It’s GOOD to be the King! Or maybe not…

8:00 am  Rue Linné, on the deserted sidewalk in front of #16.  The only signs of life are stirrings within a neighboring brasserie, where the proprietor is starting to move chairs and tables from inside to the front of the establishment.  In Paris, at least in the Latin Quarter this close to the University, mornings are slow to get going.

But we’re here, awaiting the arrival of our chariot for the morning, bound for the Palace of Versailles.  It turns out we’re the first stop of several, picking up a complement of visitors, two Australian couples and another American pair, all enrolled in the morning’s excursion to the legendary palace.  Fortunately, the majority of the traffic at this time of day is inbound, and soon we’re driving down the broad, tree-lined avenue that leads to the low, sprawling expanse of 17^th and 18^th century monarchic excess.  A short walk from the point of debarkation led us to the vast front courtyard.  This obviously is a mosaic, but just the fact that it took most of 3 frames just to encompass a roughly 120º panorama and the inherent perspective gives some idea of how much real estate is cobbled here.  A few moments with Google Earth reveals that just the courtyard would hold three regulation football fields with room to spare.

 

With full awareness of the expanse awaiting us, our group headed for the entrance building, where an amazingly short queue stood.  However, we soon discovered that the shortness of the line derived from the closure of access due to an unannounced strike.  Although we never actually found out exactly who was striking or why, I  found the sign announcing the action in three languages most intriguing.

Although the overall message that the public couldn’t enter was roughly consistent, each of these statements has a very different implication.  In French, entry is “prevented” by a “social movement”; speakers of English are merely delayed, and the cause is an “industrial action”.  Only the Spanish come right out and call it a “strike” that prevents the opening of the palace.  I’m not sure what to make of the discrepancy between these pronouncements, but there are clearly a lot of cultural and political differences in perspective at work.  (Incidentally, I’d love to hear anyone else’s take on this in comments!)

For whatever reason, we confronted an indefinite delay.  Rupert, our intrepid driver, was ready with an alternative to standing around waiting, and suggested we return to the van and take a road tour of the vast grounds surrounding the palace.  I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered problems with access.

As it turned out, the tour of parts of the palace estate was both unexpected and stunning.  We first skirted the palace to the north, circling around to the bank of the grand waterway that extends in the shape of an immense cross a mile on the long axis and ¾ mile on the perpendicular.  

 From its north bank, we had a great view of the palace from the back side, including the renowned Gallerie des Glaces (Hall of Mirrors).

But more astonishing was the expanse of precisely laid out and shaped corridors of lanes and trees extending in various directions towards seemingly endless disappearing horizons of 

perspective.  This one parallels the long axis of the watercourse, looking in a general westerly direction,.

 

 

and this, looking away from Grand Trianon towards the east, ends almost a mile distant at le Bassin de Neptune on the northern periphery of the complex of gardens behind the Palace.

Turning to the south, here’s a view along the Allée Saint Antoine, this one paved with stones dating to the 18^th century. 
 

  The precision and care with which these courses are positioned, and the uniform planting of trees, mostly elm and linden, all shorn of boughs below a certain height and all trimmed to vertical forms expresses the firm belief, born of the Rennaissance, that Nature itself was subject to the full dominion of man.  The expansive landscape surrounding the palace builds upon the ideal French garden, as designed in the 17^h Century by André le Notre, who also designed the Jardin des Tuileries adjacent to the Louvre.

  

Our impromptu tour also brought us to Le Petit Trianon, the Chateau built by Louis XV for his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, but more widely known as the home of Queen Marie Antoinette.

 

Returning to the Palace proper, our group headed for the entrance, finally getting a chance to view the ornate, gilded gate from the inside.

