Le Musée d'Orsay
Jun. 15th, 2003 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darcydodoThanks to lunch, laundry, and laziness, I only got to the Musée d'Orsay at 3-ish. The exhibitions close at 5:30 every day except Thursday, so this meant I only got about 2.5 hours there. Just about enough time to see what was on the ground floor. There are two other floors left; I will probably be making two more trips, therefore! (I will also wear my sneakers, next time; all that standing in sandals is aggravating my knees, which in turn kills my legs.) But I like taking my time when I want, so I don't really mind the "sacrifice" of the extra days used up.
When I bought my ticket to enter the museum, I took a map in French and a map in English. This ended up causing me great amusement as I discovered that the French map was printed on nice heavy card, while the English map was on that cheap glossy stuff. I didn't check the other languages. :)
The main hall of the ground floor is full of sculptures. The first one I saw when I came in was "Jeune fille de Mégare assise et filant" by Ernest Barrias. I thought it was absolutely gorgeous; I went and looked at it again later, though, and realized that, although it was very pretty, it was partially the impact of seeing it first that had made it appeal to me so much. I still adore her foot, though, which looks positively edible. (Sometimes I can see where Pygmalion was coming from. *grin*) Another sculpture that I spotted towards the beginning was very cute but began to disturb me after I looked more closely. It was "Pan et oursons" by Emmanuel Fremit, and Pan's lying there grinning devilishly at two little bearcubs who are nosing at some honeycomb, but I realized that I was fairly certain he was lying on a bearskin. Which adds an entirely different dimension to the sculpture. I could be wrong; it could have been a different sort of animal. But I'm pretty certain I at least saw a paw.
There's an entire room dedicated to the Opera House, and it's got fun things like those little diorama-like displays of the designs for theater sets, like they have at the Music Center in L.A.; and you can walk above a model of the arrondisement that contains the Opera House and the Galeries Lafayette. It feels very strange to walk over it, as though you're actually treading in the sky above Paris.
I didn't know that Gustave Doré did paintings as well as engravings, but evidently he did, and the one I saw was very cool. It's entitled "L'Enigme," and it's black-and-white [unlike the misleading linked image], or at least I think it is (for all I know he's got any number of colors mixed into the shades of grey), and it's got some... angel? reaching up to embrace the Sphinx, who's reaching out a paw in a return caress, tail a-twitch. I'm not sure what the rest of the scene was supposed to represent; it was a battle of some sort. I don't know who the angel was, either. Lucifer? Someone else with big wings? And I don't know if the title refers to the identification of the characters, or to the scene itself, or to the Sphinx's riddle. Or something else entirely.
There was a little inset display of some silver pitchers and plates and things, and it made me think of Johnny Tremain, which we must have read at least five or six times in school. There was also a strange painting by Degas (well, lots of strange paintings, from one perspective, in that none of them was of dancing girls!) called "Scène de guerre au Moyen-Age" or "Les Malheurs de la ville d'Orléans," which depicted naked women being shot at by people on horseback. And these people themselves were slightly odd; there was a woman, who was actually the one doing the arching, and two men, one of whom had bared buttocks. I'm confused. Maybe I'll find an explanation somewhere.
I liked the paintings by Ingres, a lot, particularly "La Source" (which I've probably seen somewhere before), but he, and a few of the other painters I saw, had a style that varied wildly depending on the painting. Maybe it was the whole impressionistic vs. not-impressionistic thing, I'm not sure. Another of said painters was Jean-François Millet, and while I liked his paintings in general, one drew my attention in particular. Called "Bergère et troupeau," its style reminded me of nothing more than those drawings we used to do in grade-school or at camp, where you put lots of colors on a piece of paper, then put black crayon over it all, and then scraped away bits of the black with a pin. The paint here was similarly scraped away, to similar effect, which amused me to no end.
There was a painting entitled "L'Hiver" by Daubigny which had won the grande médaille d'honneur at... err... wherever it was originally exhibited, and it had very cool crows clustered on a snow-covered ground. My appreciation of it, however, caused me to wonder if I might not like wintry paintings slightly too much. In the same room was a painting by Rosa Bonheur, "Labourage nivernais," in which the tilled ground was incredibly realistic, with some upturned clods showing the grass still attached to them, and dandelions nodding precariously at the very edge of the turned strip. The oxen were nice and furry, too.
