A Canadian in Paris, Part 1.5: Lessons at the Louvre

A few weeks ago I had the unprecedented pleasure of spending a spontaneous weekend in Paris.  Here is the second in a series of three (very) loosely chronological reflections.  

Why the second and not the first, you ask? Well, the first one isn’t ready yet, because I actually wrote it second.  Never mind.  Just read.

I went to one of the most famous art galleries in the world today. I saw one of the most famous paintings in the world. It moved me not.

It was terribly exciting to get off the metro and follow the signs to the Louvre. It was exciting to walk past the gallery bookstore and approach the gallery information desk. It was exciting to buy my ticket, and stand under the famous pyramid, and plan my route to the Mona Lisa.

Now, to be very honest, I’ve never been particularly attracted to Miss Mona. She’s always seemed a little weird to me. But I thought if I saw her in person maybe I would have some sort of epiphany. At the very least, I’d be able to tell my niece, and all my friends, that I’ve seen the real Mona Lisa, and people might get jealous of me, in a good way.

But my quest did not go exactly as planned. To begin with, the Louvre is unreasonably huge. Like, I found myself wishing I had a GPS and a trail of neon signs saying, “Mona Lisa: This Way.” Or at least a kindly museum employee somewhere to hear my plaintive queries. Or a sign that told me what continent I was on. Something.

Eventually I discovered that the Nintendo “Audioguide” I had rented for five Euros was able to deduce my current location and plan an eight-minute route to my painting of choice. Eureka. And so began my sojourn through endless rooms of “Decorative Arts” (basically, fancy furniture from who-knows-when). Really, just beam me over to Mona, so I can have my moment and be done with.

I emerged at last from the furniture boutique and merged onto the superhighway to the Italian Renaissance, attempting to have brief, but meaningful artistic moments with some of the gazillion paintings along the way; but it was not to be. How embarrassing. I, an artistic spirit to the core, am incapable of thinking or feeling anything significant about these canvases that have wowed the world for centuries.

Eventually “Mona Lisa: This Way” signs began to appear along my path, and my anticipation began to intensify. This was it. I was about to experience some sort of aesthetic nirvana. Get ready, Natasha. Your oracle awaits.

But Miss Mona was utterly sterile. She was sequestered behind a layer of glass, eight guards, two rope barriers, and a horde of tourists with selfie sticks. I couldn’t walk back and forth to find out if her legendary eyes would follow me. I couldn’t get close enough to get to know her. She was just a trophy. Something to check off.

And so I took the obligatory selfie (for my niece, you know), bought a few Mona Lisa trinkets (my niece did an amazing reproduction of the Mona Lisa for her art class, you see), and wondered what to do next.

I approached an employee and asked for recommendations, or a list of paintings, or something, and she inwardly rolled her eyes: Stupid tourists. Always showing up at the Louvre without pre-planning their route. How can we French be required to put up with such imbecility, day after day after day?

Alright then. I was on my own. I’ll have my epiphany with or without your help, thank-you very much. And I sped off in search of Rembrandt.

I motored past another million Very Old Paintings along the way. I tried to have feelings about them, I really did. I tried to feel Awe and Wonder. But I couldn’t seem to find anything but irreverence in my heart for all these hallowed masters. My thinking quickly devolved into a string of not-so-witty witticisms for my upcoming blog. Things like…

And from there, things continued to devolve into unspeakable levels until I finally found my Rembrandt, and told myself to grow up.

I stood in front of Bathsheba for a while. I liked the artist’s representation of her as not a temptress, but a victim, regarding the king’s summons with foreboding and sadness.

But even Rembrandt let me down, by confronting me with a really unnecessary image of a slaughtered cow. Come on, people. I see dead animals hanging on hooks everywhere I go in Morocco; but at the Louvre? Could I not have even a one-day reprieve?

With that, I pretty much gave up. I’m going to the flea market. I can’t take any more of this Very Old Art. I’ve got to get out of here and rejoin the world of fully clothed, normal human beings.

And so it was that in one of the millions of rooms between me and my exit, I suddenly stopped and stared. I was alone in the room, inexplicably drawn to a painting of a tree. Yup. A tree. No shifty eyes, no religious iconography, no background narrative, no gift-shop hype. Just me in a room with a tree.

It was an oak tree, my Audioguide told me. The fine, twisting lines of the branches were painted with such graceful care, each one filling the space allotted to it with such precision and humility. I could imagine myself painting such lines, if I only had the skill. They stood out with stark clarity against the muted tones of the fallen foliage on the ground. The image was frozen, and yet moving. I could feel the brittleness of the bark under my fingers, and the bitterness of the wind against my cheek.

The expert voice inside my GPS-Nintendo gizmo had all sorts of artistic insights for me. The crows in the foreground, struggling to maintain their perch in the dead, windblown tree, represent the futility of clinging to a life that is past. The birds in the background, soaring into the light and colour of the afterlife, represent freedom from adversity.

Suddenly I remembered my dad, living in a body that was deteriorating day by day, and how much I wanted him to cling to this life; and I remembered the day he soared away. This is his oak tree. Ours.

I stood in that empty room for a long time, thinking about pigments, people, and the funny ways we have of assigning value to things we perceive to be “important.” I thought about beauty, form, and vanity, and the many bodies and faces framed and displayed here like caged animals for our viewing. I thought about what makes a perfect person, and a perfect painting, and why it would be that I would find hints of both in the image of a dead tree. And I thought about the quest for artistic epiphany, and wondered that I should find it where I wasn’t looking for it, with an obscure painting in an empty room, far from the swarms of tourists who continued to hobnob with Mona and her merry entourage.

I left the Louvre and headed to the flea market, which is another story in itself. The next day, I engaged in various other cultural pursuits, and checked more items off of my list of Important Things to See and Do in Paris. As I marched along the Seine in between these Very Important Destinations, I stopped and did an unthinkable thing. I looked at some not-so-cheap reproductions of famous and not-so-famous paintings, and I handed over a bunch of Euros to a guy on the street who was selling fake art to unwitting shoppers. I took home several canvases of tacky tourist wares, not because they are authentic or important, but because the colours make me happy. Every day I will look at them and remember the lessons of the Louvre: that we are moved not by masterpieces but by people and experiences, and our memories of them in unexpected images; and that real art can be found anywhere, in anything that makes us stop and think and look, and look again.

So thank-you, swarming tourists, for barring my way to Miss Mona; and thank-you, Miss Mona, for leading me astray. One day, maybe I will take my niece to the Louvre, and she either will or will not find her masterpiece waiting for her on the wall. Either way, it’s okay. The Art will find her somewhere nonetheless.