot over a lighted basin in the floor filled with coins, and a ‘Feed the Starving Writers’ sign.

So many interesting books of varying vintage crowd the shelves. It’s like joining a party in progress with charming rakes, notorious wits,wily politicians, deadbeats, drunks, and philosophers all talking amongst themselves. I wander through the warren of rooms below, then climb the twisting narrow stairs to find more little rooms with floor to ceiling shelves of second-hand book available to all to read. I sit in a room with a typewriter in front of the window and a fat white cat napping on a worn velvet cushion.

I write – on my iPhone – an email to my daughter and a few notes to myself, then I pull out my Nook and read. I soon discover that waves of tourists wash up in that front room, some hushed, some raucous. Everyone takes a selfie with the cat, whose poise is unshakable. A young man sits next to me and opens a book. After fifteen minutes or so, he asks me if I’m reading something interesting. He’s reading love poems, because, like all young men in Paris since the dawn of time, he is hoping to get some cherchez la femme leverage. Youth is truly wasted on the young, y’all. I advise that love poems aren’t a reliable field guide to women, but might help him hold onto one. It is a truth universally acknowledged that chicks dig romance. Surely he has no problem meeting women. Just strike up a conversation with any one of the pretty girls here. Too transitory, he says glumly. Plus he can only muster the courage to approach women like, erm, me, implying that as an old lady, I am safely beyond such foolishness. I whip out my iPhone and show him photos of my girls and Robert. Ah, the King, he says. Astute lad. He’s forgiven.

So we talk. He’s one of the writers that sleeps on the floor in exchange for a couple of hours working the register each day, while he writes a book. I urge him to e-publish. I suggest writers’ blogs to read who have broken new ground in the field. I recommend Facebook pages and links. It’s what I’d be doing if I was trying to be published and make money doing it. We exchange emails. He keeps one of my painting showcards and says it will be his bookmark. A signal honor, coming from a writer. I do miss the scraps of notes and postcard bookmarks in these electronic reader times. Before I leave on my audio tour, I walk back through the rooms and see typewriters on window sills, end table, and alcoves., reminding me of my recent typewriter paintings.

I continue on my walking tour, learning all sort of curious facts about the Julian le Pauvre church, and the lives of the Parisians in this little corner of Paris. At the end of the walk, I decide to walk back along the Seine. Before I head down the stone steps, I stop at one of the green wooden book and poster stalls along the road, and buy risqué 1930s vintage French postcards (2E for five). The antique aspect somewhat blunts the edge, keeping them just this side of filthy. I walk underneath a bridge bristling with padlocks snapped to railings by hopeful lovers.

I buy a carrot salad to go with the brie and figs I have in the apartment, and a chocolate and nougat pastry called Little Saint Antoine. When I spent a month in Italy I swore that espresso replaced my red blood cells. In Paris, I’d bleed butter.

Saturday, April 12, Day 11

April 14, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I strolled down Rue de Turenne and window-shopped on my way to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges (39 Rue de Bretagne), a small street market located on the north side of the Marais. All the little restaurants inside the market smelled great – the Japanese bento box, New Orleans boudin stall, Italian trattoria, French bistro were cheek by jowl with the fish monger, cheese shop, butcher, boulangerie and flower stall. It had a wonderful atmosphere.

I wanted to try the Moroccan stand, but couldn’t figure out how to order a kebab that wasn’t spicy. I would’ve had the b’stilla (pigeon and almond pie scented with cinnamon and wrapped in cracklingly thin layers of pastry like a feuille), and intensely sweet mint tea, if I could have carried over to the park across the street. My long ago days traveling through the Moroccan deserts came back to me with the first whiff, an olfactory madeleine. There was something that looked like a cross between a pancake and Indian nan, being cooked on an upside down wok over coals, with something melting on top of the dough. Not a crepe exactly. I tried iTranslating the menu board from French to English, but even Google was stumped. I ended up with a slice of apricot tart and some version of ham and cheese on baguette. I’m going to hit that Moroccan stand next week.

Off to eat in the tiny park in front of a grand church veiled with scaffolding. I unwrapped my baguette and was instantly besieged by sparrows. They flew up on the ends of the bench, darted under my feet, and one flew up and hovered right in front of the baguette in my hand. Cheeky buggers. I threw a few crumbs away from me as a diversionary tactic. Hitchcock came to mind. They were just as interested in the tart. Glad I’d brought a little packet of wipes because I was good and sticky and greasy afterwards. Emphasis on good.

Figured out a metro route thanks to the extremely helpful Paris Metro app http://www.ratp.fr/en/ratp/r_90747/visit-paris-by-metro/ Don’t leave home without it, folks.

Here might be a good time to note how helpful the iPhone has been. Working out routes on the fly, translating for irritable taxi drivers and puzzled shop clerks, used more often than my excellent camera to take photographs, Googling historic info, checking weather, museum hours, listening to the official Louvre audio guide, writing trip notes, uploading photos to FB and email. It’s been a major trip enhancer. And that Mophie case that doubles the battery life? Get one.

