Day 8: The Louvre

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Voyeurs et voyeuses,

Pour vous, un nouveau video:



Need I say more? I think not.

Oh, the humanity!!

OK, so that's not completely fair. Or at least not to the Louvre, even if it does seem to sum up what a lot of the people who come to the museum think is its only attraction. The thing is, you have to pass by many great works -- it's a hefty enough walk to work off two pains au chocolat and half a baguette well-slathered with a nicely ripened raw-milk Coulommiers -- and any dozens of incredible paintings along the way could make you forget that the Louvre even has the Mona Lisa.

Perhaps your eye would be caught by Salviate's "L'Incrédulité de St. Thomas" (detail, above) in which the famed doubter holds out his hands in a gesture that states to the painting's other characters in no uncertain terms, "Talk to the stigmata!"

Two paintings of the diminutive David (by Bartolomeo Manfredi and Guido Reni) catch the young lad at candid moments following his triumph over Mr. Big. These two paintings will surprise anyone who, without imagination to match that of Italian Renaissance painters, never considered Goliath's slayer such a pretty boy, in one portrait decked out with a frippy plume in his capello and an "ain't I the cock of the walk" air about him. To all you fans of St. Sebastian back in San Francisco, I think you should change heroes. This kid's got the looks and the attitude, along with being the underdog who came out a winner. And St. Subby was way too busy bleeding from his arrow wounds to give sufficient thought to his haberdashery. He probably didn't even know not to wear a white hat feather after labor day.

This was in no way meant to be an art lecture, and to describe my four hours in an art museum would require me to bore you to certain death -- not my intention when I began this entry. Suffice it to say that there is time and space to ponder and/or admire nearly anything in the Louvre except for the Mona Lisa, which is protected from proper viewing and contemplation by a roped partition, protective plexiglass, and crowds, crowds, crowds, crowds, crowds. The feeling one gets entering the room where Ms. Mona hangs is similar to a common sentiment when taking a seat in the upper tier of an 80,000-person sports arena to see a popular rock group along with 79,999 other fans, all of whom are shrieking so loudly you can't hear the music; it's great to say you saw them live, but if you had really wanted to enjoy the music you could have stayed home and popped their CD in the stereo. You can go to the Louvre and say you saw the Mona Lisa, too, but if you want to really look at her, you'll see more detail and have more time to enjoy it if you open a high-quality art book.

À demain (ou après)...

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