Our next day dawned… well, still cold and gloomy, but with just a touch of I don’t know what. Lisa was feeling a little peaky, and was ready for a quiet day in. She suggested, however, that John (ok, this post is pretty much all me, so I’m going to drop the pronoun games, kk?) go to the Musée d’Orsay, which is a) my absolute favorite place, maybe on the planet and this is not an exaggeration, and b) not her favorite, though she likes it fine. She’s been a couple of times now and wasn’t going to be pained by skipping it once. I pretended to be put out by the suggestion for a few minutes before scampering out of the flat with Road Runner spinny legs and a cloud of dust, pausing only to throw on my coat and tug on my gloves against the chill. (That’s some foreshadowing, y’all.) I head to the taxi stand about 200 meters from where we were staying; seriously this may be my favorite short-term accommodation ever, factoring in all the amenities. I hop in, make a little small talk with the driver, pull off my gloves, and even take a couple of photos out the window as we drove through the Louvre, passing a view of the Eiffel Tower, to get to Musée d’Orsay. (MOAR FORESHADOWING.) He drops me off across the street, and I go to the completely empty queue to get in to the museum. Entering the foyer, I pull off my backpack to go through the metal detector… and suddenly realize that I’m not wearing my wedding ring.

This, of course, sets me off in a panic. I frantically pat myself down, look around, check pockets etc… but I’m starting to hold up the line. The security guard, not unkindly, says something in French that I parse out as a mixture of “move it along” and “is something the matter?” I hold up my left hand and point emphatically at my ring finger; her eyebrows raise as she immediately gets it. (Charades, the international language.) So I scoot through the metal detector and immediately head out the exit. I make my way to the front entrance doors again and begin to methodically retrace my steps. There is no crowd to navigate, which is good.

Two things kept me from being optimistic, however. First, note the color of the pavement. Now, learn that I have… sigh had… a white gold wedding band. It was a half-hour or so of mounting frustration. And second, I was already 99% certain my ring came off in the taxi when I took my gloves off. See, I’ve lost a modest amount of weight relative to our wedding day; not shockingly transformative or anything, but enough that my ring has had a little play in it. So, while it would be highly unlikely that it just magically slid off my finger while walking and without me noticing, it was all too easy to imagine it being pulled off with my fairly snug gloves, and I might not have felt anything else what with the glove coming off. After confirming that my taxi was long gone, I leaned against the low stone wall overlooking the Seine and called Lisa.

So, skipping intensely personal conversations, she was fine. I was more upset than she was. Not that she wasn’t bummed, but my wife is a compassionate and reasonable person and understood that sometimes the universe decides that what you need is a kick between the legs. In fact, I was going to come home but she told me I was already there and since there was nothing to be done I should still go and enjoy the museum. Wow. But you know, when you think clearly about it (which she is amazing at doing) she was right; what’s done is done, and Paris still lies before us. In I went.

Why do I say that Musée d’Orsay may be my absolute favorite place? It’s a lot of things. For starters, I have discovered in the (hopefully) middle of my life that I just plain love a museum; no idea where it came from, I didn’t study art, ever. I didn’t get taken to these kinds of things as a kid, at least not more than every other kid. Anyway, at some point I realized that I love reading the little cards, and listening to a guide if there is one, and just absorbing the visual arts. Before this gets too pretentious, I want to be clear that I don’t think I have any particular insights, and I don’t think I’m somehow more in tune with museums than you or anybody else. All I know is I that I absolutely love it. So, that’s museums. As far as Orsay goes, I think the building is absolutely gorgeous. I also love how compact it is; it’s like a beehive of art treasure, and you can wend your way through it in such way that there’s nary a step wasted getting you to the next little room or cove. And then, to top it all off (literally; hang on) it turns out I’m a sucker for the 19th and early 20th centuries. I’m pretty sure that’s considered entry level taste in art to the real connoisseurs, but I think I’ve made it clear by now that I’m not an expert, just a passionate amateur. Anyway, Orsay is specifically geared for that period (and later into the 20th as well) so it’s just catnip. The top floor is the Impressionists exhibit (see, you hung on!) and it’s just… I really don’t have words. Some day I really am going to give myself a day to just go up there and start staring. The museum cafe is on that floor as well, just past the room, so I can break for lunch before going back in. And, again the building is just gorgeous. If God had never gotten into the cathedral business, it’s what a cathedral would be thought to look like. Musee du Louvre is bigger, and many places are grand (the National Gallery in London, the Ufizi, etc..) I suspect I’ll post a photo dump somewhere here, it’s tough to just show one picture and say “see? isn’t this great??”

I scooted back to our flat, and we went out for a lovely meal. I honestly don’t remember which one, but they almost all were. Make sure you’re seeing the restaurant reviews that Lisa has been posting over at facebook.

It’s a good thing I rested yesterday, because we covered a LOT today. We started with breakfast at home, then went right out to the newly-opened Picasso Museum.

