More art than you can poke a stick at. Not that you should poke sticks at art, as it wouldn't be safe.

A sunny day dawned Friday, and after changing hotels, I set off, with the fairly unclever thought 'well that doesn't look too far' to walk to the Musee Quai Branly. Along the way I got distracted by the Musee du Luxembourg, where a Titian exhibition was on, probably should have considered the poster a little more, with regard to the fact that it was Titian's portraits being exhibited, and perhaps reflected along the lines 'I find portraiture fairly dull, except for Howard Arkley's portrait of Nick Cave, and it would seem unlikely that that is going to be in an exhibition of Titian's portraits for the obvious reason that it was painted by Arkley, not Titian'. But anyway, I went and saw it, along with approximately 14000 French people. So it was both crowded, and fairly uninteresting. There were a couple of jawdroppingly good paintings in there though, so the effort was worthwhile. But it was so crowded I didn't even look in the gift shop. THAT is crowded.

Then I went and had lunch. Potato avec quatre fromages. Happiness was mine.

Then I continued my trek. Note that my cheerful plan to just wander along to the gallery has thus far included another exhibition and a break for a main meal. I was entertained to see a whole bunch of kids apparently running their cross country in the Jardin du Luxembourg; a bit different from Asquith oval that. It must have been the day for small children to be running about Paris because when I got to the Seine there was another bunch of them, running in circles around a lawn, and I got to see the deeply amusing site of a manicured french dog trying to bond with the small children by chasing them, with its equally manicured owner chasing it, shouting at it in an increasingly irate fashion. Ah, entertainment. I'm also happy to report that by the end of the week in Paris I was able to stop thinking to myself, every time I saw french children 'You're so smart! You can speak FRENCH! At your age!'

I finally made it to Quai Branly, which is the latest large museum to open in Paris. Some of you will have seen it in the papers a few months ago when it opened - it is dedicated to displaying collections of 'non-western' art, from former ethnographic collections that were gathered by missionaries, anthropologists, artists etc. So it is a very strange project, as it links together an incredible range of material, largely along the lines of 'stuff that was formerly considered too primitive to be art, or to be exhibited along with 'real' art' - but obviously the effect of exhibiting it all together, apart from western art, leaves a real danger of reinforcing that view. This is addressed in some text panels, along with the museum's purpose of trying to further understanding amongst the world's peoples etc. So it really started to piss me off that the vast range of text labels and wall panels were only in French. Some larger panels that introduced whole sections were in English (and I think Spanish) as well, but the pieces for each object were only in French, which I think really hampers achieving their purpose. In art galleries and most other places it didn't bother me that things were only in French, it's fair enough, what with it being France and all, but considering their intention of being an international collection, and that there is not only one way to understand and interpret the objects on display, it really made it impossible to understand a lot of the exhibits. My other gripe was the bizarre display of Australian indigenous art, where everything was under low lighting - necessary for the bark paintings for conservation, but for contemporary paintings of acrylic on canvas it created this weird aura of faux-antiquity. Of course this could have been explained in the text panels but I wouldn't know. The museum looks better from the outside than the inside I think - all pointy angles and native grasses in a style reminiscent of the National Museum of Australia - inside there is a ramp which takes you from the entrance up to the actual exhibit, which goes for about half a kilometre, and for no obvious purpose. There are a few quotes projected onto the wall, and a couple of different angles where you get to view things from unusual perspectives, but no achievable aim was met. One very cool part of it is that they have a huge collection of African traditional instruments, which can't all be displayed at once, but they have stored them in a huge circular atrium with glass walls, so you can see some of them even while they are in storage. Once you eventually emerge at the top of the enormous white ramp you enter the dimply lit space of the actual gallery, which is fairly odd, featuring as it does five foot walls covered in what appears to be ochre coloured 'leather' - seems to be attempting to create a faux-cave feel, with odd overtones of 'getting back to nature'. The Aboriginal art that is included in the building, to much joy and fanfare by the Australian press, is largely on the ceilings of the gift shop and the office space, so it can be seen from the outside of the gallery, and it does look very good, but mostly as an interior design technique rather than as a particular leap forward in recognition for aboriginal art on the world stage. The actual collection is amazing, incredible pieces from all over the world, from Australia to Native America. But a very mixed experience!