Louis XIII built the first Chateau de Versailles in 1623 as a simple hunting lodge, catering to Louis’ passion for hunting in the expansive surrounding lands long known for abundant game.  For three years starting in 1631, Louis commissioned Philibert le Roy to enlarge and augment the original structure with additional buildings, as he intended to retire there once his son, the Dauphin, reached majority.  Much of that Chateau was retained during the subsequent expansion and, greatly adorned, it now occupies a central position to which the vast edifice of the remainder of the palace connects.

 

Entire libraries are filled with volumes written about Versailles, its art and architecture, political intrigue, and historical significance.  To the relief (or, more likely, the dismay) of the one or two still reading, I’m not even going to touch on specific artistic or architectural features, but rather spend some time describing my reaction to the experience of walking, along with an astonishing throng, through the rooms, halls, and corridors of the Palace.

 

I’ve mentioned several times my dearth of historical knowledge, and although the audio tour was mostly impenetrable (it was hit or miss knowing which number to enter for a given room, with few signs provided as guidance), enough of the narrative registered over my rapidly numbed visual senses to allow the penny to drop, at least in my meter. I came away with both an idea of what had happened and why, as well as a deep curiosity for the broader historical context in which the stories of this monument transpired.  Since it seems to me relevant to the modern experience, that’s what I’m going to discuss.  I’ll make an effort to temper the occasional rant, but consider yourself warned.

The splendor, expanse, and extravagance of opulence that Versailles presents is inextricably associated with the glory of France, and there’s no denying the pinnacle of power attained by the monarchy under Louis XIV.  Construction of the vast Palace was in no small part the foundation for his successfully attaining absolute monarchy, and although Louis had assumed full powers following the death of Cardinal Mazarin in 1661, there’s not the slightest doubt in my mind that the strategy underlying establishment of the Court at Versailles was a direct result of political calculations that are traceable to both Mazarin and his predecessor, Cardinal Richelieu.  As first ministers and close advisers to kings and regents, both of these clever clerics had experienced firsthand the treachery, guile, and direct insurrection that had erupted almost continuously among the far-flung noble households of the French kingdom for over a century.  They understood that staying in power required constant vigilance, and they made sure to have spies deeply embedded as widely as possible in order to detect nascent sedition at its outset.  Consolidation of power required consolidation of information, and that, in the final analysis, was the king’s motivating intent in establishing a self-contained seat of government outside of Paris at Versailles.  Having the Court assembled, living in one place, with regular audience in the Court a requirement, ensured that the Sun King could keep a close eye on the contentious, rebellious, and fractious families that held the highest positions of wealth and prestige in the kingdom.

My son, who is far more historically sophisticated than I in such matters, observes that the most impressive attribute of Versailles is not that it could have been conceptualized, but that the king had the determination and power to make it a reality.  My own feeling is that Louis probably recognized that creating such an unparalleled structure and associated system was the only way to assure his continued survival, much less preeminence as King.  Living and participating in 

Court at Versailles it was hard to avoid constant reminders of Louis’ political and military victories, including the celebration of the King’s consolidation of power in the central panel, The King Governs Alone, painted in glorious portrayals

on ceiling panels of the Hall of Mirrors through which the court and retinue paraded at least daily.

The other piece of the Versailles story that I found particularly compelling was the description of the regimen of daily life at the Palace.  Every aspect of life at the court was regulated precisely, either by the clock 

or by strictures of etiquette that became progressively more refined and elaborate as time passed. Much of the ritual reinforced hierarchies of nobility within a class structure determined almost entirely either by birthright or by extraordinary accomplishment on a battlefield (and the latter category was entirely dependent upon a granting of privilege by the monarch).  Thus, etiquette served the function of distinguishing nobility from the lower classes, the rank and file of the population.  For denizens of the Court at Versailles, physical isolation from the environs and proximity of the governed was not enough: they worked compulsively and tirelessly to differentiate themselves in what they wore, how they moved, how they spoke. Life at the Court of Versailles, from the viewpoint of an outsider, was certainly exclusive, but as a participant, it was extremely limited in terms of free will.