This was a huge collection of his work, and apparently more than a little controversial. I must say that I was hoping to get a better idea of the evolution of his work, perhaps some insight into how he made such a profound shift in perspective from the classic school he was taught in to the (frankly) bizarre way he ended up describing the world.

That did not happen. I remain confused by ‘cubism’ and by Picasso’s attempt to show ‘all’ perspectives in a single 2D painting. I can absolutely see his underlying talent as a painter — for example, his “Two Women Running On the Beach” is simply lovely (and strikingly reminiscent of Diego Rivera’s work as a muralist).

I just don’t understand his perspective.

One thing that struck me was that if he’d been doing this work while under the care of a psychologist, he’d be given anti-psychotic drugs in a flash. When I was in college, I remember looking at a chapter/paper about an artist (Louis Wain) who’s favored subject was cats. He had a mental condition (maybe schizophrenia) that resulted in a fantastic series of paintings that clearly show the progression of his dis-association with what we call normal.

I am not calling Picasso crazy, I was merely struck by the similarities.

We wandered the neighborhood, admiring the artisanal offerings, and decided on lunch at Les Philosophes. This is a truly great bistro whose owner believes in local food, organic, cooked properly, and that meals are made to be savored. We loved it. The menu has solid (typical) French favorites, but a chalkboard menu changes daily (a picture is posted online soon after opening). The café was superb, the bread delicious, and portions are HUGE. I had pate and shared a bit of J’s salad (the beets and avocado were mine) and should have stopped there, because I really couldn’t do justice to the salad (fresh greens, mushrooms, beets, avocado and radish with a light dressing on the side) I’d also ordered. My friends I. and D. both had the ‘brunch’ — café, fruit with yogurt, scrambled eggs, and toast. J also had a beef filet, which came with gorgeously wonderful fried potatoes (like thick cut chips). Outstanding, and 160 eu for all of it. (No wine.)

From there we walked to the Musee d’Orsay, which was a bit further than we intended, but good for working off such a large lunch.

If you haven’t been to the M d’O, then go. It’s a wonderful visit, full of some of the best pieces of Pre- and Post-Impression works in existence.

I’ll have to let my pictures speak for themselves.

This piece is particularly interesting. The M d’O website says:

The Boy with the Cat has not given up all its secrets. This male nude has no equivalent in Renoir’s work. The identity of the model seen from the back cuddling the cat is unknown. His sly glance at the spectator remains mysterious. The scene does not seem to have any mythological reference.

Renoir painted it in 1868, a turning point for the artist who was still at the beginning of his career. After being refused that the Salons of 1866 and 1867, he had at last tasted success with a large female portrait in the open air, Lise with a Parasol, now in the Folkwang Museum, Essen. The second half of the 1860s was also the time of his comradeship with Bazille, Sisley and Monet. They were all deeply marked by the example of their glorious elders, Courbet and Manet, whose influence can be seen in the realistic treatment and the cold colour harmonies of The Boy with the Cat.

Théodore Rivière was one of the leading Orientalist sculptors. He not only drew on literary texts but travelled extensively in North Africa, the Far East and South America.

The subject of this work was taken from Gustave Flaubert’s novel, Salammbô, published in 1862. The story takes place between 241–238 BC, during the war between Carthage and its mercenaries in revolt. The Libyan Mâthô, the chief of the barbarian soldiers, fell in love with Salammbô, the daughter of his Carthaginian enemy Hamilcar Barca. Rivière has chosen the moment when, mortally wounded by the people, Mâthô dies at the feet of his idol crying: “I love you! I love you!” The figure of Salammbô, the femme fatale, inspired many other Symbolist artists.

I was struck by the delicacy of the overall piece, and the lack of expression on her face.

I love the delight so evident in Pan’s face as he feeds honey combs to the bear cubs. Not a side we usually see of him.

We walked home from there, and decided to go for dinner in our neighborhood. We decided to try Le Dome, which has a truly gorgeous interior and phenomenally fresh seafood.  It’s also famous!

From the beginning of the 1900s, it was renowned as an intellectual gathering place. It was widely known as “the Anglo-American café.” Opening in 1898, it was the first such café in Montparnasse. It “created and disseminated gossip, and provided message exchanges and an ‘over the table’ market that dealt in artistic and literary futures.” It was frequented by the famous (and soon to be famous) painters, sculptors, writers, poets, models, art connoisseurs and dealers. Le Dôme later became the gathering place of the American literary colony and became a focal point for artists residing in Paris’s Left Bank.

A poor artist used to be able to get a Saucisse de Toulouse (sausage) and a plate of mashed potatoes for $1. Today, it is a top fish restaurant (the Michelin Guide gives it one 1/3 stars star), with a comfortably old-fashioned décor. (from Wikipedia)

It was delicious, and expensive. 350 euro for 3 glasses of wine, 2 bottles of water, 2 starters, and four entrees. That said, the service was excellent, the food prepared perfectly, and we enjoyed ourselves. It was just a little more expensive than it should have been.