After that I went and had a coke and some frites and was charged 11 euro for the privilege. Note to self: read menus carefully when near the Eiffel Tower!

Then, I decided on more walking - I went to the Arc de Triomphe, sat and marvelled at the crazy driving - six lanes of traffic all following where their hearts lead them - then went for a wander down Les Champs Elysees. I bought a new cardy. Because I am a Nanna.

Paris continued

When I left the Musee D'Orsay I went for a wander through the Latin Quarter, and reflected on how for years - YEARS - I had assumed the 'Latin' in Latin Quarter was in the South American, Latino, sense, and not the Latin-speaking scholar sense, and on how that makes very little historical sense at all. Really glad I didn't incorporate that into any essays. Visited 'Shakespeare & Co', the legendary English-language bookshop on the banks of the Seine, which, were there to be supplies of bread to nibble on, I could happily have never left. Most of the upstairs level is lined floor-to-ceiling with books that aren't for sale, but that you are 'welcome to refer to' and it has lots of odd corners to sit in and read. Downstairs it is a mix of new and second-hand books, and In English! So very exciting! Paris is full of fabulous-looking bookshops that I kept going to bound into to explore, and then with a sudden slump of the shoulders, would recollect that the vast majority of its contents would be unintelligible to me.
Tearing myself away from my new papery friends, I crossed over to the middle of the Seine and had a wander around Notre Dame - beautiful, lovely glass, not much more to be said.
I headed off to find the nice-looking restaurant I had seen earlier, which of course I didn't, instead, I ambled in extravagantly incorrect directions for a really quite vast amount of time. I stumbled upon the College de France, and the Place de Michel Foucault, and as much as it would have been tempting to sit round questioning the power appropriated through naming such places and so on, plummeting blood sugars drove me on... and into an unfortunately bad chinese restaurant. Such a waste of what otherwise would have been excellent mushrooms.
The next day (that's right! we're only up to Wednesday!) I headed of to the Pompidou Centre. Aaaah. Happy days!
They are currently holding an exhibition of Rauschenberg's combines - Charlene, I saw Charlene!!! The tragedy of this exhibition was only being able to see it once. Having read about Rauschenberg and seen so much of this work in reproduction I was ecstatic to finally see it, and see so much of it. The exhibition was organised chronologically, showing the development of R's use of collage between (I think) 1954-1968. Excellent!
The rest of the Pompidou took most of the remainder of the day - swathes of 20th century art - I go to my happy place just thinking about it...
I headed back to the hostel via la fromagerie, la boulangerie et du vin rouge - c'etait tres bien.
Thursday: Musee du Picasso - I heard mixed reports about this, so my expectations weren't unduly inflated, and so I was most pleasantly elevated by my experience there. I could see how the collection itself could be disappointing if your expectation was that it would contain the most famous works, but I really liked the very early pieces that they have, and a lot of the drawings and his first collages, showing how Picasso constantly changed as an artist. Especially the collages, because they are fascinating to me. And some of the drawings were utterly brilliant. I really do resent him for being so damn good at everything. Freak.
Then I travelled to the other side of the town to the Dubuffet Fondation, via lunch, rain, and a most elaborate detour - I really do create some interesting voyages, based on only wanting to take one metro line between two places. It isn't very sane, but you do get to see quite a bit of Paris ('Nous tu detestons' say J & T (their french isn't very good I'm afraid)). The Fondation is located in Dubuffet's old house, and has a decent number of works from about the mid-70s into the 80s, which were good to see, but as I am mostly interested in his work from the 40s and 50s, not absolutely mindblowing. But for that I would have to travel to Switzerland. After that I performed more circuitous wandering, and found the Eiffel Tower, always makes it easier when what you are looking for is a large pointy landmark. Had a wander around it, got snappy with the lenses, considered climbing up, but based on it being cold at ground level, and me already being tired and misanthropic, I decided to sit down and have an icecream and do the crossword instead. And ponder how I am perhaps a little too in touch with my inner-nanna.

