Remember: I have bad days, so don't let them color your opinions of the places I visit. A college always is the wrong one for you when you visit on a rainy day, after all.
And today it was raining. It was slightly disheartening after the warm weather--I actually had to take my leather jacket off! That's the first time that's happened here.
Also, I have no right to have a bad day: just this morning, I finalized my other European trips. I wish I could play a fun game, but I don't have--Wait! I have the Internet.
Here is where I'll be spending Easter...
Click on this couple's version of "Always" to find out the answer!
Next trip:
Click on this painting that I plan to see to find out!
If you don't have the answer, click on Mary Shelley (pictured above--and no, that's not really her).
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Note: Asterisks are hilarious for those who've read Breakfast of Champions. And it gives you a new perspective on how Kurt Vonnegut signed his name:
Hehe.
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As you can tell, I get easily distracted.
I know some of you (Jamie) read this on your phones, so here are my answers:
1. Hazel and Gus, the protagonists and star-crossed lovers of John Green's The Fault in Our Stars, go to Amsterdam courtesy of a charity analogous to the Make a Wish Foundation. I'm going Easter Weekend. :)
2. John Evertt Millais, a British artist, painted this iconic scene from Hamlet, when Ophelia drowns herself at some point during Act IV. (It's been a while since I read it, guys.) This painting resides at the Tate Britain (NOT the Tate Modern) in London, where I will be going to get some more mango tea at Harrod's and have dinner with the lovely Loren.
3. If anyone has read Haunted (Alyssa), Chuck Palahniuk got the idea of stuffing a bunch of writers in a house together because that's how Frankenstein was written: Mary Shelley, her husband Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, Claire Clairmont (what were her parents thinking? My parents informed me that they would've never named their son Willard Willard), and Lord Byron's doctor John William Polidori were all locked in a house in Geneva (not by choice). They decided to write stories as there was nothing else to do (ah, the 19th century), and thus this is where Mary Shelley wrote and set Frankenstein--while she was still a teenager. But yeah, it's also home of the Large Hadron Collider at CERN and just has a beautiful landscape.
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And yes, that is three weeks in a row of travel. Not for whole weeks: people seem to forget that I (and they) actually have classes that need to be passed. So each weekend is going to be a casual jaunting-off into another country. I love Europe! However, I might look like Frankenstein's monster--or Frankenstein while he's conducting his experiment--by the end of the three weeks, but I'm sure it will be well worth it.
Thus, I've felt the need to do something every day now. Just as they said in one of those mandatory Living in Paris sessions, it's gotten to the point now where I'm like, "Oh, CRAP, I only have two months left of time!" But I've got my lists and camera handy so I don't miss out on anything I've wanted to see. It's all about priorities, however.
So today, between my classes, I visited the Petit Palais, a small (hence "petite") art museum that houses both temporary and permanent collections. Across the street is the Grand Palais, which is much bigger (obviously) and houses solely temporary exhibits or even conventions/concerts/big-group-things.
So this bridge I crossed is really cool. My mother was fascinated with it when she came to visit, as it is one you often drive by. We asked the cab driver one day, and he said that this bridge was called the Pont ("bridge" in French) Alexandre III. It's beautiful, just like the Arlington Memorial Bridge. So crossing the bridge had me thinking about DC.
It's all stunning, even in the gray weather.
The Petit Palais and the Grand Palais were basically right in front of the bridge. I couldn't believe I almost Metro-ed this trip. Even in the rain, it was far faster and less claustrophobic than the Metro.
To the left is the Grand Palais, and to the left is the Petit Palais.
What I mostly found extraordinary about the Petit Palais--because the art was beautiful--was the building itself. It was very open and calm compared to lots of other museums.
However, the workers were not friendly or accommodating. When you enter, the temporary exhibit to the right is about 11 euros; to the left is the permanent gallery that costs nothing. The woman's gaze was withering when I asked which one was free. Well, you know, if you want people to not ask, just put it on a sign. After that, I didn't have the courage to ask if I could get a student discount.
I walked to the left (only after I had made the mistake of going right), and there was another guard around the corner. I know that guarding is their job, but these guards were very...watchful. Even standing in front of the Mona Lisa, I didn't feel like the guards' gazes were boring into me. But this was definitely a place where you were watched with scrutiny--and not just by the guards, I discovered.
I've been trying to get wider shots lately. Because I want to remember the atmosphere more than what that one vase looked like.
I just didn't know what to think about this.
And this guy who did that weird sculpture? He did more around the museum. Looking at those makes this one seem rather tame.
This somehow strikes me as animal cruelty. Then again, we put children on leashes.
Tangent: One day, we somehow got on the subject of children dragged by their parents in leashes. My Fiction Writing professor had this to say: "At first you think, 'Ugh, how barbaric. I would never do that.' Then, once you have kids, you look around you and say, 'How does everyone not have their kids on leashes?'"
I took the above picture for Alyssa, as I'm assuming this is what she aspires to in life--as we all should.
