museum

Monday, April 14, Day 13

April 16, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Late start, but I’ve realized that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I am in Paris, so no worries. Decide to do something from my fantasy of a Paris trip; stroll to the Louvre along the Seine. En route I stopped at La Caféothèque (52 Rue de l’Hôtel de ville), a coffee shop with a TripAdvisor rep for excellent java. Little, odd-shaped rooms on multiple levels, a mix of chairs and comfortable, cushioned banquettes, nothing corporate about it, welcoming staff; it gets my vote. When strong espresso goes down like water, you know you are in excellent brewing hands. My noisette was smooth and silky and powerful. I’d say this is where good beans go when they die but since they roast their own beans on the premises, maybe an analogy of beans gone to hell in a hand basket is more accurate.

After two of delectable cups and one small postcard sketch, I galloped down the road to the Louvre. I breached the gates close to noon and it was a madhouse, confirming that my early morning arrival strategy is a superior approach. By noon the Louvre is trying to stuff twenty thousand pounds of tourist in a five thousand pound sack. I flashed my card, which worked its magic, but it still took fifteen tense minutes dodging through the masses to find a relatively quiet corner – French painters and a special exhibition of the artists who created the Louvre ceilings. Stopped in my tracks by Le Christ en Croix by Simon Vouet. It’s a standard-issue religious theme but it had a passage of such delectable color on the robe of a kneeling Magdalene that I couldn’t stop staring.

Photography in the ceiling sketches exhibit was not permitted, but the guards were delighted to let me draw. I stood and copied a sketch of two men by Charles Le Brun. By the time I was ready to stop, I felt calm and peaceful. Hand-eye time is very meditative – cue the alpha brain waves. Saw a lovely little painting of a Cuisse de Nymph rose by the incomparable Henri Fantin-Latour that I’m still thinking about, along with a Christ on a slab post-crucifixion painting, which is the last work of art I saw ten years ago when I had to leave the Louvre after a brief visit, and didn’t want to. That was the bit of grit in the oyster that resulted, years later, in the planning of this trip.

Walked around Place Saint-Sulpice in the late afternoon. Looked in the window of the store with that bracelet I like. It’s still there.

Tuesday, April 15, Day 14

April 18, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I’ve started sending myself an email that has the exact addresses of the places I might visit – this makes it a quick copy/paste to Google maps walking directions, or using the Metro app for best public transportation route, or showing to taxi or Uber drivers what to plug into their maps.

Since the Louvre is closed today, I have options – Do one of the audio walks, visit one of the small museums or head for a market. The weather – a few degrees cooler than is has been helps me choose, and I call Uber for a ride to the Musée Jacquemart André, 158 Boulevard Haussmann. This is an exquisite jewel box of a museum, that reminds me of the Frick in New York City.

They also have a free app, that I preferred to the audioguide offered at the door ( I tried both) https://itunes.apple.com/en/app/musee-jacquemart-andre-application/id582936499?mt=8. It is a sad truth that the dim lighting required to preserve the works and the placement of paintings can mean that the Fran Hals portrait that’s a muted glimmer high up in a darkened corner in dim room in real life, is as clear and vivid as if I held it in my hand the sunlight, with subtleties of texture and brushwork easily visible on my iPhone screen.

What the screen lacks is scale and three-dimensionality, what reality lacks is everything else. This is not true (or as true) with sculpture. Even dark rooms and remote placement offers more to direct experience that the flattening screen image.

Back to this mansion, which was a marvel of its age, with walls that would sink down into the basement by way of hydraulics to accommodate tout Paris society. The version the museum puts out is charming and civilized – they loved each other and both loved art and he had pots of money which they spent hand over fist on the best art they could find. They differed only in that he preferred the Venetian artists and she championed the painters of Florence. I take it a face value and my visit is a pure pleasure.

This includes my brunch, since I’d had nothing but that cup of tea. I lined up at the café door promptly at noon. I expected pastries and maybe a sandwich but it was ever so much nicer. The regular menu blew my skirt up by naming every dish after a painter; Watteau, Bellini, Chardin, Mantegna, Fragonard, Ruysdael, Canaletto, Van Dyck. There was a special themed menu (as did the Isabella Stewart Gardener when I visited Boston in December) created for the current exhibition; De Watteau à Fragonard, Les fête Galantes. I opted for duck breast in honey and soy, with risotto and It was divine.I read my Nook, glanced around the cheerful company from time to time, and cleaned my plate down to the shine.