The ritual and excess of Versailles expanded the division between upper and lower levels of society, very intentionally glorifying those fortunate enough to be participants in Court parties, entertainment and sumptuous banquets. Centuries of feudalism had inured lesser ranks of Parisians to the often-outrageous antics of royalty.  Contemporary accounts reveal that rather than being offended or envious, rank and file Parisians just didn’t care about the lavishness of Versailles, at least not during most of the reign of the Sun King.  The glaring economic inequality embodied in the excess of absolute monarchy was simply the way things were, a part and parcel of the Divine Right of Kings. 

Louis XIV may have succeeded in taming his fractious nobles, but he also engaged in a series of unsuccessful wars and alienated much of the population through other policies.  His successors weren’t even able to sustain the regimen of Palace life, and waged even more disastrous and costly wars, leading to the political and financial collapse of the government in 1789 and the subsequent social upheavals that changed the face of Europe and the world forever.

Versailles remains unequaled in the splendor and extravagance of its execution, and the following images give just a taste of what we experienced.

Louis, Prince of Condé, (1621-1686)

Chapel at Versailles

Corner detail, Versailles Salon

Green Room, with period furniture

Queen's bedchamber

And then, finally, there was this, among others:

I kid you not.  Through a government program of art in public places, an exhibition of modern Japanese sculpture was installed at Versailles.  I thought the juxtaposition of this creation with Le Salon de Venus particularly apt.  Après moi, le déluge?  Looking at this elevates Mel Brooks to a stature comparable to Molière!!

Peripatetic Paris PM

Departing Notre Dame, our quartet crossed the Pont au Double to the Left Bank, then turned briefly up Rue Lagrange, before veering off onto Rue de Fouarre, which after a block turns into Rue Danté.  Our destination was Boulevard Saint-Germain, the centerpiece of Baron Haussmann’s redesign of the Left Bank.  In the Latin Quarter, close to our flat, the broad avenue abuts the Université Didérot, and all manner of cafés, bookstores, and restaurants in the area are bustling with students night and day.  The route of our walk took us more towards the section of the Boulevard known for high end shops, and the tree-lined, wide sidewalks and mixture of classic French façade with new construction made for a picturesque stroll on a very pleasant fall afternoon.  As is so often the case in Paris, new and old mingled effortlessly, with the boulevard bordered on one side by the incongruity of a McDonalds at the street level of a lovely old apartment with wrought iron rails, while on the other side of the avenue stood the Musée Nationale du Moyen Age, housing remnants of Roman era Baths.

A little further along, an unexpected archway adjacent to the improbable Indiana Café (your place to go for Tex-Mex in Paris!) opened through the building front to the Cour de Commerce Saint André. 

Looking down this alley reminded me of a street merchant scene from the 17^th century as described in the Musée Carnavalet.  Close building fronts, cobbled paving and narrow sidewalks created a dark tunnel lined with gas lamp fixtures in which the stark silhouette of a merchant’s sign stood out against whitewashed walls of a distant façade.  

 
 
Down the next street, Rue de l’Ancienne Comédie, was Le Procope, where Tina, Dougie Annie and I had shared a memorable dinner earlier, and in the distance the gilded dome of the Bureau des Longitudes stood out against the blue Paris sky.  A quick glance at 

 the link will make it obvious why Captain Harrison would flag this site among the hundreds of monuments that Paris offers.  

 

By this time, feeling foot-weary and decidedly thirsty, we headed for a late lunch stop at one of the city’s most famous cafés, Les Deux Magots. Quintessentially French waiters balanced trays of refreshing wine and Perrier, and I ordered a

croque of tasty, smoked Norwegian Salmon on fresh Baguette.  
 
 








And Annie had the camera at hand in time to catch this shot of a dessert tray to make your mouth water! 

Keep your eyes on the pastry, boys!

