Last Thursday I went to the Musee d'Orsay for the evening opening hours--6-9 pm. This is a good way to avoid the hordes that crowd it during the day. It was a pleasant day, so I elected to walk there (and back) and thoroughly enjoyed that. The tourists are coming back, sigh, but still a walk down the quai is not a madhouse. Nor was the museum, thankfully. I bought a ticket online, but there was absolutely no line when I arrived at 6:15. Popped right in!

My goal was to see to see the Seurats and Sisleys, but on arriving I realized that I had another agenda: the connection between my boy Ed and his gal Berthe Morisot.

I started with The Balcony. This is one of my all-time faves. The best part was that I had it pretty much all to myself. I spent a good 15 minutes just soaking it in, waiting for the occasional tourist to step in front of me and take a picture. Then, I noticed on the adjacent wall a small painting by Manet of Berthe with Violets, very similar to the one I saw at the Marmottan. Smoldering. My word, what a babe. Seriously, they had a thing going on...

These were downstairs. I am forever confused about how they organize the works in these museums. These two paintings (and a few others by Ed) were in a gallery that included Matisse and some Gaugin. Pre-impressionist?

In another gallery on the first floor I saw Olympia. Well, well, guess who? I dunno what the 'experts' say, but I am here to tell ya, that was Berthe. Ooo-la-la. I mean, I don't know about the body, but for sure, those were her eyes. Right next to Olympia was a painting of Zola, with sketches of Olympia in the background, and an art history book in hand. Ed knew what he was doing, yep.

Then I headed upstairs to the Impressionist/Neo-Impressionist/Post-Impressionist gallery. There I found the other painting that I had looked forward to seeing: Dejenuer sur L'Herbe. Oh man, what a painting. I spent another half hour here, again occasionally interrupted by the photo takers, but enjoying all the details that I have seen but haven't, if you know what I mean. The flying bird, the still life (bread, grapes and cheese), the classic nude, the boat, tied up in the middle ground. Comments on art and aesthetics that drove the critics mad excited me yet again, on a whole new level.

Then, I wandered through the rest of the gallery. I have to say, they have some of the best of the best here, including Monet. Here I saw for the first time that it was his early works that I admire so much--the stuff from the 1860's through the '70's. This man had what I would call 'the hand'. Just compared with Sisleys, Pissaro's and (the sole) Morisot, he just had the touch. It makes the others look like they were stabbing at the canvas with their brushes.

Now after about 1880 or so, Monet seems to have lost the touch imho. After this, he had a much 'looser' (read less skilled) touch, leading into the Haystacks, the Amiens series and what I consider to be the worst, the Water Lilies. I know, I know, everyone fawns over these, but I seriously think they show a famous painter in decline.

By the way, a recent article I happened across revealed that he likely felt this way as well. Shortly before a major exhibition in 1908, he took a knife and a sharp pen to several dozen of his works, declaring them unfit. He might have been right--they works are lost to history, though. I suspect he would be horrified to discover what Michel did with all the works he didn't get around to destroying. Perhaps he just forgot about them, down in the basement?

In any case, the guy was a master, no doubt, but as I am sure he himself realized, how long can one sustain the mastery? How do you know when you are done? Actually, give him credit--he loved to paint, and sometimes it's the process, not the result that matters. My personal sense is that he grew to love his actual gardens at Giverny more than painting them. It's kind of sad that those works have come to define his oeuvre. After all the early stuff was the good shit.

After this, I was getting beat down and hurried through the rest of the gallery. I did enjoy the works by Seurat and Cross and one in particular by Caillebotte (whose lesser works were featured at the Marmottan) with the guys refinishing a floor, The Planers.

Out of energy, I whipped by all the crappy Degas and Renoir that everyone loves so much, leading me to wonder if look like all those folks I get so annoyed at, racing through the galleries without actually looking at the works. In my case, I'd like to think it's because I've been there, done that, but to them, I must look like the rest of the heathens, sigh.

On my way out, I noticed a small painting that resonated enough to stop me. On inspection, it was another Manet. Subject? Yep, Berthe! Just a study really, but even as I was on the move, it caught my eye. Seriously those two...

The Pearl in the Oyster

Yesterday, I managed to get out to the Marmottan. This was an interesting museum, one that I had never heard of until I saw a segment about it and the latest show on tv. In addition to the permanent collection of Monets, they had a special show called 'Collection Privees' featuring, as you might expect, works from various private collections.

First of all, there was a line when I arrived at 4pm, which surprised me. It turns out that there were several groups of French tourists, doing just what I was doing: taking in the show before it ends on the 10th. This meant that there were some serious crowds in the tiny gallery, so I slipped past them to take in the permanent collection, where few of them bothered to go.

This was quite a disappointment, as it turns out. Reading about the creation of the collection, I learned that it was the result of a gift from Michel Monet, Claude's oldest son and last survivor, in the sixties. Apparently, he had inherited the remainder of Monet's works (after all the best ones had been purchased), and gave them to the Marmottan, in exchange, no doubt for some money and plenty of faux prestige. I can tell you that these were positively the worst works by Monet that I have ever seen. These were the very dregs, basically, the stuff that no one wanted to buy and that, I am sure, the painter himself would have burned, had he had the chance. So...I blasted through that, then returned to the collection privee, after the crowds thinned out, where I saw a very nice Lautrec (The Laundress) and a spectactular Redon (Apollo's Chariot). All the rest (including some Sisleys and Seurats) was just average and most was just detritus.

Then, I wandered upstairs to see the rest of the permanent collection, the stuff that was there before Michel Monet turned the Marmottan into the 'Monet Museum'. Here I found a lot of laughable 17th and 18th century paintings, some pretty remarkable 14th century triptychs and some interesting illuminated manuscript pages, though the latter were very poorly lit (I suppose to keep from damaging them).

But the best was yet to come. It turns out that for some reason--familial I think--the Marmottan has a large number of paintings by Berthe Morisot. She was not just a painter (and a reasonably good one) but was also the subject of a number of paintings by other impressionists. I rounded the corner to one gallery and there, amidst a group of lackluster paintings by Morisot and some dreadful watercolors by her niece (or something like that) was a tiny painting (maybe 12 x 16) of Morissette herself.

I was stopped cold, transfixed and delighted. Before I even looked to see who painted it, I spent a good ten minutes just taking it in, resonating with the pure joy that comes from just such encounters with delightful and delicious art. Then, I had a look to see who the painter was: Edouard Manet. I can't say I was surprised (she was a subject in a number of his paintings, most notably The Balcony), but I was even more delighted to see this one for the first time. Just looking at it, I had the sense that this was a painting of a beloved by a lover. Her eyes were magnetic, her look smoldering. Geez even I wanted her--my thoughts were, quite frankly, carnal.

When I got home, I looked it up: 'Did Manet and Morisot have an affair?' As it turns out, probably yes, but as with so many things, it was complicated. He was married when they met, and she ended up marrying his brother Eugene. There's no proof of their affair, of course, unless you count that painting. And I do--I mean, it's right there for all to see.

It goes to show that sometimes one finds a pearl in the oyster, eh? It's the reason I have a love/hate relationship with museums. Thanks Lynda ;^)