Wow, I can't believe I'm using a baseball metaphor. In fact, it's kind of like Sheldon using a baseball metaphor.
I don't really have to explain it--or, wait, maybe I do. This thought only just occurred to me because today, when one of the students one Shakespeare in Context was presenting her version of Macbeth, our professor had to stop her to ask, "What's a Homecoming King?"
Why don't we approach this from an anthropological point of view?
For youths who live in the United States of America, it is very important to "fit in": for everyone to follow a status quo, per say. These social roles are often cemented into a hierarchy that continues for 12 years. When they reach early adolescence (14 years old), this hierarchy begins to manifest itself more obviously. The youths have a farce of a democratic election to select a Homecoming King and Homecoming Queen. This young man and young woman are supposed to be the epitome of responsibility and friendliness, but in actuality, the system to always set up so that the Homecoming King and Queen are the two most popular kids in the school. A "court" is also selected, and these individuals parade down a field where children gather to smash heads and kick balls.
Her presentation was funny. She managed to turn Macbeth into a familiar story: the quest to become popular. We were all in stitches, as she provided pictures of all the classic high school movies: 10 Things I Hate About You, She's the Man, 21 Jump Street, Mean Girls.
Anyway, after my classes were over, I got out the map--yes, an actual, physical paper map--and finally determined where in the blue hell everything is located. Most were in nice little groups, but there were a couple of outlier locations. Today, I decided to tackle the Musée Marmottan. Described as a quieter (aka hipster) art museum, it houses the largest collection of Monet's paintings as well as Berthe Morisot's works.
This time, I was prepared to pay! And it was nice to see that the student discount was actually noticeable this time around. But then I got surprised again: no cameras allowed! The guard looked at me like I was an idiot and a terrible citizen for not being aware of this. You know, why don't they put that sign out front? Or in the lobby? It's always sprung right before you walk into the museum, that way the guards can come over and shame you in front of the other museum-goers.
I wasted about six minutes reading a paragraph in French that was about four sentences long, only to turn around and find an English version.
The museum was cozy. I like house museums--as long as they're not Victor Hugo's. And yes, it was less crowded--than the Louvre. However, the Louvre has soooo much space. Here, we were crammed into rooms, forced to breathe down one another's necks. Very uncomfortable. So less crowded, but that doesn't help: it's only enjoyable if practically empty, and with a collection of Monets, that's not going to happen.
Older folks appear to frequent this museum a lot. Normally, I enjoy older folks at museums: they don't wield dangerous selfie sticks, and sometimes they'll engage you in genial conversation. But remember: this was a hipster museum. And there's exactly one thing wrong with the hipster museums: the hipsters.
Can elderly French people be hipsters? Yes. Yes, they can. Like all other hipsters, they stand directly in front of the work of art and proceed to dissect it. Now, that's cool if you're actually saying facts about the painting--those are interesting, but most importantly, they're just true. Half-assed art critiques from people who are not artists are not true; they're just annoying.
And unlike the self-proclaimed critics at the Louvre, these people felt the need to stand about one inch--excuse me, a few centimeters--away from the paintings. And they're tall. Well, 90% of people are taller than me. But still.
THEN, you have to realize that the plaques next to the paintings were minuscule. And I am blind: without my glasses I wouldn't be able to see beyond five inches in front of my face. So yes, I would have to go forward to read the signs.
But for some reason, when I went toward the signs, even though I scooted out of the way as fast as I possibly could, I received withering glares--but not just from the other visitors. There was a guard who appeared to be following me. Yes, that sounds ridiculous, I'm fully aware of that. But he was always to my right as I was wandering down where the Monet paintings were. And when I'd look over, he'd speak into his walkie-talkie. Urgh. Paranoia. It was probably nothing, but it didn't help to make this trip, you know, decent.
Thankfully, the beautiful Monet paintings and Degas sketches made up for the rudeness--but just barely. Once again, I couldn't help but feel disheartened as I walked out. Yes, not every visit can be magical. But I hate feeling like an intruder in a museum that I paid to visit. It's quite depressing.
They had so many great things, but of course, I can't remember any of them. That's my argument when the inevitable debate over picture-taking comes up. The argument put forth by typically natives of the cities is that people waste all their time taking pictures instead of actually looking at the works of art/the buildings/the landscapes. I agree that you shouldn't just view the whole experience through a camera lens.
Still, at the appropriate times, it is great to look through the lens and capture a picture you love as soon as you look at it. And once again, now you can remember. See, the Willards love going through old photos. So yes, we do actually look at them. After any trip I'd take, I'd plug the camera into the TV and force my parents to watch a photo slideshow. Most importantly--and this sounds stupid and insincere--I want to share them with you! Just like how I crave to see sights I haven't seen before, I'm assuming--hoping--you feel the same way, and I want to help. And who knows if I'll do this again? Pictures are memories, after all.
That little debate aside, I would only go back if it were free and if there were barely any people there--and that certainly isn't going to happen. Yeah... If all these paintings were graciously donated by Monet's and Morisot's children, why are we paying to see them? The gift store upstairs will always have customers--they sell Monet scarves and notebooks, after all! I don't think they're having any trouble financially; they just seem to like rolling in the dough. Or making it rain. On my dreams. Haha.
And today is actually the record for least amount of pictures taken: 12. That's sad. And of course, they're not of the inside of the museum. So I honestly don't expect you to care because I find it hard to care when I feel totally swindled. Plus, I get a real kick out of preparing my witty observations (aka bad puns and useless anecdotes).
I have absolutely no idea what this statue means. This is located in a park just outside the museum.
Well, seeing Monet does make me remember one thing: he is definitely Santa Claus. I mean, if he didn't dress up as old Saint Nick for his children, that was just a missed opportunity, man. Don't believe me? I'll show you, because Google lets me use photos (actually, I hope I don't get sued):
See?
Museum logo? Eh. They could've done better.
How exciting! It's the street that Marmottan is located on!
Wow, even the outside shots are bad because of the trees. Dad's solution would be to chop them all down.
Completely random and solely just for my friend Nick, who must be super creeped out by all my Raphael observations by now.
Yeah... I don't think I've seen tree graffiti before.
BONUS ROUND: EVEN MORE POINTLESS PHOTOS
Oh no... Have the French realized yet that Cats sucks?
One of the artists we featured in our video The Time Travel. (Yes, I'm pimping my video once again. I have no shame.)
Once again, French advertising will never cease to amaze me in its extraordinary weirdness.
Blurry Victor Hugo poem keeping me company on the Metro. And now, the poem itself wasn't blurry; the Metro is just not a good platform for picture-taking.
Random useless fact of the day. I'd explain who Madame Ladd is, but I honestly can't remember.
Only other Atticus I've seen. You know, besides Atticus Finch.
This was the stake through my heart: my favorite author basically only does ONE East Coast stop a year, and he chooses this year to do it when I'm NOT in DC. And this is sponsored by my favorite bookstore (sorry, Shakespeare & Co.) AND hosted at an awesome synagogue in Chinatown. Yeah, who would've thought?
Not acceptable?!
But, you know, in the end, all it takes is a cute coffee art picture to make everything okay. :)
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