Walked from the Lafayette Metro stop to the Musée National Gustave Moreau (14 Rue de la Rochefoucauld). It’s in the painter’s home, which means the walls are blanketed with drawings, photographs, prints and paintings. They are pieced together as tightly as jigsaw puzzle, from the egg and dart moldings to chair rail.

The second floor is the was one big open, airy room, high-ceilinged and bright from a wall of windows.Tall canvases lined the other three walls. The paintings were certainly large and parts of them drew my eye, but they seemed an odd mashup of classical, surrealism, and impressionism. To my eye, they lacked coherence. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat, as the saying goes, but in all his works Moreau was trying to tell a story, and that gave me a thread of connection. I sought out what I could admire.

I raised an eyebrow at the explanation of his painting The Daughters of Thespius. “In gratitude to Hercules who killed the Nemean Lion…King Thespius offered that he sleep with all of his fifty daughters in one night. The hero, shown here in a meditative pose very reminiscent of Michelangelo, readies himself for the great procreative act. ”

Truly a Herculean >cough< feat.

Yeah, right. Dream on, M. Moreau. Do the math; that’s nine minutes and six seconds apiece, from wham to bam to thank you ma’am, aaaand next! Figuring eight straight hours, with no breaks. Even if Hercules could do it, why would he want to? But I digress.

I had paid my due respects and am about to upstairs to the studio when I notice a row of dark green café length velvet curtains pulled across cabinets under the windows. I look behind the curtains and eureka! The cabinets hold multiple wooden panels that can be pulled out and opened like the pages of a book. Each panel has many drawings. Goddesses, youths, monkeys, horses, vultures, elephants, hydrangeas, and landscapes, just to name a few. Paydirt! Lovely, lovely stuff. From extremely detailed and shaded work on toned paper, to rough outlines. There are complete scenes where he’s considering the composition of one of his grand scale paintings and pages where he’s working out various angles and perspectives on a hand gesture. Some of the drawings are gridded, some are obviously studies from the Louvre (hello, La Belle Ferronnière). I grab a low wooden stool and start working my way through them. I feel like I’ve struck gold.

When I’m ready to go, I use Uber for the first time, and it works just like Boston. I order a car, and see the familiar map appear with driver confirmed. The driver is an Algerian engineering student, with impeccable BMW and lovely manners. Twenty-five minutes later I arrive on my street, buy some fresh raspberries and yogurt (in a glass jar) for dinner. Talked to Robert tonight. Just needed to hear his voice. He hasn’t read any of this blog, he’s been really busy with the show closing down until the next season and shepherding his equipment onto other shows that are gearing up. But he has looked at the photos. And he misses me. And he’s glad I am happy. It’s all good.

Friday, April 11, Day 10

April 13, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Up early and under the pyramid of the Louvre as it opens. This time I do get an audio guide. It’s free for Des Ami des Louvre, declares the attendant at the Denon entrance. I have a strategy: gallop down the Denon wing to the farthest room, work my way back through le salles rouge, then along the famous Italian corridor, stopping at whatever catches my eye and listening to anything with an audio guide number. Discover no matter how jammed the central hall becomes, and it does get slammed, the side galleries are deserted, and I have all the time I want alone with remarkable works by virtuoso painters like Velasquez.

By noon I am ready for food and a break from the crowd that has attained horde status. During prime time, the major halls of the Louvre are a cross between a carnival midway and a religious procession, with a side of Times Square on New Year’s Eve crowded. I go back to the Le Café Marly, and sit inside this time, still within sight of the pyramid, but away from smoke. Shortly after I sit down a cat streaks through the door to the kitchen, and stretches out beneath the chair across from me. He’s the kitchen cat and his name is Richelieu. His imperious and self-satisfied expression seems exactly right.

I’m quite hungry and have been living on pastry, so I opt for a chunk of protein and order the cheeseburger. It arrives half as tall as my head, well, okay, taller than my mouth opens, unless I unhinge my jaw. I demolish it with a knife and fork. I draw postcards until my order arrives, and read my Nook propped up on the table while I eat. I am less self-conscious about entertaining myself. I order a Viennese espresso, which comes with a little bar of bittersweet dark chocolate on the side. I slip it into the cup and stir vigorously. Voilà, DIY mochaccino.

Digression – some of the places I’m eating, I’m paying as much for ambiance and histoire as the food, and that’s fine with me. My other rationalization is this: when the only restaurant meal is at midday, for one person who doesn’t drink wine, no bill is that steep. My bill was 30E for my lunch at Le Cafe Marly. The ingredients were top of the line, the room decor Napoleon III decadent, the pyramid in view, the waiters dashing, and the le chat de cuisine, Richelieu, added value. As the waiter shrugged, ‘of course it is not permitted, but where there is a kitchen cat, there are no mice.’ Oh and when he brought hot chocolate with whipped cream by mistake, he took it back to the kitchen and replaced it immediately, with a bow of apology. I was left in peace to read for while after my meal, no hurrying me along. And the supreme advantage – it was steps away from where I was walking seven miles a day.