I <3 teapots. Even ones with snakes. It reminds me of Craig Ferguson's mug:
Here is the main hallway of the Permanent Gallery. However, just like other museums, they had side rooms, so I got sidetracked, as you see I have the tendency to do...
What's with the tape? The problem is, in this day and age, I can't tell if it's for actual structural problems or to make an artistic statement.
If you look at this portrait just right, it kind of looks like he's taking a selfie. I mean, either way, he appears to be staring into a compact lens, so it's equally vain so matter what.
I demand to be carried in one of these. That's what it's for, right? Otherwise, what's the point? Now this is how I should've made an entrance at my Sweet Sixteen.
??? As you can probably tell from the strangeness, this is by the same artist who did that weird head-body thing back there.
Pictures within pictures are the best.
This is a beautiful clock, but what I'd like to really point out is the fact that the figures are not humans. They appear to be apes or monkeys, actually.
I'm assuming this is how Mom would like to decorate our living room if we had unlimited funds... And a professional ninja to steal this stuff for us.
It's quite the coincidence that I mentioned Ben Franklin yesterday, as then one of my favorite YouTube channels, SciShow, posted this video about him. So apparently he did help convince the French to spend a lot of their national budget on helping us win the Revolutionary War. As John Green says, "Thank you, France; we'll get you back during World Wars I and II."
I wish I was able to make an interrobang here. (No, that's not a dirty word.)
Looking rather benignly at is is Voltaire. Turns out his real name is François-Marie Arouet, which, unlike the also mononymous (person with one name) Montesquieu, doesn't contain the name "Voltaire." So confusing. But I suppose pen names can be mononymous as well.
I love stairs here! The problem is (and I'm talking about stairs in Europe in general), those winding staircases that look so cool in Instagram photos? Well, they are absolutely awful at fitting two people, which means passing someone going up while you're going down can potentially be disastrous.
Since I was technically supposed to revisit Rodin's Gate of Hell door for my Art History paper, I decided these Rodin sculptures would have to make up for it. Hey, it was raining; the Gate of Hell is outside.
This just defines being an old-timey artist to me right here.
As you can see, the place is very austere. Very sparse. So yes, I suppose it's kind of hard for the guards not to notice you--you're usually the only other one in the room. But it's a bit unnerving, especially for a paranoid jerk like me.
Once again, a reminder of home--this time of New England--with the lighthouse and the water. And yes, I do get homesick. I'm not a complete android (yet).
Admittedly, I appreciate Mary Cassatt paintings more after I saw her featured as a minor character in the Kennedy Center's production of The Little Dancer, but oh well. Sometimes you get introduced to things through unconventional ways. (I started reading Sedaris solely because he is mentioned in a [title of show] song.)
Like an unfortunately stereotypical American, one quick glance at this and I was thinking, Which president is that? That beard looks like Ulysses S. Grant, but I'm sure he wasn't that skinny. Oh wait...
I find Eve sculptures much more complex than Adam ones. I mean, she has a more interesting story. And I'm going to detract from my meaningful comment by linking to this video.
Now, this hasn't been a figure I've seen portrayed yet: Icarus falling from the sun. It's a fascinating myth and an overly-used metaphor, but what I really love about the story of Icarus is how William Carlos Williams (my personal idol: he was a doctor AND a poet) portrayed Icarus in his poem.
What I find delightful about Monet paintings--besides the art itself--is that they can be found anywhere. They pop up in unexpected places. Like this random Monet here with its beautiful son. And the haystacks at the Hillstead. And the famous water lilies at the MoMA in New York. It's wild. It's like a giant scavenger hunt.
Now, remember the famous British Ophelia painting from above? Well, he's not the only one who painted her; she's been a popular figure to paint for many. I saw another Ophelia painting by Delacroix at the Louvre, this one by Paul Albert Steck--well, actually, this one is my favorite now. I think it best describes Ophelia as Gertrude--Shakespeare, technically--does: as a falling mermaid. John Green goes into more detail here, for those endangered nerds out there. (And I can't help it: this is a classic.)
Okay, yes, I totally took this photo just because there's a cat sculpture. Although it looks like the cat is doing something not very nice...
"Lions, tigers, and bears--oh my!"
Awesome because A.) cats! and B.) James Joyce features a kitty in his opening chapter for Leopold Bloom.
So I'm guessing this ceiling mural is like the ones we make in America, where we just shove as many famous artworks into one frame as possible? Well, with that description, it sounds like I don't like those, but I do. It's just really hard to see from down here.
Also, here's the point where I get cranky because I tried to peek into the next room and the guard immediately leaped out of her chair.
"Do you speak English?"
I tried to find my words; I was surprised.
"Parlez-vous anglais?" she asked, being very deliberately slow.
Okay, lady. First of all, how does asking that in French help answer your question? Second of all, being talked to like I'm in second grade does not please me at all. I can go more into this pet peeve when the semester is over and I can complain freely without fear of getting kicked out of my apartment. :)
"Yes," I said back equally slow.