Two French ladies were seated next to me and they sounded like finches perched on a fountain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmdBSn-34E8 A rapid and variable sequence of warbles, with a lyrical, burbling undercurrent. The French language seems to have a naturally musical quality. Perhaps it’s better to listen to the sound uncontaminated by meaning than be distracted by content.

I took in the special exhibit and, once again. the preparatory drawings seemed superior to many of the finished oil paintings.

Refreshed in spirit, off to the Joséphine exhibit at the Musée de Luxembourg (19 rue de Vaugirard) The audio guide was something of a hagiography, and I quickly realized how few facts I knew about her or Napoléon. The exhibition claimed the 5’6″ Napoleon was average height for the times, though as you can see by her charming fur-lined and beribboned walking boots, Joséphine wore flats. That is why I have spent most of the evening chasing biographies of Joséphine around the Internet instead of writing my blog. I have sworn to have lights out early, as bleary vision is the bane of the museum visitor.

Dropped by the jewelry store that has the bracelet I’ve coveted. I’ve been back twice to look at it. I can’t justify it, but I decide if it’s still there, I’m going to get it. It’s as delicate as a filament in a light bulb with I Love This Life engraved on a delicate silver bar, a twisted thread of aqua blue tying it on. Very simple. I walked in, and walked out wearing it ten minutes later. From the bracelet to the optometrist. Secretly worried the frames wouldn’t be as fab as I remembered but no, still totes adorb. Moment of unexpected hilarity. As the clerk checked the fit of the glasses, she handed me a card to read, to check the acuity of the prescription lenses.

I started laughing. I couldn’t read it, but that was because it was in French. I could see it with perfect clarity.

A fantastic day.

Wednesday, April 16, Day 15

April 19, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Bounded out the door – I could hear the clock ticking, counting down the hours until I leave on Sunday. Discovered I could order a noisette double, heck yeah. Onward to the Louvre via the Metro. Trotted towards the entrance via the Carousel, the gateway to the Louvre that’s like a high-end fancy mall, and skidded to a halt.

It’s 9:30am, and there’s a line stretching all the way back through the Carousel. What happened? Was there a sale? It looked like Filene’s Basement’s Running of the Brides, or Wal-mart before the doors open on Black Friday. No joke.

Armored with my Des Amis De Louvre card confidence, I forged past the twisting, shuffling line to the clogged security area and… yes! Open Sesame! The guards unhook the barrier and I waltzed right through and hand off my bag to security. I breezed by the giant anaconda line for tickets, zipped up the escalator, flashed my card at the actual entry point to the Richelieu wing, and moments later entered the sanctuary of the Cour de Marly. For the next thirty minutes, it was all mine.

Here’s the good thing about the giant lines, as long as you are not in one – it holds back the tsunami waves of people, dribbling them inside at a measured pace, which means you get more quality time with the art. The good thing about the Louvre’s holy trinity, those three works of art that are on every tourist’s hit list (Mona Lisa, Winged Victory of Samothrace, and Venus de Milo) is that they siphon off the casual tourist. Again, this means you get more time with the other 34,997 amazing works of art. You can even sit on the floor and sketch to your heart’s content. Like this:

My Des Ami Des Louvre membership has been worth every penny. Spent a quiet happy morning communing with statuary (Cour de Marly, Middle Ages, 19th-century sculpture) that made the Pygmalion’s plight completely understandable – special mention to the gallery of French Royal academy entry works). Look at this Cupid’s gesture, introducing a butterfly to a rose.

,And who doesn’t love a hot guy who reads?

My nominees for most fun couple:

I knocked off early to visit a restaurant suggested by my friend and fellow painter, Nancy Franke. Took a taxi driven by a man from Cameroon, who sang ‘Georgia on My Mind’ when he found out I was from Atlanta. Arrived at Les Papilles,  (30 rue Gay Lussac, 75005,) took a seat and waited for them to serve me what they were fixing that day. It’s a tiny place, near Luxembourg Gardens. I knew it would be good, I didn’t expect it to be one of the best meals of my life.

It began with a tureen of carrot soup. The soup plate had a stack of ingredients – slivers of carrot, something porky, dab of creme fraiche, a tiny bouquet of thyme on the top, a spice dusted on the side, dots of something on the bottom and croutons. Oh, and something with tiny green leaves and long thin stems – watercress maybe? I ladled the soup over that, stirred it up and tasted Nirvana. I ate two bowls, knowing so much more was coming but it was so good! And there was another serving left. You wouldn’t leave hungry.

