Mark K October 24th, 2008

      The D’orsay museum was built inside what used to be a Paris train station and is itself a stunning structure, even aside from the art inside.  The vertical space is enormous and the arched ceiling with panes of glass supported by iron, allows an ethereal light to fill the space.

            I came early and made my way to the stairs at the back that lead to the Impressionist collections on the top floor.  The clerks at the gift shop were still arranging their goods on display and the galleries were empty except for the docents and guards.

            I had walked through the rain on the way to the museum and my shoes had that kind of crepe sole that, after they have been wet, makes a squeaking sound when you walk.  I squeaked my way around the galleries, trying different gaits in an effort to lesson the noise.

            I recognized many of the paintings by Degas, Monet, and Renoir.  I couldn’t believe that I could walk right up to the, only separated by a thin wire.  It’s hard to slow down and enjoy the paintings – to not rely on a guidebook or to only appreciate those that are more well-known.

            It’s like a cartoon I had once seen about wine tasting.  A man sips a glass of wine, makes a face and announces that this wine is “so-so”. He’s then told that experts have given this wine a rating of 95 points.  “I’ll have three cases!” he says.

            I find a painting that I have never seen before and take a picture of it. I decide that this is one I like on its own merit – the bonfire in the pasture was almost burning a hole through the canvas.

     Downstairs, you can see paintings done by the artists that preceded the Impressionists in the mid 19^th century.  They had learned to depict scenes with great realism and copied poses used by the Greeks and Romans.  The Impressionists had decided to add the dimension of feeling to their paintings – to exaggerate colors, the play of light, the blurring of movement and emotion.  They left the studio and captured real life and stopped it in time.

            I marveled how in a few short decades, artists pushed the limits of what could be depicted on canvas.  Soon Monet, Manet and Renoir would be followed by Van Gough, who painted with extra-vivid colors so that they would still be bright even when they faded with time and still later by the Fauvists, who were accused of painting what looked like “fauvres” or wild beasts.

            Doesn’t a writer really have the same task as a painter?  Not just to establish a record of exactly what is seen and heard, but to give a personal impression of the scene?  But it’s really harder than that – it’s about telling something about yourself and your point of view,  but at the same time evoking something universal, something more powerful, something personal for the reader.

            It was interesting to see how each artist responded to that and wrestled with the notion of being accepted, finding fame, or pushing the boundaries of what an artist can accomplish.

            By now the galleries were starting to fill with other visitors.  I decided to head downstairs to see the more traditional paintings and to let the crowd noise cover the sounds of my noisy footsteps.

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