After I'd walked through most of the ground-floor displays, my legs were absolutely killing me. And I was very thirsty and had stupidly forgotten water (again). But the Let's Go guide had mentioned that the museum restaurant, while expensive, was a work of art in and of itself, so I went up there and had a cappuccino. There was a man playing pieces on the piano (possibly Chopin; I recognized some of the pieces, and he did have a book of Chopin lying on top of the piano, but I really don't know Chopin well enough to know if that's what he was currently playing). The ceilings were adorned with paintings as well, like the ceilings of some galleries in the Louvre; the paintings were done by Gabriel Ferrier. There were also two statues; one of them was by Ch. Barrau, and while I don't know what it was called, there was something very amusing about it: there were two little faces of men with beards sketched into the base. You had to be right up close to see them, so I don't know if they served any purpose at all. Maybe the sculptor was just doodling at some point.
While I was drinking my cappuccino, I discovered that there was one room I hadn't actually been into yet, on the ground floor; the terrible thing about missing this room, in particular, is that it had some Renoir, who is my favorite impressionist (or at least was when I was little, and hence retains a fond place in my heart). So I headed down there once I was done. There was actually only one piece by Renoir, but also some Manet and Monet, all of them works done prior to 1870. Thoughts on said paintings: Manet's "Olympia" was in this room; I love the way her hand rests on her thight. The shading and slightly different skin-tone makes it absolutely perfect. Renoir's piece made me think that, even in his early work, you can see impressionistic brush strokes delineating the curvature of the flesh. He's never been able to draw little boys as well as little girls. Or rather, they usually end up looking more like little girls.
There were two paintings by Monet that really caught my attention; one was "La pie," which is yet another winter scene; I feel silly, now, but on the other hand it finally made me realize what it might be about such scenes that I like so much. It might be the deceptive bleakness that appeals to me: winter has so little color, but at the same time, the paintings have masses of color. There were reds and yellows and all sorts in the snow, and it was a more obvious manifestation of what I was thinking about the painting by Doré, that there might be colors hidden in the greys. The other painting was "Femmes au jardin," in which I really liked the daisies.
Another painting in the room was "L'atelier de Bazille, rue de la Condamine," by Frédéric Bazille; it's another of those paintings that have paintings within the painting. I found myself, this time, looking more at the inside paintings than the painting as a whole; it was as if I were simply looking at a real room. Which was, perhaps, the intention.
On my way out of the museum, I passed through the bookshop, and discovered that they were selling the Madeline books! They were in English, though, and were originally written in English anyway, and I think I probably have copies of them all somewhere at home, so I restrained myself from buying any. (These are wonderful children's books by Ludwig Bemelmans, for anyone who doesn't know them. There's a photograph of me when I was about two years old, sitting on the toilet and reading Madeline.)
In the train station on the way back I saw a gaggle of French schoolchildren with the traditional kerchiefs around their necks. This pleased me.
Edited to add hyperlinks; also, cross about the paintings I was absolutely unable to find on the web.
When I bought my ticket to enter the museum, I took a map in French and a map in English. This ended up causing me great amusement as I discovered that the French map was printed on nice heavy card, while the English map was on that cheap glossy stuff. I didn't check the other languages. :)
The main hall of the ground floor is full of sculptures. The first one I saw when I came in was "Jeune fille de Mégare assise et filant" by Ernest Barrias. I thought it was absolutely gorgeous; I went and looked at it again later, though, and realized that, although it was very pretty, it was partially the impact of seeing it first that had made it appeal to me so much. I still adore her foot, though, which looks positively edible. (Sometimes I can see where Pygmalion was coming from. *grin*) Another sculpture that I spotted towards the beginning was very cute but began to disturb me after I looked more closely. It was "Pan et oursons" by Emmanuel Fremit, and Pan's lying there grinning devilishly at two little bearcubs who are nosing at some honeycomb, but I realized that I was fairly certain he was lying on a bearskin. Which adds an entirely different dimension to the sculpture. I could be wrong; it could have been a different sort of animal. But I'm pretty certain I at least saw a paw.
There's an entire room dedicated to the Opera House, and it's got fun things like those little diorama-like displays of the designs for theater sets, like they have at the Music Center in L.A.; and you can walk above a model of the arrondisement that contains the Opera House and the Galeries Lafayette. It feels very strange to walk over it, as though you're actually treading in the sky above Paris.
I didn't know that Gustave Doré did paintings as well as engravings, but evidently he did, and the one I saw was very cool. It's entitled "L'Enigme," and it's black-and-white [unlike the misleading linked image], or at least I think it is (for all I know he's got any number of colors mixed into the shades of grey), and it's got some... angel? reaching up to embrace the Sphinx, who's reaching out a paw in a return caress, tail a-twitch. I'm not sure what the rest of the scene was supposed to represent; it was a battle of some sort. I don't know who the angel was, either. Lucifer? Someone else with big wings? And I don't know if the title refers to the identification of the characters, or to the scene itself, or to the Sphinx's riddle. Or something else entirely.