This was followed by a copper pan of roasted vegetables and pork loin, and dish of polenta. The pork loin and vegetables came in a smoking hot oval copper pan. I know there were carrots and think in more than one color. Something red, probably a pepper? Snow peas, onions in thin rings, and bits of apricot. Another bouquet of thyme and several whole cloves of garlic. I ate until you could have cracked a flea on my belly. I left one piece of pork because I could not possibly fit it in.

Dessert came in a glass that widened at the top. Bottom layer of banana (and maybe some chocolate?), a layer of creme englaise type pudding, a layer of chocolate cream, a layer of cream and a layer of caramel foam. Hail Mary.

Espresso in a tiny cup, almost turkish, with a side dish of chocolate-covered coffee beans. I added two cubes of sugar to it (cubed sugar comes in cellophane packets on the table here and at the Cafèoteque place). I knocked it back, knowing full well it was all that stood between me and a coma. This took about two hours. I had to put my fork down for breaks. I didn’t read because my attention was fully commanded by the food. That almost never happens to me.

The restaurant is in a narrow room with a bar down the side and a little elevated area in the back. Warm wood and colorful tile on the floor and the stairs.

Kind of a masculine vibe. Not fancy, but clearly thought went into it, and the overall effect is cheerful, goodnatured and welcoming. Two people for service; a black woman who was a beauty with a dimple and kind look about her, and the guy who ran the bar and read the menu and talked with one of the patrons. Nothing snooty about it. They seemed to be serious about the food, not themselves. How refreshing is that? Oh, and it cost the same as the Café Marly burger.

Believe me, my words just don’t do it justice. It’s like saying Fred Astaire moved his feet.

When I finally surrendered and retired from the field, it took ten minutes before I could move. I decided a walk was called for. Google maps told me where to go and that it would take about half an hour. And that’s what I did. I have never walked by patisseries and felt not the slightest twinge of interest but today, not a flicker. Not just full, but truly satisfied.

I’ve been writing this ever since. Peppermint tea for dinner. If I can find the room.

Friday, April 18, Day 17

April 21, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday was my last visit to the Louvre. After a maudlin start, I knew I could either be all elegiac Canon In D Major sad, or bask in my good fortunate Pharell Happy. I chose happy. Packed my backpack carefully, refilled my bottle with Perrier, made sure I had my sketchbook and pencils*, Nook, maps, and back-up battery pack**. No line at the Metro ticket machine, and a seat was open on the train, double win.

Galloped into the Louvre, with my iPod blasting Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,’ blessing my Des Ami des Louvre card, straight into the arms of the Flemish, Dutch and Germans on the second floor of the Richelieu wing. I followed my eyes and heart. At some point, I began taking photos of women with books or swords.

Bonus points if they carried both.

That carried me through the next three hours. My mood cycled from happy to be there, to sorry to be going. Finally, it occurred to me that the harder it is to part, the luckier I was to have been there. I had just taken a photo from the window with the Tuileries ahead, Eiffel Tower to the left and the city gleaming white in the distance, when an ear-splitting alarm went off, followed by a voice telling everyone to evacuate the Louvre, for reasons of safety.

The announcement, in multiple languages, alternated with the alarm. I wondered if someone had started humping the Venus de Milo, or if there was a shooter loose, maybe a bomb threat. I watched people wander by in the direction of the escalators as the announcement kept repeating, but it was like trying to turn the Titanic. No one seemed to feel any urgency. I started towards the stairs but didn’t rush any. I saw a security guard and asked him what gives. He shrugged one weary shoulder, blew a puff of exasperated air out of his lips as only the French can, and said, “It is a drill. You may ignore it.”

All righty then. No problem. I decided to consider it the lunch bell, since it was past 1pm. I went to Angelina’s and tucked into grilled sole and lemon hollandaise, with a basket woven out of shaved carrots in three colors, followed by noisette, and a macaroon for dessert. I did another little drawing of Joséphine on a postcard, this time for Robin. Afterward, I went back to where I started on Day One, the sculpture court, and sketched my favorite view of Roland, Furioso.

I walked in and out of the various levels of the sculpture court until I finally made myself quit stalling and leave. I took the Metro back to Saint-Paul, and, en route, took a sip of water. Or planned too, but when I unscrewed the top, it blew off with a bang, like I’d popped a champagne cork or fired a Glock. I sat there, stunned, sprinkled with l’eau mineral. No one was injured, and the guy next to me thought it was very amusing. I was obviously shocked down to my shoes. So kids, today’s lesson is don’t put water that’s carbonated in your water bottle, then walk all over Paris before you open it.

