Lost in Louvre

I, of course, have been warned. My marvellous Paris Encounter guide book has warned me about the immensity of Louvre and how long I am going to queue if I enter via the famous Pyramid. And so I left my petit hotel and took Metro ala French, early in the day. After few confusing interchanges for this map-blind traveler, I made it to Palais Royal- Musee de Louvre, Metro direct stop to enter Louvre (via a huge hall where they still keep the old wall intact). So, no I didn’t join the long dragon-y line above and you should not too. Better to spend the precious time inside. Also for museum buff, I advise you to buy Paris Museum Pass which allow you to visit 60 museums and monuments all over Paris (for 2, 4 or 6 consecutive days). It also comes with the privilege of strutting via “VIP” entrance and avoid hoi polloi queue. For another tips to spend less in Louvre and you happened to be under 26 years old (except if you are caught in museum shop’s buying frenzy), is to visit on every Friday evening since it is free from 6 to 10 p.m.

Louvre is not a museum. It is what people use to describe it, to explain the vastness of it. But I don’t think it is the right words to describe the experiences when you are in it. It is the Mecca for art, architecture and civilization aficionado. A pilgrimage for me. The Holy Land of Civilization. However there are some obstacles in my way. One, I am direction blind. I would never be able to tell apart which is is west or which is east. You can put a life-size map in front of me and still I will be lost. And I’m in Louvre (I am still amazed that I successfully went through it alive),one of the largest museum in the world.

Two, is the mob. Horribly buzzing, crazily blitzing and suffocatingly gathered in one huge annoying group that takes up the whole place kind of mob. I literally had to poke and push to be able to see the masterpieces. Most of them are herded sleep walkingly by their guide (usually attired in bright blinding color and armed with flags and whistle) from one masterpiece to another, nodding their head harmoniously when the cheerful guide explained to them about certain sculpture. The same guide (smile tatooed permanently) also works as instant photographer for the group since a lot of people apparently want to have their picture taken beside Venus de Milo with the same pose (Winston Churchill’s “V” fingers and huge grin). Quite a spectacle for this sapimalas who loves to watch people in secret.

Considering I have only few hours in Louvre (too many museums, too little time), I had to make a careful selection of which exhibitions I would visit. Sculptures, Egyptian art and paintings is a must. So I started to make my way through the sculptures section. Etruscan, Greek and Roman sculptures are scattered everywhere. I saw beauty in every nook and cranny. Even the ceiling was a feast for the eyes.

The sculptural celebrity was also the most crowded (and it haven’t even reached noon!) such as Venus de Milo whose unarmed yet still beautiful, Winged Victory whose headless and actually could just become obscure but somehow managed to becomes popular (a dramatic position on top of the staircase and perfectly angled skylight also helps).

I don’t have a personal favorite but I was very drawn to this sculpture of Psyche and Cupid. Erotic, beautiful and hit me with a strong impression of love, lust. Suddenly my head was singing “All you need is love” by The Beatles and this sculpture really does give a symbolism of love. Pure, profound and as if you will die if you are not rescued by love, of love. I saw few artists standing close to those sculptures and draw sketches of the details. A pulsating vein in one arm and the naked six packed torso of unknown male statue with curiously small you-know-what. I wonder about this. A room full of naked male statues, supposedly symbolizing the male masculinity and yet, none of those muscularly marble statues have a more fitting ‘size does matter’ fixture. Perhaps size and masculinity doesn’t necessarily goes hand in hand centuries ago. Hmm.

As for the paintings, all I could say is it was a blur of colors. I would love to tell you a smart sentences with a sharp views and knowledging remarks but to tell you the truth, I was lost. Too many of good things is bad for you. I remember some paintings far more than the others in that visual war between masterpieces. Madonna of the Rocks (damn you, Dan Brown), Rubens, Rembrandts and those famous Renaissance masters. It was too much for this poor brain and two eyes. I wouldn’t mind to have extra pair of eyes at that moment. So I was walking in daze with mouth hanging open all the way through many galleries.

