Visiting the fifth floor Impressionist collection of the Musee d’Orsay felt like I was walking in a dream. Often during my months in Europe, I felt this way. It was the quiet, pastel quality of European cities. I am an incurable, unapologetic Romantic, and there is perhaps nothing more silver than wandering in a Paris museum.
It was crowded, yes, of course, but with city travel comes the ability to filter or mentally separate yourself from a group. Truthfully, I wanted to be physically alone on that floor, among all those paintings and sculptures. Similar to swamps, beaches, or woods, museums are places of reverence for me, and I prefer solitude in them. Also, I found myself pretty teary the entire time I was in the Musee d’Orsay, and I wasn’t sure about crying so openly in public. Back when I was in grad school, one of our teachers took us on a field trip to the Chicago Art Institute. As he stood before Van Gogh’s “The Bedroom,” he started to cry. I remember him saying something like, “I’m sorry. Every time I see this painting I think about how lonely he was.” I suppose if an accomplished professor could respond so openly, then it was ok for me too.
As I stood in front of Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait,” with his vivid blues and signature brush strokes, I remembered my teacher’s comment, and I cried. I wondered about how Van Gogh felt as he painted. Were those heavy marks made in moments of frustration? After he laid down the big swatches of color (and the oil dried), did he rest before he painted the thinner marks, like the simple lines to denote his shoulders? Or did he work constantly until the painting was finished? Admittedly, I hadn’t read much about Van Gogh, and someday maybe I will. There in the museum, in front of his face, looking into his intense eyes, I wanted to keep more questions than answers. It was an honor simply to stand beside his portrait.
With Renoir’s “Two Girls at the Piano,” I was immediately transported to my childhood. This painting made me think about my Mom, and how happy I was when she gave me my first piano. “Two Girls” has beautifully soft colors, a sweetness of the moment. Looking closer, I saw a transition of textures, from the fabric of the standing girl’s sleeve to the seated girl’s hair and finally to her ribbon. It was humbling to see how Renoir achieved this. I wanted to close my eyes and touch that small part of the painting, to see if my finger tip could detect the subtle differences. Obviously, I did not.
And I did not try to climb into Monet’s “Blue Water Lilies” either, even though I wanted to. Those dripping willow branches and the lilies in the water looked inviting. I don’t know if I can accurately describe this or not. I felt like Monet’s reflections were inside my body, coming out from my skin. Maybe it was the scale of it, the brilliance of the colors, but it was tangible. To see something that shimmers and to feel that shine inside is heartbreaking and beautiful. The next time we visit France, I need to see his gardens.
Yes, walking in the Musee d’Orsay affected me emotionally, intellectually, and physically, as all powerful art should. Degas’s sculpture, “Small Dancer Aged 14,” was particularly striking. She is three-dimensional, life-size, and life like. Degas used real hair and actual ballet slippers in this work. At the time of her unveiling, he was criticized for how he sculpted her face, something about not making her feminine or beautiful enough. She was gorgeous to me. The museum keeps her in a large glass box, which emphasizes the idea that she is more a part of an anthropological or natural history exhibit and perhaps less a work of art. She is both. We all are.
I kept thinking about the time and labor in those rooms. How long each carefully chosen composition must have taken. How many hours the painters must have worked as they tried to capture the light with accurate color. What intimate processes sculpting and figure drawing are. While you are not actually in physical contact with the body, in a sense you are. Your eyes are following every line and contour, and your hand is moving in time with your eyes, almost touching.
When we reached the end of that long series of rooms, we moved with the crowd to exit onto the rooftop. The views of the city from this rooftop are famously beautiful. For the two us, it was seamless…from rooms of paintings into a painting itself…the stunning, dappled horizon of Paris.