Refreshed and rested, Annie and I were ready to forge on towards our planned visit to the Musée d’Orsay, while Ann-Catrine and Clas opted to head back to Rue Mouffetard, but not before Annie caught this great shot of them toasting each other’s health. 

 

Heading down the Rue Napoleon, we soon reached the banks of the Seine, where an inviting stretch of bouquinistas beckoned. 

Ahh, Heaven for bibliophile Annie, who soon was buried in old books and artwork, although I occasionally got a glimpse of

her face as she came up for air.  Look at that happy smile!

Of course, the banks of the Seine also had views that brought a smile to my face as well.  While most heavily laden cargo vessels carry life-boats, Sebastien comes equipped with a little red life-coupe as well! 

 

Tearing ourselves away from the scenic Seine, we continued along the Quai until we reached our destination, the Musée d’Orsay, which, as the clock face adornment indicates, used to house the railway terminal for the Paris-Orléans trains.

Unfortunately, photography is not permitted inside the museum, so I can’t share with you images of the treasures of the 19^th and 20^th Century masters, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Rodin, Seurat, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, and many others. Nor am I going to attempt to replicate the expert commentary, much less the liberal application of simile, metaphor, and semantic embellishment that we experienced on the audio-tour that we followed.  The paintings and sculpture were stunning, but Runga-Kutta iterative simultaneous solutions to differential equations are a lot easier for me to understand than the critical commentary.

By the time we’d made a partial circuit of the d’Orsay, our legs had just enough left in them to make it to the Metro, and we headed back to Rue Linné to rest and clean up for a delightful dinner at the Jardin des Pâtes with Ann-Catrine and Clas.  The day had been long, and looking at an early rising the next morning, we headed back around the corner to our comfy bed.  

 

River of Time - Morning of Day 6

Balzac wrote, “Paris is an ocean.  You may cast a sounding line, but you will never fathom its depth.”  The ebb and flow of time, like tides, perfectly conjures the sense I get of Paris’s connection with antiquity.  It also points to the city’s most enduring symbol and the reason for its earliest beginnings, the river Seine.

The first continuous settlement on what is now the Île de la Cité dates to the 4^th century BC at a time when the Seine and its muddy, marshy banks offered a protective perimeter against marauding raiders.  As the diagram shows, the  lighter blue marshlands effectively

extended the physical barrier to island access, and a Celtic tribe called the Parisii took advantage of that defensive barrier to create their settlement.  What little is known of this Celtic settlement mostly derives from records dating to the Roman conquest of the region in 52 BC and the subsequent establishment of the Roman town of Lutecia on what is now the Left Bank.  Trade and related routes of commerce were well established prior to the Roman conquest, and Lutecia expanded along the major road that crossed the Seine at the Île de la Cité.  The history of the roughly 300 years of relative peace of the Roman epoch is explained in detail through exhibits at the Crypte Archeologique, where we took pictures of these dioramas.

 

Numerous remnants of the Roman era of Lutecia are evident throughout the city, including the Arena described in an earlier post, which appears in the photograph at the eastern end of the town.  However, apart from remains of large public facilities, very little of the residential and street foundation and infrastructure can be found, because the continuous rebuilding over centuries of development both excavated and replaced early structures, and in fact re-used most of the building materials.

We had known none of this prior to the planned excursion for today, a visit to Notre Dame de Paris.  After meeting up with Clas and Ann-Catrine on Rue Linné, we enjoyed the cool Paris fall weather as we walked along the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and along the Seine.  We crossed over the Pont de L’Archevêché, with railings adorned with hundreds of “lovelocks”, a trend that Clas reports has become common on bridges all across Europe.
 
From the bridge, we looked across to the Southeast façade of Paris’s most famous cathedral, beautifully framed by Annie’s unfailingly artistic eye.

 

 
 In the course of our narrated open-top bus tour, we learned that the Western end of the Ile de la Cite has been site of a royal palace since the start of the Merovingian dynasty in the 4^th century AD, and that the eastern end has hosted sites of worship since the Romans had erected a temple to Jupiter there.The area in between was, until the 1850s, mostly residential and commercial.