Suddenly in front of me was The Painting. The Monalisa. And it was a seriously dissapointing appearance. I knew it would be small and but I didn’ think it would be that small or that protected. It seems silly to protect such a petit painting with such a great security (and to understand why someone wanted to throw acid into Monalisa’s face is beyond me). From all Da Vinci’s masterpieces, why it has to be this smirking woman that becomes really popular? Personally, I think Monalisa is overrated. There, I say it. Feel free to comment. This is the closest distance I got to Monalisa (No wonder you keep smirking, Signora!):

I continued to the next level, Flemish paintings and impressionist, my favorite. They had a good collection but I was trying to keep my apetite for Musee d’Orsay and so only spent half an hour in there. Oh and I almost forget to tell you about this group. Apart from tourists who had to come to Louvre for the same reason they must go to Eiffel Tower, there is also a new group of visitor. I present to you *with drum roll* The Da Vinci Code Group. Beside the obvious people frenzy with anything Dan Brown, Monalisa, Opus Dei and Mary Magdalene; Louvre also gain benefits from Monsieur Brown portrayal. So now, using the moment, Louvre created a special tour for those ‘code crackers’. I was walking pass one group when I heard a guide in French accent said loudly, “So this is the spot where Jacques Saunière was murdered…”. At that point I really had to giggle. Just couldn’t help it.

After asking two nice museum staff (they can speak English! Ces’t magnifique!) about the way out (at this point I just couldn't bring myself to take a look at the crumpled map in my hand), I managed to find my way out to the garden I once saw in a book (Louvre: Masterpieces of I.M.Pei). I didn’t even remember to take a peek in the museum shop. I was that tired. So I went out to the famous Pyramid and found a seat on the fountain. I found faces similar to mine. Dazed and exhausted.

Total hours spent in Louvre: 4 hours 25 minutes. Unforgettable. Now is the time for food. Cheap food.

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How to Survive The European Museums

1.NEVER ever bring your backpack or unfoldable umbrella or walking pogo stick or chihuahua in Gucci bag or gigantic handbag nor any other carry-around thingy into museum unless you are ready to put it in the cloakroom (which I hate to do since it takes quite a while and also sometimes you have to pay for that)

2. Invest in museum card. Available in most European countries with popular museums. It save a lot of money and time since you don’t have to queue. Oh and it also made you some kind of VIP celebrity visitor with queuing herd of people staring envily at you while you strut into ‘special entrance’. It felt good when I did that in Musee d’Orsay ;-)

3. Remember in mind to come earlier if you have a plan for visiting museum in Europe. It ‘s a big business, people! Unlike our museum in Motherland where there are times when you are the only one visiting and you felt all those stony Hindu deity statues staring at you and…oh, nevermind. Just arrive early if you hate to queue or find an alternative entrance (for instance do not ever enter via the Pyramid in Louvre where the queue is always dragonishly and agonizingly long. Unless, of course, you want to pull a Robert Langdon-running-from-policemen stunt in front of blitzing Japanese tourists)

4. Check out the internet if they have a special program available like guided tour or free entrance (For Louvre, it’s every Friday night, special for student). And make sure to write down the opening hours. The last thing you want is to go somewhere, queuing for hours until you know the whole life story of people in front of you and rejected by a stone-faced guard right in front of your sorry nose. It happened. A lot.

5. Wave your student card everywhere you pull-out your wallet. Never hurt to ask. As an Asian (specifically a poor Asian student with minimum euros and maximum yearning) I suggest you to smile a lot and look as young as possible (no red lipstic and sophisticated LV bag, fake or not) since most Europeans are lost in telling how old you are. I passed for under-age museum card in Paris after I unshamedly admit I was a 16 years old. All’s fair in love, war and shoe-string traveling, baby.

6. Give yourself a break of museum. Don’t insist to see art museums in a row (like I did) because in the end it would seem like a blurred view and not a single precious memory of a painting that takes your breath away. Plus it’s tiring and all you want to do in the end of the day is staring at people with hollow gaze and feel your brain is outside your head (like I felt).

7. NEVER take a picture of yourself in narcisstic pose in front of hundred years old painting. You should see, enjoy and study it; not bragging about it. I see a mass of people did that in Louvre. Taking a picture in front of Madonna of The Rocks or flexi-glassed Monalisa seems to be all the rage in Louvre. Merci Monsieur Brown for ruining the authentic Louvre experience.

8. Always read the brochure. It’s printed not just for souvenir to show folks back home or to tell your grandchildren many years to come, but to give you direction and give hightlight to certain section of exhibtion you interested the most. If you have little time to spend or the museum just not meant for one day visit or you are with tag-along companion who keep asking how long you need to stare at Picasso’s masterpiece which his or her 5 year old brother can make, that’s the only thing to do.

And as Master Yoda always tell Anakin Skywalker, May the Force be with you!

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I Came to Paris to Live...

