When we went to Musee l’Orangerie, I stood in front of the full series of Water Lillies and cried. Maybe it was a lifetime of waiting for this moment or the painting, all 100 meters of it in two oval rooms, overwhelmed my senses and emotions. I suspect it was both.
We wound our way to the museum through a series of adventures that took us all over Paris over two days. Eddy Harris and his woman friend Cecile lead us from where we are staying near the Arc d’Triomphe to neighborhoods in the east of Paris. The atmosphere and activity delights the American visitor, used to, as they are, the doldrums and competition and gaudiness of American cities—with their entertainment districts, somnambulant and parochial suburbs, and rotting and dottering slums and rows of lookalike ranches, four-squares, and split levels. Here, nothing is the same, nothing speaks of anything but a world city. About the best I can compare Paris to is Berlin, but they are each cities of their own with lives as different as the personalities of two people from different households.
We sought out a particular pizzeria Eddy thought we would like. But in Paris, eateries and street cafes abound. We like to talk about the variety of places to eat in my own city. But listening to the food critics, the friends, and the strangers that might usher you about my beautiful city, they indicate they have their favorites. The lists among them contain familiar haunts and hidden gems. But here, there are so many places to eat, coffee, and chatter that finding a favorite doesn’t mean another isn’t just next door.
Thus, we came across a pizzeria on a busy street and settled for it due to its proximity to Cecile’s apartment. And it was as good as any pizzeria in Kansas City, perhaps better because this one featured the foot traffic that is absent most places of business in any U.S. city. Yes, we have entertainment districts. But what does that mean when compared to Paris, where the whole city is an entertainment district?
After pizza, we retired for coffee to Celine’s interesting and architecturally pleasing apartment, a living space on two floors with lots of tasteful furniture that actually fit the place aesthetically and emotionally. Eddy and I relaxed for a few minutes, eyes closed, while Virginia and Celine carried on conversation. The coffee was, as is relevant all over the city in homes and cafes, perfect. At an unspoken moment, we arose and headed back out to the city.
The Musee Rodin is sort of a mecca for aesthetes and artists. Located near the center of town, the gardens spread luxuriously around the residence, the Hotel Brion, bought over time by Auguste Rodin and a center for his artist friends, among whom were Modigliani, Monet, and up-and-comers like Matisse. Rodin planned and arranged the mansion as a gallery on two stories and 18 rooms for his work and those of his friends.
It was amazing. Rodin is immortalized with me in two ways. The first is the artist’s sculptures, the monumental scale of some and the brutal anatomy and emotion of all. The second is an essay by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke, Rodin’s one-time assistant. I first read Rilke’s Auguste Rodin in German, the little book moved me. Reading Rilke’s words without an intermediary translator revealed both Rilke’s amazing and uplifting writing and Rodin’s creative power and the strength of his personality.
Now, standing among his works, I was moved aesthetically and intellectually. The craft. The insight into human character. The presence of the artist in his work. It was a fabulous adjunct to the greatness of the city around us and a testament to the longevity of Rodin’s work.
While Virginia and I toured the museum, Cecile departed for home where she had children to tend to. Eddy, on the other hand, allowed us time in the museum while he worked on his computer at the corner Café de Musee, another corner, another fantastic café.
We had to bid Eddy farewell after we left the museum. It was a sad moment but one not without hope. Friends who are really friends do not do things transactionally. They will be there when the time comes. We parted knowing that this moment in Paris will be followed by more visits in Kansas City, where Eddy stays with us on his U.S. travels, and with foreign meetings as we have had in the past.
The next day, we had one thing in front of us. A late parting from the Glynn’s took us to the Metro, a dreamy transportation system that goes nearly everywhere, Where it doesn’t go, it connects with a bus line or streetcar that will take a person wherever they want to go without the bother and snarls of Paris street traffic.
Our one thing was Monet’s l’Orangerie. Europeans, particularly the French, really enjoy endless amounts of art and culture that one, literally, escape. We bypassed the the endless lines of people waiting to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre and made for the Tuileries and Monet’s museum. I was thrilled. One time at the Nelson Atkins, there was a special showing of three pieces of Monet’s continuing painting project Water Lillies. I wandered into the special exhibition section and found no one in the room. I sat down and, by myself, cried like a child, the beauty so overwhelmed me.
After standing in line for almost an hour, which was not unpleasant with conversations erupting between tourists and Parisians making their 100th visit to the museum, I thought my touchiness was diminished. I thought I could see the paintings without making a public scene of myself.
But that was not the case. Almost as soon as I walked into the first gallery, I found myself hiding tears and sobs. Virginia rolled her eyes and moved on. But I walked slowly around the perimeter, taking in the timeless space the painting evoked. Without reference to perspective and without any markers on which to fix my gaze and orient myself, I was whisked into a dimension without time, with only space, with only the imagination of the artist.
By the time I made it down to the café to meet Virginia, my face was puffy and eyes red from the tears. Of joy, perhaps? Of being relieved of the burden of self for a few minutes—a privilege that few people ever experience? Of just becoming one with the space and color of the paintings? Who knows. I don’t. I only know that for a moment, the competition of daily life, the expectations of society and self, and the aches and pains of being a human of my flawed type were gone.
I was reminded that I was indeed a person labeled Patrick Dobson with all the benefits and privileges of true friends and loyal family, with love in my life. I have the burdens of being me, of being human. But for a moment, all the confusion and joy and pain of being me all made sense.
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