11.10 // 11:05am
A truly blessed individual is one who sees both the original and the copy of da Vinci's Madonna of the Rocks in one week. Last week at the National Gallery and now at the Louvre, I see the differences --the hand, the halos, the staff, the wings-- and I am amazed at the legend that is da Vinci.
Looking at all the Egyptian artifacts is beginning to make me feel dirty. The British Museum's collection is much better than the Louvre's, but in both instances, glass case after glass case of sarcophogi, mummies, jars, plates, jewelry, etc. are a lasting homage to the imperialism of Britain and France. I shouldn't feel dirty. These artifacts are here for education and cultural enlightment. But it's all stolen! At what cost am I looking at these statues of Egyptian gods? Where does one draw the line?
//11:45am
Attempting to glimpse as many of the artifacts and works of art as possible is utterly exhausting for even the most able of body and mind. The hall of Italian paintings is enrapturing with its irridescent golds, reds, and blues. Yes, the Mona Lisa is on display and one can wait in line to stand six feet away and glimpse the painting --or one can look from across the room and spend that time instead admiring the dozens of other far more impressive pieces of art by da Vince, Barocci, Reni, Raphael, Traversi, and many other legendary artists. The Italian hall is long and tall and broken up every few yards by mirrors and statues, but catching your own reflection as you cast a quick glance at the statues is disturbing. It's alarming to see your own face in amid the warm hues of the angels, saints, and holy family.
//12:33pm
A new love has developed for French statues, a love I never expected. Having explored the lavish tapestries and remaining weaponry of old Islamic cities, I found myself unable to pass by the statues, which, to be honest, I had no desire to see. After reading The Enchanted Garden as a child, statues have always somewhat disturbed me; I expect them to come to life at any second. The tall corridors and large atrium containing all the statues seem to encourage this line of thought, making this area of the Louvre feel cold and distant and somewhat daunting. However, once within a foot of even the tiniest of statues in the far back corner, a new life eminates from the smooth white stone. The amount of detail that the artists manage to coax from marble left me sitting, staring at Boscio's La Nymphe Salmacia for a half an hour, awed by even the small folds of skin between her breasts and armpits. The tiniest of sounds echoes among the vast empty spaces betwixt the statues --perhaps there should be a rule that women are not allowed to wear heels or loud boots in museums-- yet gazing at a statue . . . I rather wish they would come alive to talk. Perhaps if I sit still long enough . . .
//1:54pm
The Medieval Louvre, a portion usually overlooked in descriptions of the famous museum; at least I had not heard of it prior to my arrival. Yet it is easily one of my favorite sections, this invitation into-- is it the 1400s? I sit in a cell, not in the round room where you can walk around a ruined tower, but in the stone room of cells next to it, where dim floor lights play upon the uneven bricks and stone statues to cast eery shadows across the floor. The dark makes it difficult to write; the shadows are distracting and clearly intentional. It's cooler down here, and with my growling stomach and faint headache from staring too intently at too many masterpieces . . . my experience is perhaps 8% that of the prisoners kept here several hundred years ago. Amazing, though, how the stones simultaneously toss echoes of voices back and forth and suck the life out of those same voices. I hear children yelling and whining, no doubt hanging on the arms of their parents, though I can't see them in the dark. Oh, they've walked by and seen me sitting in this cell like a loon; I've scared them a bit. The language isn't one I know, but the confused looks they're sending me are universal. The mother's boots seem to be assaulting my ears from all angles. If I close my eyes, the dark is overwhelming and I am suddenly aware of every tiny sound, of even the faint hum of the electricity and air somewhere in the wall behind me. When I open my eyes, I am temporarily blind until my eyes can once again detect the eery shadows.
//2:53pm
The space beneath the largest glass triangle is overcrowded with every height, width, color, age, and nationality of person to be found on the planet. Each huddles with their own group, speaking their own language, occasionally casting judging or else uninterested glances at the other tourists around them. They purchase tickets and consult maps and discuss with each other where to go first, what their priorities are, how to get the absolute most out of their 9euro visit. A tour of school children passes on the second leve, and the elementary-age kids are bouncing from foot to foot like Mexican jumping beans tied to a string. The conversations and giggles of too many humans packed into this zoo of humanity, this entryway to the museum, bounce off the tiled floors and glass ceiling, through which the grey sky is fading into a dusty blue. The noise is overwhelming.
Having now walked around the Louvre for something like five and a half hours, nourishment is required. The coffee and croissants are appropriately overpriced. An older gentleman with peppered hair and a short beard is seated across from a beautiful younger woman; he isn't older enough to be her father, though she is certainly quite a few years his junior. Her dark hair is straight --naturally?-- and her dark eyes flutter back and forth between the table, his face, and picking at her sandwich as she rattles on about something in a voice almost pitched high enough to sound like a chittering squirrel. He is uninterested, though, and stares off into space, or maybe at some more fascinating person across the entry way. He doesn't hear a word she says and she doesn't notice; or perhaps it is their usual routine, and she doesn't talk to be heard but simply to talk.