On my second time in Paris this July, I was crossing Pont Neuf while suddenly I remember Audrey Hepburn. I have seen one of many Audrey Hepburn movies and I remember a particular line she said when asked by Bill Holden in “Paris When It Sizzles” about why did she come to Paris. She simply said in that big magical eyes of her, “I came to Paris to live”. Perfectly said. For I feel more alive in Paris.

Paris keep inspiring generation after generation of writer wannabes, head-to-toe-dressed-in black-chain-smoking thinker (who hang a lot in Le Deux Magot, hoping to be inspired by the ghost of Sartre), emerging artist, hopeless romantic and last but not least, million of wide-eyed travelers who seeks cultural enlightment and je ne sais quoi Paris is famous for. I was in the last category. I came to Paris to be charmed, enlighted and optimistic that Paris would infect me with its illustrious allure…

I had one Parisian day.
I woke up in a compact hotel room, hardly a space for bathroom.
I rode in Metro. With Le Figaro-reading-workers. With crumpled, unbathed student.
I had croissant and café au lait in Chez-something. The only food I can spell correctly.
I walked through a remnant wall and entered history of civilization, Louvre.
I encountered Winged Victory, placed in the top of staircase, ready to fly.
I met Venus de Milo, whose unarmed yet bewitched many hearts.
I saw Monalisa, overrated mystery still smiling ruefully.
I was a small fish, swimming in a bowl of universe.

Then

I went out, afraid it would became too much, wreck the magic.
I crossed Pont du Carrousel, left my enlightment pyramid behind.
I watched sleepy old man sitting, watching his petit bookshop of vintage delight along Seine.
I peeked at couple stealing French kisses on Pont Neuf, bitten by romance.
I heard my stomach protesting in unison, of thirst and hunger. Even in Paris.
I kept stopping in front of shop windows selling china and exotic objects of art.

Then

I sat down on red and green rattan chair, placed my elbow on green glossy table.
I ordered Croquet de Monsieur and my second café au lait, and waiting.
I captured people walking by, in hurry, in all shapes and colors imaginable, then waiting. Still.
I savored cheese melted tenderly, mixed with black sweetness of cafein, in my mouth.
I left Café de Flore in hurry, after asked Jacquez The Waiter took my picture while smiling knowingly (Ah, touriste!).
I strutted through Musee d’Orsay, like Catherine Deneuve with Paris Museum Pass.
I gasped, stunned, tempted and fell for Monet, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Lautrec and Gauguin. All over again.
I was swimming in impression of colors for eternity, etched forever in brain.

Then

I was furiously back to the Rue on six o’clock.
I used my angry tired feet once again, chasing Hemingway shadow from many years ago.
I found him in Shakespeare and Co.
I felt myself lost, an Alice in her Wonderland of Books.
I touched dusty bonded books, perhaps once read by Kerouac.
I bought some books, wishing I was buying history.

Then

I bought a thick shwarma and found a bench near the Seine.
I scorned tourists in Batobus, hysterically blitzing whatever they thought they see.
I washed down the last piece with red wine, tipsy with Paris.

Finally

I walked back to my cot.
Half-heartedly, drunk and dreaming.
Yearning for every day of my life
It would be like this.
Moi,

Drunk of Paris.

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The Chase of Rembrandt’s Chiaroscuro and Vermeer’s Light

Enter : 16:52
Out : 18.00
Date : July 15, 2007
Place : Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

I firmly believe that it is madness to spend an hour running on treadmill because I simply feel like a hamster inside a cage. I also firmly believe it is impossible to see a museum in an hour. You learn nothing in one hour. In Rijks, I learn I made a wrong personal statement. You can learn a lot in an hour.

With my untrained stamina in the field of fast-pace walk, sandwich stop and posing in front of touristy gigantic red “IAMSTERDAM” sign (couldn’t help it. I’m a sucker for cool kitsch), I made it to Rijks. A very nice guard, an Indian sikh, inside the booth took my museumkaart and kindly asked me about my origin. When I said Bali, he beamed up to me and threw an ear-to-ear smile, “I’ve been there”. At that moment, I was utmostly proud of my heritage, of my island, my country. So he launched into three minutes monologue on how he loves Bali and felt most welcomed there. He also introduced me into his buddy next booth (whom was his brother) and informed me about the Indian lady who checked my bag in the entrance. “She’s my sister-in-law”, he said, deserved to be proud. I would call that a positive nepotism. I put my hand together and said namaste. I had a good hunch that I would have a good time inside.

