Free Sunday in Paris

On the first Sunday of each month many of the state-run museums in Paris are open free of charge. And for the first time in the five months since we've lived here we finally took advantage of this exceptionally imaginative deal. Yesterday dawned clear and blue and odd as it may sound, it remained that way pretty much all day. (photo: model of the Pantheon inside the Pantheon.)

It was the first day off for Susie since she started her "internship" at Pascal Pinaud's pastry shop, and so we had a leisurely morning lingering over the computer and coffee. After we showered, dressed, and grabbed our coats we walked over to the Pascal's shop where picked up one of the ever-popular Galette du Roi ("King's Cake"), a special cake for Epiphany. After we took the cake back home we turned right around and left again, for our Big Day at the Museums of Paris. Well, maybe not all of them but we were going to enjoy being out in the Parisian sunshine anyway.

First on our agenda for the day was the Pantheon which is only about a 20-minute walk from our apartment.

Orignally designed to be a grand replacement church in honor of the patron saint of Paris, Ste. Genevieve (her original church dated back to 512), the church was taken over by the revolutionary leadership in the late 18th century and turned into the final resting place for the French demi-gods (and one one demi-goddess). And so today people speak of being pantheonized, to be laid to rest in this secularly sacred place of places, although permanence has never been guaranteed, as the spirits of Mirabeau and Marat discovered, probably to their eternal chagrin.

There are virtually no windows but the light floods in and hovers right along with Foucault's pendulum. And a quick glance at the uppeer level from just the right angle shows someone had a fixation on angles.


The statuary is absolutely amazing, the paintings on the walls like tapesteries, and this is just the main level.


One descends to the crypt from the rear of the building and there is Rousseau and Voltaire. As you enter further into the recesses of the crypt you find many others whose names resound throughout much of western civilization: Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas and Emile Zola all rest in the same small vault together (an interesting threesome to be sure).


Pierre Curie and his wife Marie rest one on top of the other (Marie is on top if you must know). We had no idea that Marie, who was born in Warsaw, won not one but two Nobel prizes: in 1903 she shared the Physics prize with her husband and then in 1913 won the Chemistry prize for her work in radioactivity.

From the Pantheon we strolled down a side street, away from the general tourist drift toward the Jardin du Luxembourg, and hopped on the no. 10 Metro at Mabillon, switched trains at Duroc onto the no. 13 and then got off at the Invalides. Our hope was to see the newly remodeled World Wars 1 and 2 galleries but for some odd reason (probably because this is the army and the army is, well a bureaucracy) they don't participate in the "Free sunday" rule so we moved on.

We strolled across the Pont Alexandre III bridge, certainly one of the most beautiful bridges in the city, crossed over to the right bank (you could feel a chill in the air now) and then turned to our right and headed toward the Tuileries.

Our next objective was to see Claude Monet's les Nympheas (Water Lilies) at the Musee d'Orangerie, and boy were we in for a surprise.

Outside one will often find a line of art-minded folks waiting to get in and today, being a free day, was no exception. The exterior appearance of the museum belies its interior spaces and it is an impressive collection of galleries. (There's even an exposition of a bit of of the original wall of Paris included on the lower level.)

The Lilies, which gave Giverny everlasting fame, are certainly impressive from the sheer scale of these paintings: they run anywhere from 860 cm to 1700 cm (or roughly 9 yards to more than 18 yards) in length and are over 200 cm (2 yards) in height. However, their subdued and muted colors didn't appeal to me and frankly I thought it was so much wasted canvas. We both thought they were, well, boring. On the lower level however it was a much different picture (no pun intended).




The lower level galleries were jam packed with works by Renoir, Matisse, Picasso, and numerous other Big Names. We particularly liked the Renoirs, his images were evocative of tenderness and feelings which registered with both of us. And we also liked the present temporary exposition of realist painters such as Georges de la Tour (with thought his work simply stunning). Fascinating work, worth some of your time.

