Today is my last full day in France. I took the train and the metro to Paris proper to visit the D’Orsay Museum, which I have never visited before.
Back on the metro–luckily no one made pee.
On the walk from the metro station to the museum, I caught sight of that famous radio tower.
The museum has sort of a crazy floor plan made even more incomprehensible by a “map,” so I did the thing where you wander. I played my museum games: spot the dogs in the paintings, check the mirrors in the paintings, find the weirdest Jesus. The last game was quite a bit more difficult than it has been because many of the pieces of art glorified landscapes, ordinary objects, and Greek/Roman myths. I took a picture of what I thought was a soul being dragged to heaven by angels and presented to Jesus only to realize it was Zeus and I felt like a bad Christian. This was not my first sin, though. Hell, I’m a fan of all seven. And upon realizing this I found Silent Hill Jesus:
If this isn’t the creepy crawliest Jesus ever depicted, I don’t want to know.
I saw some familiar faces, including this Monet:
And I met a few new pieces with particularly beautiful lighting from within the painting:
I stopped when I came upon this next one, mostly because the crowd was such that I could not pass. You know how you automatically pay more attention to paintings that other people seem to be killing themselves over? I try not to do that because art is so subjective, but the more I looked at this one, the more I was convinced the whole world has gone insane.
What sort of vegan pagan bad facial hair picnic is this? I have so many questions. Where is the real food? Is the guy on the right holding an umbrella? Why is she naked if it’s going to rain? What is that other girl doing–pulling out a splinter? And why is this nakedly nude lady glaring at ME as if I’m the one out of place? This is a very uncomfortable piece and I was not happy to be stuck in a crowd around it. Nuts.
Last but not least I saw this reminder for RS to call Dr. A.
And on the way back to the metro station, I stopped in for the obligatory french pastry.
I had the apricot tart (second from right).
As a subplot update, Dad went to the Wells Fargo in Red Bluff and convinced them to issue another replacement ATM card for me, so when I meet Dad in Copenhagen tomorrow, he will have it with him. It is easy to complain about small towns, but sometimes they are the best thing ever.
I am reading The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood & rereading the Scandinavia chapter in Rick Steves’ book.
paralyzedbynotcaring 