Rijks was under–renovation at that moment, which perhaps benefited me since I didn’t have to walk aroud the huge building to see the highlights. So after a careful study of the map, I walked in quick-step (not the dance) around the ground floor where they exhibited treasures from the Golden Age of 17th century Netherland*, such as doll house (with detailed fresco on the dining room wall where petit porcelain polly pocket dolls sit to have tea, drinked from white-and-blue delft porcelain), gold tablewares, delftwares and many more.

I climbed a staircase and arrived in gallery of Frans Hals (who?) and at last entered the world of a maestro named Rembrandt van Rijn. He was Elvis for Dutch painting scene, since they both are famous with only the forename. In the first gallery was paintings by Rembrandt and his students and after that a room for late works of him. I think what I find profoundly beautiful in his dark mood canvases is the light. It seems like giving glimmer of hope and spotlighting the very essence of his painting. He also uses alegories and symbolism which I sadly don’t understand much.

Next room was Vermeer. My memory of him, of what I have of him, would always be a long haired Colin Firth. Blast! I wish I hadn’t seen the movie. I am still mesmerized by his work, even in a shape of small postcard glued in wall beside me. I don’t have the right words for his paintings except beautiful. More than just a figure of woman doing mundane, daily task. More than interior of 17th century Dutch houses with light flooding through opened window. It was graceful, intimate and understanding. At that point, I was imagining Colin Firth gaze at me behind his easel with that romantic dark eyes. Sigh.

And there it was. Nachtwacht. It took my breath away, for its vastness and liveliness. It seemed everyone in the museum gather in that room. I savored every details. Beam of light on each figure’s face. Richness of detail in a man’s attire, subtle gold. And the only lady in the painting, her whole being is glowing tenderly yet with fright on her child-like face. I wish I could stand closer. I wish I was alone in that room, far, far, from watchful eyes of a sitting guard in the corner. I felt an ardent desire to touch it, to feel the light with my fingers. One can only see clearly with the heart, what is essential is invisible to the eye, said Le Petit Prince to me once. I saw Rembrandt’s “Nachtwacht” with my heart.

My heavy foot walked sluggishly to the shop. Staring almost tearfully at glossy illustrated books on the shelf, wishing with all my heart that at that moment, I have all the money in the world and turned away. I stole few precious minutes back in the ground floor before a curteous voice boomed through speaker, asking us to leave. How I hate that voice!

I sat on a wooden bench near the gate. Staring idly into the green of carefully kept garden, into a vain stone lady and brick walled façade. I checked on my map, trying to find some place, any place where I can rest my tired feet and fill my empty stomach. I climbed up into a tram passing by and let myself lost in Amsterdam.

It was exhausting to read map sometimes and so I gazed out the glass window as well as the people sitting around me. I felt glimpse of sun rays creeping into the tram, rested upon their tired faces. People who might just finished another day at work. People who were so lucky to live and gaze at those beautiful house everyday and anytime could walk into Rijksmuseum. They can catch Rembrandt’s chiaroscuro and Vermeer’s light anytime, everytime.

Vondelpark, said a feminine computerized voice. Instinctively, I stepped down there. I wonder why.

*Around the same time when J.P. Coen en his entourage arrived in Java, chucked the ruling monarchy with bloody war, imported slaves from all around the world to planted spices, put them on board and sold them in every major European countries for the next three-and-a-half centuries. Oh and it is called colonialization.

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My Date with van Gogh

What can I tell about a city which captured the heart of millions? People, that is. Amsterdam is a cheeky grande dame who still wears her vintage fur, dyed her hair each week in shocking pink and wear Manolo Blahnik. She is old and graceful yet brimming with exuberant youthfulness. It is a ‘she’, because it has eternal flowing juice of canals, mysterious curves and hidden treasure in unexpected corner. ‘She’ feels like a mother and also a cool Carrie Bradshaw-kinda-gal-friend at the same time.

I didn’t know what to expect of Amsterdam when I woke up after a soulful jazz hangover. I went down while my host still sleeping. I found her Mother whom I called Tante (an indissoluble legacy of Dutch colonial past in Indonesia, where young people still call elderly ladies as Tante or ‘Aunt’). She asked questions, I answered, still in pyjama and she in batik sarong. She made me a cup of black coffee while drew in deep breaths of Dji Sam Soe cigarette and told me without censorship what she thinks about our similarity, our beloved Mother Country. I finished my last gulp of cold black coffee when I took a peek at the clock. It was almost mid-day. Time sure did fly generously when she talks.