"This is the exit of the temporary exhibit. If you want to look at the temporary exhibit, you have to go buy a ticket. But since this is the exit and you don't have a ticket, you can't enter here."
I wasn't trying to enter! It looked terribly boring inside. But she was still maddeningly talking to me like I was eight. Argh! I did not just turn 21 for this crap.
What's so great about a portrait of a random dude? He's got a cat in his lap, that's what's great about it. Turns an ordinary picture into an extraordinary picture.
You don't really have to guess hard with these: it's the artist I was talking about before. Well, he has a name: it's Thomas Leroy. He also tends to give these weird sculptures equally weird, attempting-to-be-esoteric-and-philosophical names. For example, this arm is called You were on my mind.
The problem with Jesus paintings is that they never capture him as well as I think. However, this one does a pretty good job, mostly because Jesus is obviously juxtaposed with us laypeople.
The Good Samaritan. Nowadays, we just hold doors open for people.
Oh, Leroy, what are you doing?
For once, a person in a piece of art is reacting how any normal person would react to a decapitated head. But even though he doesn't look impassive, he also doesn't seem as freaked out as I definitely would be.
I'm telling you, French people--they love their bread. (They totally eat whole baguettes walking down the street. Like, that's a regular sandwich for some people. It's awesome. I need to step up my eating game here.)
This place has an amazing courtyard garden. And once again, seeing the cherry tree made me miss DC even more. I especially miss the warm, friendlier atmosphere at the Smithsonian (the only exception is that time Alyssa and I went to the Natural History Museum; that guard was quite sassy). Anyway, it's no wonder I felt like I was having a bad day: being homesick is just not something I'm comfortable with.
I definitely got judged for taking a picture of this. But it is beautiful. Look at those grapes!
Uh, yeah... Leroy titled this The Kiss. Me, I would've titled it Anatomy Homework Coming Alive in the Worst Possible Manner.
I have to say, though, the lighting here wasn't all wonky like it can be at the Louvre. And it's practically spotless in here.
Once again, I have a suggestion for Mr. Leroy: Achilles Deconstructed.
This sculpture of Eve was so fascinating. First of all, you never see Eve with a smile; she's always placed in a position that emphasizes her shame. But here, we see her as she's meeting the snake, which looks innocent enough--certainly more innocent than the snake in Disney's The Jungle Book. I just love to see a new take on things. It gives Eve a more multidimensional personality. Now if someone could do that for Adam, I'd be even more interested.
Me getting all artsy-fartsy with my shots. I didn't promise that I wouldn't do it. I can't help it!
Bastille Day celebrations!
Like I said before, the middle garden/courtyard was breathtaking. I was wondering why no one was stepping into the garden, so I did... And it was because it was raining. But even in the rain, it was beautiful. In fact, I think it helps make the cherry blossoms look even more radiant. Plus, you know, Gil Pender likes Paris in the rain--and that's how he meets his rebound new love! (I love this scene, but watching it now, all I'm thinking is, There is no way there's a place you can get coffee at midnight.)
So conclusion: The Petit Palais was beautiful. I loved the art--not the atmosphere. It felt very judgy. But that's the problem with smaller museums: sometimes you get a nice, intimate feeling like at the Curie Museum, and other times you feel like everyone's just trying to be an art snob, like here or even at the Rodin in some ways. (I love Rick Steve's guidebook, but here's what really ticked me off about it: he doesn't mention the Curie Museum at all! It's not even on the map. I know I'm not "everyone," and not "everyone" likes Marie Curie and radium--but I think it's something worth mentioning. It's a real find. I'm glad I found it, but it's not like anyone points it out to you, which I find to be a great shame.)
Anyway, it's okay because I have Ben & Jerry's waiting for me in the freezer. They finally got a new flavor other than chocolate (I'm sure my father's face is crestfallen right now), and that would be cookie dough! A great choice, and then my throat won't feel like it's stuck in a desert of cocoa.
We should be getting our Art History midterms back tomorrow, and I am grinding my teeth just thinking about it. (Though it's not really a novelty for me to grind my teeth, as those who've been to my sleepovers can attest to readily.) My mom pointed out that I have an excellent memory, and that is one thing I am willing to brag about unashamedly (this is the point where everyone reading this coughs loudly). However, I reminded her that I have a penchant for remembering the completely useless things, like that Napoleon ran away from his exile on Elba on my birthday (not the year, but the day) or that bananas we eat today are actually a different species than the ones back in the 50's (and that's why banana-flavored things doesn't exactly taste like actual bananas today) or things my professor says like, "No, blood is quite delicious."
Okay, not so amazing when I write it down, as those are fascinating--at least I'm incapable of imagining someone not thinking they're interesting. Ah well. So memory does come at a price, which is fine with me, as I like learning these random and often inane facts, but I know it can be wearying for my parents when I won't stop talking at dinner or just plain unhelpful--like during an Art History midterm.
TTFN!
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