Let me start with a warning: this is a blog by a person whose views on art are so peculiar that she seldom visits galleries, mentions favourite painters to make a good impression on you, seriously avoids theatre and classical music concerts (especially of the religious kind), opera and musicals and whatnot.
You know, someone you might call a cultural banause if your language has the expression all made up and ready to go (doesn’t matter this is not the whole truth and I am not going to bother you with any details – suffice it to say I went to Tate Modern only to have coffee, back in December, because I wasn’t in the mood for art) …
Anyone reading on? 😯
Having thus confessed my sins, terrible for a woman, do let me tell you about a magnificent art museum in Paris. Some time ago, Jana made me all curious with her comment about the Musée D’Orsay: I had never heard of the place before but wanted to see it right after having wiki-ed about it.
19. century up to early 20. century paintings? Impressionism, Art Nouveau, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec? YES, please 😀
And Hubby agreed.
Jana, thank you for half a day damn well spent! 🙂
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If I had wanted to, I could have taken loads of photos of people taking photos where none were allowed. Mostly, they were standing near signs forbidding photography. But I didn’t because that would mean taking photos of works of art as well and I don’t do that if someone says I am not supposed to.
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“What do you think you are doing!?! Can’t you read!?! It says No photos here, right there, on the sign you are standing at! So stop taking photos!”
I turn around, surprised and slightly shocked. I am the only person so far who got severely scolded by a security guy for taking photos.
“But I only wanted- … The café …”
“Don’t you see the sign? Now put away the camera.”
There is a nice bear in front of the cafeteria we had our lunch in (supermarket-quality salad and white bread cheese sandwich, pain au chocolate with coffee, what else) and I didn’t notice it was a part of the exhibition and not a piece of decoration. Also, I had taken a fancy to it.
I could feel my hubby’s laughter bubbling up before I saw it so I whisked him away to watch other things. I tried to spoil his pleasure at all those too-perfect-to-be-true boobs (SFW) painters thought they had seen in real life so many decades ago, but he was enjoying himself and basta. Luckily, at least Gustave Caillebotte had envisaged MY needs … Ha!
Next I went and (appropriately, as I think) re-named that famous Courbet (SFW, maybe) as Pussibild, then I admired some Art Nouveau furniture and many, many, many good paintings afterwards. *sigh*
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After having bought a Coke (Zero) instead of coffee (coffee machine Kaputt), we crossed the bridge and tried to get lost in the Tuileries Garden, to finally catch some sun. We even found some lovely deckchairs and lay there, doing nothing. Till the rain came, of course.
“Let’s go to the Centre Pompidou. Last time I bought some lovely Paris T-shirts nearby, maybe they have some new motives.”
They didn’t, but there was some serious commotion going on: a terribly frightened man was running around and asking everyone: “Have you seen my little daughter?!?!” I don’t think I had ever seen so much fear in somebody’s face before … REAL fear. And the daughter was nowhere to be found (I think of him often and hope she was just playing somewhere nice and came back).
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What we needed next was a beer. So we got us some famous Danish brew and just sat the rest of the afternoon away, in a nice pub where they speak French with everyone, till it was time to return to our tourist silo aka cheap hotel.
I wasn’t ready yet to confess how much I wanted to go home right then. We had 2 more days to go …
(Erotic Bridge by Victor Gingembre)
Rue St. Martin