With three days left for me to inhale Amsterdam, I quickly went to van Gogh Museum in Paulus Potterstraat, closed to the famous Rijksmuseum (spelled ‘recks’ with rolling ‘r’). I calculated my time since most museums in Amsterdam close at six and I want to finish two enourmous museums in just a few hours. I decided it has to be two hours in van Gogh and whatever time left, in Rijksmuseum. It was quite a test even to enter the museum. First, a long queue…

VAN GOGH MUSEUM (www.vangoghmuseum.com)
After what appeared to be a battalion of Chinese tourists, I managed to faced the face of ticketing lady. I asked about the Museumkaart and after a quick scan of my then-hopeful-art-lover-with-pitiable-budget-look as well to my soon-to-be expired student card, she gave me a thick envelope with the card inside (www.museumkaart.nl for €15 only per year, you can roam to 400 museums all over Netherland! The best museum card ever).

The architecture is unmistakenly modern and was built from the design of Gerrit Rietveld in 1973. There was an additional building behind it designed by Kisho Kurokawa which architecturally opposed with the 1973 built brick building since it was made from titanium and brownish-gray stone which I totally missed while I was there (in hurry to go to Rijks). The tight security was understandable since van Gogh’s painting could be the most expensive pieces on this lifetime (which is absolutely ironic since he almost never sold any painting in his suicidal depressive 37 years old life).

The exhibition covers five period of his life from his ‘eureka’ moment on 1880 when he decided to be a painter in Netherland and painted a lot of people eating potatoes that reminded me of Dickensian family in dingy room; Paris Period where he seemed to be in more cheerful mood since he painted with colorful color palette, experimented with pointilism and Japanese artwork; Arles Period filled with sunflowers and the infamous ear mutilation caused by a fight with his then-buddy, Paul Gauguin; Saint-Rémy Period where he was hospitalized and accomplished his awe-inspiring energetic brush strokes with subjects like wheat field, reaper and irises; and ended in Auvers-sur-Oise Period where he created his ‘gothic’ and rumoured to be last masterpiece, Wheatfields with Crows.

He ended his life with harakiri style shot in the chest which was terribly heartbreaking since he died not a quick, unpainful death but a slow-two-days-later death. Perhaps his one and ultimate achievement when he breathed his last breath, was Theo. The perfect brother who stand by him along plethoric unrequited loves, impoverished boho-depressive life and dutifully collected all of Vincent’s paintings (which I bet made all of his children and children’s children and children’s children’s children drown in trust funds).

The death of this genius, like another eternal mortals with tragic ending such as Elvis and John Lennon, is only providing guarantee that their names would be forever remembered. Nietzsche once said, “You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star”, and that quote crossed my mind when I was there, gazing at those masterpieces with dreamy eyes and mouth half-open.

Oh and the interior. It was a standard wooden-parquet-floored-and-light-color- walled. But who cares about interior design when Sunflower was hanged beautifully in front of your very face (with a perfect lighting design and no glare effect, if I may add). The architecture was very well-planned and perfectly en suite for its purpose of show-casing masterpieces. It felt open, light and spacious. You can see the other side, looking up and down from the staircases to any part and I was quite sure there were at least 200 people or more in that building, but it didn’t feel that crowded.

I spent around two-and-a-half hours to gaze adoringly to brushstrokes and textured colors of van Gogh. He is my muse, if ever there is a male muse. I’ve been in love with his works ever since I saw Starry Starry Night poster in my Dad’s room. FYI, I was also in love with The Red Power Rangers around that time. He has period of paintings and I have mine, over him. Now, I am crazy about his Japanese period when he started to imitated Hokusai’s wood-cuts. It’s a beautiful East meet West. I was almost drooling in front of his Almond Blossom (which of course only could be mine in the form of mass-producted postcard).

Another half an hour, I spent unwisely in museum shop. My God, I wanted to buy it all. The books, posters, everything you could think of to print reproductive van Gogh’s paintings, were there. After a fierce battle of common sense and desire, I went out from the museum. I would kill a mouse if I could just taking pictures inside (mouse is my nemesis-ed.). That moment, I understand how so many people seems unable to move away their fingers from camera and try to capture everything. We are afraid to forget. I was afraid I would forget how perfectly van Gogh captured the flight of black crows over swayed wheat grass and exposed his dark side on canvas.

Yet, the memory is still as vivid as ever. As clear as a Starry Starry Night…

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