Out and About

Today I went to see the two special exhibitions at the Musée d’Orsay:Berthe Morisot, a large show, the first devoted exclusively to her in Paris since 1941, and including works not seen in France for a hundred years—beautiful and interesting; and one of the depiction of Africans in art from the 18^thinto the 20^thcenturies, “The Black Model,” which is fascinating. I didn’t buy a ticket in advance—how bad could it be? hahahahaha—and though I got there fairly early, I didn’t rush, so wasn’t literally there at opening time. Well…I’ve experienced worse lines, but it was bad enough. And those weren’t in July, both in the “summer” sense and in the “high tourist season” sense. Sigh.

So it took something over 45 minutes to get inside—far from my personal worst, as I say. Mostly in sun, or clinging to the side of whatever part of the building might be offering shade for a couple of minutes. Envying, as every day, people whose skin doesn’t need coddling, who don’t have to wear all sorts of extra layers (of heat) like a Bedouin in the desert.

The museum itself was, of course, very busy (I’ve never seen it when it wasn’t). The exhibits 

took time to do justice, to read the panels and labels as well as contemplate the art. I allowed myself one room, just one, of the permanent collection, while searching for the Black Model exhibit, half of it Monets I glimpsed in passing. In the exhibit, for some reason, among many beautiful paintings and sculptures, one or two horrifying, what moved me most was a smallish drawing of the abolition of slavery at the time of the Revolution (later reinstated by Napoleon). 

At great length, I walked back to the Métro station and went back to the Hôtel de Ville (“my” stop, or one of two). I was on my way to Hank (vegan) Burger, but since the bedside lamps in the apartment needed bulbs, and I couldn’t find any in the apartment, I went first into BHV, the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville, since I was right by it. Down into the utilitarian zone of the basement, the hardware, etc., departments, where I tracked them down (annoyingly, this later proved to all be unnecessary effort, after the HOA president revealed where they’re now kept).

Then I walked . . . and walked, up the rue des Archives into the Marais (between all the vast amounts of walking . . . again . . . and standing, and general abuse, this day would prove the ruination of a pair of comfortable sandals I really liked). Lunch was good again, though, and raising my blood sugar and rehydrating myself so belatedly (this not happening until close to 3:00 P.M.) revived me somewhat.

From there I—yes, walked, several more blocks, to the Palais de Thé. And finally, wearily, back home.