Life sans Tip Top

So I arrived in Paris on Monday afternoon, checked into my hostel and took a walk around Montmartre - soon realising that Amelie is not as exaggerated a portrait of Paris as I always thought - wandered up to Sacre Couer, atop the entertainingly named La Butte de Montmartre, not, as I had thought a poetique way of referring to the arse-end of town, rather used in a strictly geographique sense - one that results in the thought 'hey, turns out my thighs have muscles after all' - continued my pattern of visiting churches right on evensong time, first time I've seen such operatic nuns. Other than, you know, The Sound of Music.

Stunning view from the top of the Butte [snigger] and then off to find dinner, basically found a brasserie the same as the one in Amelie, and full of a clientele that closely ressembled the cast. Everytime I looked up a different french freak man would be staring at me. Kept expecting them to be whipping out a tape recorder and making a verbal note about their thoughts vis a vis me and the woman behind the tabac counter. French people don't seem to have any qualms about openly staring. Either that, or I am just way more freakish than I ever thought. Admittedly matters sartorial and my coiffure aren't at their best, but...

The first night at the hostel did not bode well - walls the colour of earwax, a bed that swayed like a raft in a storm (damn bunk beds! damn them! no one, NO ONE over the age of 15 should have to sleep in a bunk bed!) and walls paper thin and a party downstairs... this did not bode well for the sleep of peace... the party finally stopped and the snores began. Emanating from the bunk below me, I pondered 'are they snoring, or is that a dying bull?'. At this point the Bunk of Sways became quite useful, as whenever I tossed, the bunk swayed, and the bull ceased moaning.

Thankfully, the hostel has since improved, and proved itself to be an advantage - being an English-speaking zone it is a bit of a relief after flogging my non-french to death all day to come back somewhere that I can speak anglais and not cause offence. Very strange to be in a non-english speaking country at long last, not to have that information that you pick up peripherally throughout the day - street signs, newspaper headlines, overheard conversations, snippets of radio etc - that give you a background sense of what is going on. And not being able to buy a newspaper reliably is a strange torture for someone possessed of an addiction where matters of the daily press are concerned. Anyway, having acclimatised to the hostel I'll be moving tomorrow - an unfortunate result of my disorganisation. Here's a tip, gratis, from me to you: If you are coming to Paris, how's about booking your accommodation more than three days in advance. Just a thought.

In other matters of joy: bread, cheese and wine. All cheaper, all better than their equivalents en australie. J'adore les vins francais. Currently before me, as may not be a surprise to you, considering the rambling form of this post, is a rather fine botteille of le vin rouge that set me back all of 2.90 euro (less than six australienne). Oh happy day! Happy Day! I have something of a temptation to feed a french person tip top just to find out how they would process the thought that this is something that is a. sold as bread, and b. voluntarily consumed. Anyway, I'll now have to devote my remaining days of bread nibbling between Eire and France. Not such a bad fate.

So, beyond matters of bedding and of consumables - I started off my tuesday by participating in a near revolution. It seems that every guide book ever is incorrect in publishing the opening time of the Musee d'Orsay as 9am, when it is 9.30. Not a big deal. I wandered, and then joined the cue that had formed at about 9.20, to join the mutual sigh of disappointment at the notice that the musuem was that day not opening until 10am. When 10am came and went, and the queue numbered at least three hundred (not including pre-sold tickets, and group bookings - there must have been at least 600 people waiting)people started going up and asking what was going on. And brace yourself. The entire Orsay was shut down because of a board meeting. I ask you. Is there any other museum in the entire world that would shut down and then run over because of a board meeting? Anyway, tempers were fizzing as minutes ticked by, some synchronised clapping started, there was grumpiness aplenty, I was starting to think 'hey one of the reasons paris was redesigned in the nineteenth century was revolutions, would be kind of cool to participate in one my first morning here' - and then they opened the doors. So pretty much a non-story really.

Anyway, I then spent four or five hours of joy. Cezanne almost made me cry. I haughtily dismissed Renoir once more, and struggled with the urge to yell at people in the Renoir salles - WHAT are you doing, you fools, this is terrible, go back to Cezanne and then tell me that Renoir is worth your time?! Then remembered vague thoughts about subjective taste blah blah. eh.