From the Orangerie we strolled through the Tuileries, past the Place du Carrousel, crossing the ground that once held the famed Tuileries palace, burned by revolutionaries who thought it stood in the way of progress. And so it probably did. Passing through the Louvre, or rather around the pyramids, we eventually wended our way out to Rue de Rivoli and walked up to the Pompidou Centre. (photos: exterior, and interior of, well the exterior!)



I must admit right up front that I like this building. I must also be frank and say right up front that much of what lies within, at least on the top two or three floors, is, well, crap. But hey one can't have everything.

The good news was that the line moved fast to get inside where we found ourselves confronted with a cacophony of sound, color and confusion as to which direction to go and how to get there. Fortunately there was an information booth nearby which seemed to be directing everyone to another huge line waiting to go somewhere but we couldn't for the life of us figure out where that was. So we went off on our own and eventually found our way to the interior-exterior escalators to take us to the top level of the Centre and discovered we had some striking views of the city.(photos: Sacre Coeur and Montmartre and Eiffel tower.)



Besides having fantastic views the Pomidou is also the acme of modern art museums. I like modern art museums for the simple reason it is so very easy to move from gallery to gallery.

Let me explain.

Say you're in the Vatican museum and are a serious art-minded kind of person. You are faced with an overhwleming amount of 2- and 3-dimensional things to look at, ponder over, stand in front of and contemplate the colors, the angles, the shapes, trying to piece together the ideas that wen into that creation, the things that determined such a complex piece of sculpture or oil painting. So much to see, so much to think about it makes one's head ache just to talk about it.

Not so with modern art. There's little worry over having to think too long or too hard about it.

For example, on level 4 of the Pompidou you can find yourself in a room where the artist (dare I use such a hackneyed word for this person?) actually took stamped envelopes, framed them and then said "Hey, over here, this is art!" And someone else, equally well-educated probably, said "By Golly you're right, so it is! I'll give you some money for that!" As you peek in you can see that hey these are just framed envelopes. Well that's crap! It's time to move on!


Or you walk into a room that has nothing in it except a bunch of green household stuff strewn about the floor (probably laid out in a very dfeliberate manner I'm sure). More crap! It's time to move on!


Or how about the man (or woman since today women can be equally preposterous) who set up a projector, with no film in it, pointed it at a blank black wall, turned it on and then left it running apparently forever, with just static as an image. Oh boy still more crap! It's time to move on!


Or how about a never-ending loop of a movie where all you see is a grainy black and white image of a man's hand is forever trying to catch something being dropped onto it, or another black and white "movie" where a man sitting outside is trying to write with a fountain pen while he is being doused with a constant stream of water, or another one where a camera slowly pans up and down steps.

Whew! Intense?

Apparently so since there seemed to be a never ending stream of persons just sitting, watching these "moving images" as if riveted to their seats. I asked Susan later "What do you suppose those people are thinking about as they watch this?" Her response was that some probably get high before they come to the Pompidou and then just sit back and drift onto another plane of existence altogether, leaving the rest of us behind to fend off reality on our own.

Probably so.

But see how easy modern art is on the mind and eye?

Well we could only take so much of this so we found our way outside and then crossed over to the little Brancusi museum just next door. Constantin Brancus was born in Rumania but eventually settled in Paris. His sculpture studio was in Montparnasse and upon his death he willed his entire studio and collection of work to the state on the condition that they recreate his studio just as it was on the day he died. And so they did. Drop by for a look at how one of the early 20th century "French" sculptors lived and worked, joined occasionally by friends such as Erik Satie. (And one of his pieces, a couple hugging, sits over a grave in a quiet, out-of-the wasy corner of division 19 in Montparnasse cemetery.)

The one thing that left me moved more than anything else by the day was that I had the opportunity to see first hand today the work of artists whose gravesites I had already visited : Brancusi and Chaim Soutine (Montparnasse), Marie Laurencin (Pere Lachaise) Maurice Utrillio (St. Vincent). I felt my education continue moment-by-moment.

After Susie and I left the Pompidou we strolled down to the Hotel de Ville and checked out the ice rink set up in front of the city hall. And I saw another first: a double-decker carrousel, loaded with kids and, curiously, lots of adults. Now that's art.


Wish you could have been here,

Steve