In the 4^th century, the Merovingians constructed Saint Étienne’s Cathedral where the Roman temple had stood, but this was demolished in 1160, and in 1163 construction of Notre Dame de Paris was started.  However, the classic Gothic structure was not fully completed until 1345, and subsequent episodes of architectural modification and civil unrest substantially disrupted, and in many cases severely damaged the monument.  Major restoration was initiated in 1845, and elements of that restoration are ongoing.


The detail and intricacy of the construction is evident in this view of the south façade, complete with flying buttresses, lofty spires, the original rose window, and of course, the filigree and sculptural adornment, including gargoyles.
 

 

Upon entering the sanctuary, the vastness of the nave extending 225 feet and the expansive grandeur of the vaulted ceilings rising 102 feet are impressive even by modern standards.   Although no two-dimensional representation can reproduce the immediate experience, this should give you the idea. 

Around the periphery are sequential chapels, each illuminated by its own stained glass window and adorned with sculpture and large paintings.

Most of the peripheral chapels included works of fine art, and this one in particular struck me as noteworthy:

 

This is the mausoleum of the Compte Claude Henri d’Harcourt, second in command of the King’s army in the mid 18^th century.  I found the composition striking and the imagery memorable.  However, although the sculptor, Pigalle, was well regarded during his lifetime, a modern critique of this piece (written in 1921) dismisses it saying, “the composition is scattered and the group lacks unity.”  Oh well, what do I know about art?

Originally, the cathedral was replete with many monuments to bishops and nobles of great antiquity, along with reliquaries filled with religious icons.  The depredations of revolutionary zeal have wreaked havoc on these, and there remains only one effigy in marble, Simon Matiffas de Buci, who died in 1304.  Recumbent in full clerical garb, with a characteristic Gothic lion sleeping at his feet, and bedecked with jewelry, this figure lies directly behind the altar, and is magnificent. 

Notre Dame’s enduring grandeur is all the more remarkable in light of the technology available at the time of its construction.  My favorite exhibit in the monument is a small diorama located far in the back of the sanctuary, depicting a construction site scene: 

 

Viewed in this context, it’s not at all hard to understand why it took 182 years to complete the job.

Our tour of Notre Dame complete, we stood briefly in the fore-court of the cathedral so Annie could snap a picture, before Ann-Catrine and Clas headed for a nearby café, and Annie and I walked the length of the broad Parvis fronting the cathedral to the Crypte museum entrance.

Surprisingly, relatively few visitors are either aware of or interested in the Crypte Archeologique, yet this trove of historical and cultural displays highlights the very origins of Paris.  I earlier showed models of the pre- and early settlement layout of the Paris basin on display in the museum, and many more exhibits may be found of not only relics from Ile de la Cite, but also reconstructions of other Roman era facilities in other parts of Paris.  However, the principal purpose of the museum is to display the full extent of major archeological excavations that lie beneath the Parvis of Notre Dame.  Within this relatively narrow area underlying the former Rue Neuve de Notre Dame are remains of riverbank quais, water tunnels, and thermal bath works dating to Roman times, as well as cellars, walls, foundations, stairs, and other features of both residential and public construction throughout centuries of city life. 

 

The remarkable integrity of these remains raises the question, why have extensive, relatively intact foundations of such antiquity survived here and nowhere else in Paris?  The answer lies in the combination of the alignment of Rue Neuve and Notre Dame itself.

Before construction of Notre Dame started in the twelfth century, the small parvis in front of the existing Cathedral St. Étienne contained smaller churches that held religious relics to protect them from Norman pillages.  At that time, population on the island was around 3,000 mostly living in densely-packed structures that covered the area between the royal palace at the western end of the island and the ecclesiastical complex at the east end.  Even the bridge crossing the Seine to the island from the right bank was crowded with some 60 residences and commercial establishments.

