Thursday, April 10, Day nine

Morning in the ‘hood, wandering around the shops of Saint-Paul, a warren of antique/second hand/flea market shops. I tell the shopkeepers I’m looking for a small unique knife, ,just in case I stumble across the perfect ornate or crusty knife for a tomato & knife painting, but I’m not looking hard. Picked up a seeded baguette with figs, arugula and soft white cheese called a Brillat- Savrin from a cart outside of a cheese store. I’m more relaxed on a bench in a garden on my own than in a bustling bistro.

Took the Metro to the stop for the Petit Palais. Immediately realized it’s called petit because the one across the street is vraiment énorme. My heart sank when I saw the long, deep line standing on the sidewalk, but I dutifully tacked myself to the end. God smiled when two women walked up behind me, flagged down a guard and asked for the Carl Larsson exhibit – which is what I was there to see. Wrong line – she led us to a side door and I was through security and had a ticket in  my hand moments later.  http://www.petitpalais.paris.fr/fr/expositions/carl-larsson-1853-1919-limagier-de-la-suede 

I have loved Carl Larsson since I came across his book ‘Home.’ Grim, Dickensian childhood, great talent, success in midlife painting what and who he loved. He is Winslow Homer-esque, with formidable draftsman skills,  though he trained in Paris. Imagine Ingmar Bergman who wasn’t bitter and haunted, memorializing his happy family life.

 

No photography allowed in the exhibit, but drawing was permitted and I did a few quick sketches, more to look closely than anything else. Also some fascinating early documentary footage of the painter and his family on the island of their summer home. His studio, painting in his garden, boating, small children and dogs everywhere he goes. I ate my baguette in the garden and enjoyed the mild weather.

I wandered around the rest of the museum, happy to stumble upon more Low Country masterworks that I have only ever seen reproductions of. I meandered around and found myself in an exhibition innocuously titled ‘Paris 1900, The City of Entertainment’. Hand-colored, turn of the century films of street dancers twirling and bowing, had a unselfconscious charm that does not exist in the self-regarding age. There were clips from movies by the Lumieire Brothers, photographs recording the opera, café-concert, circus and brothels, Oo la la. These included a wall of the classic French postcards, images of women who are definitely more naked than nude. One of the object displayed like a holy relic resembled a gynecology couch, complete with metal stirrups, mounted over a well padded sleigh, both upholstered in rich  brocades. This puzzling device turned out to be un dispositif de positionnement des prostituées reserved for royal visitors. Alas, no photos though I was very tempted to take one.

I did a sketch of one of the French postcard ladies to send to Robert, then retraced my Metro route back to Saint-Paul. Put in a load of laundry, ate my dinner while watching an informative and entertaining BBC show the Treasures of the Louvre on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJNU3vvZhMY

Picked up another Charlotte Russe avec framboise and wandered though the streets until I saw a spaniel with a yellow tennis ball in a courtyard. I struck up a conversation and got a good patting in. I miss my dogs.

Tomorrow I ‘ll be back at the Louvre. This time, I’ll do the head phones for sure.