Musée, Monet, and Meeting Oneself in Paris

“I sat in a café, I drank coffee, and I wrote nonsense in a journal. And then, somehow, it was not nonsense. I went for long walks, and I met myself in Paris.”

Sabrina (1995)

Days run away from us, and so do memories. But when I sit down to write about these moments there are certain aspects that are utterly indelible in my mind. After arriving in my flat, I changed my clothes and left; most likely planning to find some tobacco, espresso and a croissant. I got to the Place de la République when the rain began. I continued walking, as is my modus operandi, but this rain had a different plan for me. Just as I stepped into an alcove of an old stone building with some other unsuspecting Parisian the rain was pouring. Finally, I made a break for it and rain across the street, nearly side swiped by a motorcycle. I rain to the nearest Tabac and burst through the door. In the classic way of Paris, everyone was utterly unbothered by my entrance. I sat outside under the awning and drank espresso and smoked tobacco and watch the rain come down. I watched Paris move around me. I arrive again. These days were filled with a pureness of spirit. The first time I had come to Paris was a moment in my life that truly laid the blueprint for the way I would live for the coming years. Fully embodied, fully enlivened, fully able to choose my path and my next step. My return to Paris on this trip felt like a touchstone, a reminder, that, yes, the blueprint is unstained; the path I am on is invigorated by every unexpected rainfall, every stranger with a smile and a moment to strike a match. These are the moments that come together to form my sense of self and place.

My first morning waking up in Paris, I woke up before sunrise. In the dark morning, before first light I slipped into my running shoes and clothes. As I left the building and began to walk down the street, the smells of morning in Paris surrounded me. Breads, baguettes, baked goods, all fresh in the oven, fill the air with an aromatic cloud. As I began running down Rue de la Oberkampf, I told myself, you can have as many croissants as long as you get to the la Tour Eiffel by sunrise. I ran down to the Louvre, around the glass pyramid and on through Jardin de la Tuileries. From there I ran along the waterfront of the River Seine. As the sun began to peak itself above the horizon in the east, it cast shadows from all of the statues that are scattered around the promenades and pathways of Paris. As I slowed to a walk, feeling the beating of my heart deep in my chest and the heat of my body meeting the cool March morning, I stopped. I took in a deep breath. How many people had walked that same path before me? What legends and poets and artists and thinkers?

After recovering from my run with a proper breakfast of croissants and various other pastries, I dressed for a day at the museums. See, on my previous trip to Paris, the lines were so unbearably long I could not fathom waiting in them. And of course, this was the perfect way for me to learn about the ebbs and flows of this city my first time around. On this trip, the line gods smiled down upon me, because I walked straight into every museum I visited. On this morning I made my way to Musée de l’Orangerie. As I walked into the main room of the museum, I immediately noticed the way the skylights had been perfectly layered to bring in light, but simultaneously provide a privacy. It felt as if I had walked inside of a pearl. As you enter, you walk around a sort of pillar in the center of the building. Somehow this creates a sectioning off between what occurs outside these walls, and the art and serenity within this space. This architecture is not unintentional. In 1921, following World War I, Claude Monet worked in tandem with the architect Camille Lefevre to design this space as a sanctuary from the chaos of warfare.

And thus, Claude Monet’s waterlilies breathe life into the viewer. Each room carries on its walls the weight of the changing seasons. The viewer moves through the oblong space with such ease. There is meditation in the process, for the veteran meditator or the visitor with no regard for her breath and the concept of mindfulness. The deep range of different shades of blues pull on my spirit and bring me into the water, I am submerged into the art work; each brush stroke. I consider to myself, what might it be like to be the paint on the tip of Monet’s paintbrush?

After wandering through the reverie that is Monet’s waterlilies, I wandered back out onto the streets. I grabbed a bicycle and made my way to the Musée d’Orsay. Again, the line gods looked down upon me and I walked right in. This, now quiet and peaceful museum, exudes the spirit of a place that once was bustling with the life of a pre-war Parisian train station. The clock watches over the scenes below, once teaming with throngs of hat-wearing, umbrella carrying mademoiselles and monsieurs, is now watching the currents of art lovers watching paintings. There is a strange perfection in the way one painting can change your whole day, your entire being. As I began to think about making my way towards the exit, I remembered that there was one particular painting that I wanted to find. I located the nearest museum guide and asked, in choppy French,

Oú est L’Origine du Monde?

Where is the origin of the world? What I fantastically, and unintentionally, philosophical questions. I received directions in French I only partially understood and relied mostly on intuition to guide me. Eventually I turned a corner and there it was, in all its totality. This painting is from the perspective of someone staring straight ahead at a woman whose legs are spread wide and her cunt fully opened to the world to gaze upon. Her body is not painted in its fullness, only mid-thigh to shoulders, and yet she is the origin of the world, this body in all is perfection. Raw and exotic; I stood gazing at this painting for quite some time. I wondered what part of our bodies tells the deepest truth of our story. What curves, wrinkles, white hairs and worry lines speak out the poetry of our lives? Perhaps sometimes it is not our faces that tell the true story of where we or what we are. These days I find that my hands tell the greatest story of my life when photographed. And I don’t bother to ask myself why, but there is some sort of life flowing through the veins in my hands that brings them to life when captured by the ephemeral lens of a camera.

My feet seem to carry me further when the roads wind down unknown streets and alleyways, and so I embarked on a six mile walk from the museum back towards my flat in Oberkampf. As I turned onto Rue de la République I knew the rain was coming again. I had watched the sky turning and mulling over the slate rooftops. There is a blending of the sky and the sweeping mansard rooftops of Paris when rain is coming. At times this city seems to be made from watercolors. Reaching my door, I sighed and stepped into the tiny lift to carry my weary feet up to the rooftop apartment. The rain greeted me from the other side of my door, where I had almost certainly left the balcony door ajar. I lay naked on my bed, listening to the rain.

(Continue the adventure through Paris on the Poetry page...)