The Bishop of Paris, Maurice de Sully, under whose auspices and oversight the planning and initial construction of Notre Dame de Paris commenced ordered a new road (Rue Neuve) to be opened along the cathedral’s central axis. Construction of the road razed a maze of alleys, closely-built wooden houses, and seventeen chapels, but created the necessary access for transporting construction materials and connecting the construction site with the major existing thoroughfare.  Here’s a plan view of the Île de la Cité in 1380 showing the alignment of Rue Neuve and the nearly complete Notre Dame.

A display in the Crypte offers another perspective looking straight down the Rue Neuve towards the cathedral:  

  The present Parvis of Notre Dame dates to the period of major renovations of Paris under the direction of Georges-Eugène Haussmann in the mid 19^th century.   Much of Baron Haussmann’s work remains controversial, but his many critics seldom cite his creation of an open plaza to give an unencumbered view of the great West Façade of the Cathedral among their complaints.

Elsewhere on the island, the subsoil was repeatedly disturbed as successive generations built on the same sites, installing new foundations and digging out new cellars, frequently reusing intact building materials.  However, under Rue Neuve, ancient structures remained remarkably intact, because for the last seven centuries, demolishers and builders have respected the alignment of the street and its relation to the monumental Notre Dame de Paris.

Footweary, but fully versed in the lore of Notre Dame and the early settlers of Paris, we met up again with Clas and Ann-Catrine, and headed off in search of a lunchtime venue.

 


 

Art, RIP (Russian, Italian, Polynesian)

A recurrent feature of Paris that I find most memorable is the overlay of surprises among and within the daily routines of being a visitor. It seemed as though every day, something unexpected and extraordinary has happened, far beyond either expectations or the regimen of carefully planned activities.

This afternoon, riding the Metro from Place Pigalle to the Louvre required a change of trains at the Place de la Concorde.  As we made our way along the tunnels between platforms, sonorous tones began emanating from the surrounding walls, getting louder as we approached a tunnel junction.  Rounding a corner, we came upon a large group of men vigorously singing and playing ensemble.  The impromptu concert was captivating, at least to us.  Many jaded Parisians seemed to take it in stride, literally, hurrying by as if nothing was happening.  But the music, echoing in the corridors, with multiple voices in resonating harmonies, elicited smiles from occasional passers by, and enticed more than one couple like us to pause long enough to absorb the spirit of the music.  The melody, like the venue, was foreign, and it took several moments to recognize that it was a Russian folk tune, and the nine musicians, with accordions, guitars, a violin, two clarinets, and a double bass , sang fearlessly into the cavernous concert hall of the metro station. Again, an unforgettable Paris moment.

Emerging again to sunlight, we strolled through the arched passageway of the Pavillion Richelieu into the grand courtyard of the Louvre and saw  to our left the connecting wing of the museum. 

 

Pictures inadequately convey the grandeur of this monument, originally a royal palace, and now the home of some of the world’s greatest artistic treasures.  This view from within the courtyard, combined with next perspective looking across the expanse between the main edifices, begins to do it justice, particularly
when you realize that this latter view only encompasses the western end of half of the U-shaped palace complex.

 
Lines for the main entrance were very long, but we came prepared with a Museum Pass, allowing us access to a much less crowded entrance.   Soon we were mounting the steps to the grand gallery of Renaissance Italian art.  At the head of the stairs stood the iconic Winged Victory of Samothrace, and we became at once transfixed and transported to antiquity. 

 

OK, there’s no way I’m going to be able to convey any sense of the extent and continuity of even this small section of the Louvre, so I’m only going to go through a tiny selection of representations of the Virgin and Child over a transitional period.  I haven't done any research on any of this, and most of you know that art books didn't figure prominently (or at all) in my natural and physical science curriculum. That said, for a non-art history observer, works in this particular gallery generally seemed to fall into three categories:  an early phase, entirely given over to images of Christian devotional works; a somewhat later period in which representations of New Testament icons share the canvas with figures from Greek and Roman mythology, mostly comprised of female nudes and often with moralistic overtones, and finally early hagiographic representations of royal and noble figures of the later era, signaling a beginning of non ecclesiastic artistic patronage of the arts. 