There was a little inset display of some silver pitchers and plates and things, and it made me think of Johnny Tremain, which we must have read at least five or six times in school. There was also a strange painting by Degas (well, lots of strange paintings, from one perspective, in that none of them was of dancing girls!) called "Scène de guerre au Moyen-Age" or "Les Malheurs de la ville d'Orléans," which depicted naked women being shot at by people on horseback. And these people themselves were slightly odd; there was a woman, who was actually the one doing the arching, and two men, one of whom had bared buttocks. I'm confused. Maybe I'll find an explanation somewhere.
I liked the paintings by Ingres, a lot, particularly "La Source" (which I've probably seen somewhere before), but he, and a few of the other painters I saw, had a style that varied wildly depending on the painting. Maybe it was the whole impressionistic vs. not-impressionistic thing, I'm not sure. Another of said painters was Jean-François Millet, and while I liked his paintings in general, one drew my attention in particular. Called "Bergère et troupeau," its style reminded me of nothing more than those drawings we used to do in grade-school or at camp, where you put lots of colors on a piece of paper, then put black crayon over it all, and then scraped away bits of the black with a pin. The paint here was similarly scraped away, to similar effect, which amused me to no end.
There was a painting entitled "L'Hiver" by Daubigny which had won the grande médaille d'honneur at... err... wherever it was originally exhibited, and it had very cool crows clustered on a snow-covered ground. My appreciation of it, however, caused me to wonder if I might not like wintry paintings slightly too much. In the same room was a painting by Rosa Bonheur, "Labourage nivernais," in which the tilled ground was incredibly realistic, with some upturned clods showing the grass still attached to them, and dandelions nodding precariously at the very edge of the turned strip. The oxen were nice and furry, too.
After I'd walked through most of the ground-floor displays, my legs were absolutely killing me. And I was very thirsty and had stupidly forgotten water (again). But the Let's Go guide had mentioned that the museum restaurant, while expensive, was a work of art in and of itself, so I went up there and had a cappuccino. There was a man playing pieces on the piano (possibly Chopin; I recognized some of the pieces, and he did have a book of Chopin lying on top of the piano, but I really don't know Chopin well enough to know if that's what he was currently playing). The ceilings were adorned with paintings as well, like the ceilings of some galleries in the Louvre; the paintings were done by Gabriel Ferrier. There were also two statues; one of them was by Ch. Barrau, and while I don't know what it was called, there was something very amusing about it: there were two little faces of men with beards sketched into the base. You had to be right up close to see them, so I don't know if they served any purpose at all. Maybe the sculptor was just doodling at some point.
While I was drinking my cappuccino, I discovered that there was one room I hadn't actually been into yet, on the ground floor; the terrible thing about missing this room, in particular, is that it had some Renoir, who is my favorite impressionist (or at least was when I was little, and hence retains a fond place in my heart). So I headed down there once I was done. There was actually only one piece by Renoir, but also some Manet and Monet, all of them works done prior to 1870. Thoughts on said paintings: Manet's "Olympia" was in this room; I love the way her hand rests on her thight. The shading and slightly different skin-tone makes it absolutely perfect. Renoir's piece made me think that, even in his early work, you can see impressionistic brush strokes delineating the curvature of the flesh. He's never been able to draw little boys as well as little girls. Or rather, they usually end up looking more like little girls.
There were two paintings by Monet that really caught my attention; one was "La pie," which is yet another winter scene; I feel silly, now, but on the other hand it finally made me realize what it might be about such scenes that I like so much. It might be the deceptive bleakness that appeals to me: winter has so little color, but at the same time, the paintings have masses of color. There were reds and yellows and all sorts in the snow, and it was a more obvious manifestation of what I was thinking about the painting by Doré, that there might be colors hidden in the greys. The other painting was "Femmes au jardin," in which I really liked the daisies.
Another painting in the room was "L'atelier de Bazille, rue de la Condamine," by Frédéric Bazille; it's another of those paintings that have paintings within the painting. I found myself, this time, looking more at the inside paintings than the painting as a whole; it was as if I were simply looking at a real room. Which was, perhaps, the intention.
On my way out of the museum, I passed through the bookshop, and discovered that they were selling the Madeline books! They were in English, though, and were originally written in English anyway, and I think I probably have copies of them all somewhere at home, so I restrained myself from buying any. (These are wonderful children's books by Ludwig Bemelmans, for anyone who doesn't know them. There's a photograph of me when I was about two years old, sitting on the toilet and reading Madeline.)
In the train station on the way back I saw a gaggle of French schoolchildren with the traditional kerchiefs around their necks. This pleased me.
Edited to add hyperlinks; also, cross about the paintings I was absolutely unable to find on the web.