Back to the Louvre and this time I follow the Still life Louvre trail I’d printed out and brought with me. The first painting is AWOL. I ask one of the guards, who is amiable, but can’t locate it either. I offer to just move on, but somehow it becomes a mini cause célèbre. ‘No, we must find this for you’, he insists. ‘This is why we are here.’ Three guards confer, phone calls are made, notebooks that kept under lock and key are examined. It remains lost and they seem genuinely distressed. Once the French exert themselves on your behalf, no effort is too difficult, though occasionally a task may prove impossible. Perhaps someone looking for an artwork is a welcome change from inquires about the direction of the toilets or the exits.

I soldier on and find most of the rest of the listed works. Though they are all in the same wing, there’s a lot of backtracking and retracing of rooms that makes it more tiring than necessary. Just sayin,’ Mr Louvre. Along the routes I also stop at anything with a white numbered ticket and hear what the curators have to say. The way it’s translated throws a distinctly French light on the works. Turns of phrase are both evocative and precise. By 4pm I am knackered and sit on the bench of a window seat next to the Holbein room. I do a bit of reading on my Nook, and rest. Afterwards, I return to the sculpture courtyard and draw Eurydice.

When I left at 6pm to Metro home, a woman was playing Pachelbel’s canon in D Major on a violin in the Louvre carousel corridor. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Af372EQLck My feet kept walking but I suddenly remembered how I played that music over and over when I lived in my fifth floor walk-up garret on Rue de Bac in 1971. I turned around and put two Euros in her violin case.

Back in the Marais, I bought three large ripe figs, reverently selected for me by the greengrocer, a small quarter of triple cream brie, and a ficelle. That, plus some prosciutto from the other day, make up my dinner, followed by peppermint tea, which I am hoarding as a panacea against homesickness, and my remaining Ladurée salted caramel macaroon.

I have a short conversation with the concierge about how he used to haunt the halls of the Louvre when he was a lad at the Sorbonne. It’s free entry for the students and a hangout of sorts. He recommends I visit Monet at L’Orangerie, and advised me on where to go when I visit the flea market tomorrow, which is still maybe, maybe not.

Thursday, April 10, Day nine

April 12, 2014 by Virginia Parker 2 Comments

Morning in the ‘hood, wandering around the shops of Saint-Paul, a warren of antique/second hand/flea market shops. I tell the shopkeepers I’m looking for a small unique knife, ,just in case I stumble across the perfect ornate or crusty knife for a tomato & knife painting, but I’m not looking hard. Picked up a seeded baguette with figs, arugula and soft white cheese called a Brillat- Savrin from a cart outside of a cheese store. I’m more relaxed on a bench in a garden on my own than in a bustling bistro.

Took the Metro to the stop for the Petit Palais. Immediately realized it’s called petit because the one across the street is vraiment énorme. My heart sank when I saw the long, deep line standing on the sidewalk, but I dutifully tacked myself to the end. God smiled when two women walked up behind me, flagged down a guard and asked for the Carl Larsson exhibit – which is what I was there to see. Wrong line – she led us to a side door and I was through security and had a ticket in my hand moments later. http://www.petitpalais.paris.fr/fr/expositions/carl-larsson-1853-1919-limagier-de-la-suede

I have loved Carl Larsson since I came across his book ‘Home.’ Grim, Dickensian childhood, great talent, success in midlife painting what and who he loved. He is Winslow Homer-esque, with formidable draftsman skills, though he trained in Paris. Imagine Ingmar Bergman who wasn’t bitter and haunted, memorializing his happy family life.

No photography allowed in the exhibit, but drawing was permitted and I did a few quick sketches, more to look closely than anything else. Also some fascinating early documentary footage of the painter and his family on the island of their summer home. His studio, painting in his garden, boating, small children and dogs everywhere he goes. I ate my baguette in the garden and enjoyed the mild weather.

I wandered around the rest of the museum, happy to stumble upon more Low Country masterworks that I have only ever seen reproductions of. I meandered around and found myself in an exhibition innocuously titled ‘Paris 1900, The City of Entertainment’. Hand-colored, turn of the century films of street dancers twirling and bowing, had a unselfconscious charm that does not exist in the self-regarding age. There were clips from movies by the Lumieire Brothers, photographs recording the opera, café-concert, circus and brothels, Oo la la. These included a wall of the classic French postcards, images of women who are definitely more naked than nude. One of the object displayed like a holy relic resembled a gynecology couch, complete with metal stirrups, mounted over a well padded sleigh, both upholstered in rich brocades. This puzzling device turned out to be un dispositif de positionnement des prostituées reserved for royal visitors. Alas, no photos though I was very tempted to take one.

I did a sketch of one of the French postcard ladies to send to Robert, then retraced my Metro route back to Saint-Paul. Put in a load of laundry, ate my dinner while watching an informative and entertaining BBC show the Treasures of the Louvre on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJNU3vvZhMY

Picked up another Charlotte Russe avec framboise and wandered though the streets until I saw a spaniel with a yellow tennis ball in a courtyard. I struck up a conversation and got a good patting in. I miss my dogs.

Tomorrow I ‘ll be back at the Louvre. This time, I’ll do the head phones for sure.