As this shot indicates, this is one very long gallery, with a lot of paintings and sculptures, and there are three ways to approach the experience: go with an expert and plan to spend a fascinating and largely overwhelming day being confronted with your miserably pitiful understanding of the technology, history and significance of the artwork; go back to grad school in art history and commit yourself to a lifetime of art appreciation, to the exclusion of most everything else; or take whatever you’ve gleaned from books, TV, magazines, the internet, or much more well-informed relatives and friends and let it wash over you in a blur, punctuated with moments of jaw-dropping epiphany.  We chose the latter option.

Passing the Winged Victory, we went up
the stairs past frescoes of Botticelli and Fra Angelico, and to the right, we found the start of the Gallery, almost immediately coming upon one of the oldest of the Italian art masterpieces, a Madonna and Child rendered in 1280 by Cimabue.  To my uneducated eye, everything about this composition seems linear and painfully symmetrical, and added to the vertical alignment, the stylized homogeneity of the facial expressions seems a dead giveaway as to the indisputable antiquity of the work.  By comparison, the fluid grace of the Winged Victory,  fragmented as it is, seemed to me substantially more sophisticated than what appears here, all of which underscores the historical, cultural and developmental reality of the Renaissance.


Next, we came upon a Madonna and Child painted in 1465 by Botticelli.  Granted, almost 200 years passed between these two works, but  a lot of

progress towards more stylistic realism is evident in both the use of perspective in the background and with the beginning  transition away from portrayal of children as scaled down adults and towards more realistically child-like facial features.






For a while thereafter, the representations of the Virgin Mother and Child in the gallery seem stylistically steady, expressing the continuing development of the realist  perspective, as in this 1507 di Bartolo  work,




 
  









and a similar portrayal of the same subject by Luini in 1510.
 




A few decades later, (~1535) da Oggiono offers an additional interpretation, this time drawing the gaze of the Child to the world outside of the maternal bond. 

Throughout this series, executed over a period of around 250 years, the subject is unchanged, but the sophistication, backdrop, technique, and connection with realism all show the directions that seemed, at least to me, to be consistent with what was happening in the other artwork on display.

And then we met Mme Mona.

I’m not even going to start with any commentary here.  Nothing I could say would reveal anything but my own ignorance, but in fact, this was our prime directive for the visit, and thus served as the vehicle for opening my mind to the other art in this subsection of the Louvre, and maybe, at the end of the day, that’s as good a reason as any for its elevation to mythic status: as a portal to new levels of understanding.

The other major piece of appreciation we enjoyed was the Louvre itself, from the realms of statuary adorning its facades








to vaulting, ornate interiors

 

whose details were unbelievably exquisite.

But the wandering time through that extent of galleries took a definite toll,

especially after a morning hiking up Montmartre, and we soon found ourselves, like these folks, needing a break.

 

One thing they don’t tell you is that to get back to where you entered, you have to pretty much retrace your steps.  I tried using sense of direction to get us back to the entry, and I only succeeded in stumbling into the small but comforting display of Pacific Island art.  Pieces of art are timeless and ageless, and reveal the instantaneous frame of an artist’s perception.  At the same time that the evolving expression of religious realism as viewed by Italian painters offered here was just beginning, here’s what artists viewing their religious perspectives were doing on the other side of the planet:

By now, both our souls and our soles were worn down, and it was time to jump on the Metro for the return to our flat, where we had a couple of hours to put up feet and close eyes, before meeting Clas and Ann-Catrine for dinner, and stumbling back to an early bed, because our plans for the next day (Tuesday) called for an early start!