I left the metro without further incident, and walked over to a shop with scarves I’d liked and bought one in vivid Mandarin orange with white polka dots of varying sizes. Then I walked to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, thinking I’d have pigeon pie and mint tea for an early supper, but no, too late. Headed back and passed a Scandinavian clothes shop called Cheap Monday and bought a white tee shirt with C H E A P P A R I S printed on it in black lettering. Maybe you had to be there, but it cracked me up. I ended up eating a savory buckwheat crepe at Breizh café, a joint everyone raves about, but not me. Meh, is the best I can say. I scouted Monoprix for a cheap and sturdy tote in case my purchases max out my suitcase and pulled some Euros out of the ATM. Home to the apartment, where I started the laundry, nuked a couple of apples in the microwave and wrote this up. Tomorrow is my final day in Paris. I figure I’ll pack then just wander. Maybe do a ParisWalk from the audio guide.

*I’ve only needed one sketchbook, but it’s the one I bought at Sennelier (not too big, not too small, etc).

** I haven’t had to use the battery pack since I started charging the iPhone and its Mophie case at bedtime. The iPhone battery is down to 20% around 3pm, the way I’ve been using it. Hit the Mophie recharge and there’s usually 60% or so left by the time I’m done for the day by 6 or7pm. Mophie is a game changer, in a good way.

Wednesday, April 23, Day 4

April 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tired, cranky, and tense, thanks to the inconsolable infant next door. Breakfast and a hot shower improved my mood before I Ubered over to the Rembrandt House for a three-hour tour (I can’t type that without hearing the theme from Gilligan’s Island). I booked it with Context Travel, based on the one other tour I’ve done with them at the Vatican Museum. http://www.contexttravel.com/city/amsterdam/walking-tour-details/rembrandts-amsterdam

Arrived at the Rembrandthuis and was delighted to discover the tour consisted of me, an American Rembrandt scholar for my guide, and a trainee docent, a Dutch woman from Rembrandt’s hometown of Leiden. Booyah! Let the education begin.

I was one enthralled client. Our timing was such that the man who does print demonstrations began the process to accommodate us. As he did each step, he explained both the how and the why of the process and how Rembrandt worked. Show and tell at its best. There were examples of the way Rembrandt changed plates over time, scraping away some figures, adding other details, how you can track the order in which a particular image evolves by putting the prints side by side.

He prepared to make a print on rag paper, explaining that Rembrandt also used linen, Japanese mulberry paper, and vellum. The demo guy used a decidedly anachronistic spatula to scrape the ink over the plate, then wiped it with cheesecloth, and finally his own chalked palm. One of those odd facts that will stick in my brain forever is the authentic tamp (instead of the spatula) was made from the skin of a dog. Since dogs don’t sweat they have no pores, and their skins were the best for not absorbing the ink.

Then he used the press to make a print. Magic! The print on the bottom is the one hot off the press.

Upstairs, in Rembrandt’s studio, there was another demo in progress; how Rembrandt made his paints. A woman ground organic pigments into linseed oil. I petted the brushes. Heaven.

My guide seemed to know pretty much everything there was to know about Rembrandt, his workshop, and clients. The Dutch trainee talked about the culture of the times. Big fun for me. Huge.

We parted in Dam Square after a brief walk around Rembrandt’s neighborhood. There was a funfair set up in the square, with carnival rides, a haunted house, ring toss type booths, lots of shrieking and screaming.

Welcome to hell.

I skedaddled around the side of the church to De Drie Graafjes café and ate a broodje on the second floor, watching the street scene below. Wandered afterward to the Nine Streets, known for boutiques of local designers/creators. Walked around until the no sleep thing cut my legs out from under me, and I headed back to my room. On the way, I passed a number of shops that reminded me just how seriously the Dutch take their cheese.

Very, very seriously.

Tomorrow, either back to the Rjiks or over to the outpost of the Hermitage museum for the Silk Road exhibit.

Thursday, April 24, Day 5

April 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Simple plan made the night before: visit the Hermitage Museum outpost in Amsterdam to see the Silk Road exhibition, then head back towards the B&B, with a stop at the van Loon museum or maybe the Albert Cuyp Market. Rain is forecast to start at 10am and that will decide how much walking around I’ll be doing. I put on my raincoat (the only time I have worn it. The winter coat has not left the bag it was stuffed in) and slip the collapsible umbrella in my bag.

Ubered over to the museum, which reminded me of an Apple store on the inside – curving white walls, glass and metal stairs, lots of interaction features – swipe your ticket over a sensor to be admitted, doors swing open as you approach, the audio guide is triggered from a point on the wall you swipe with you audio unit, like the self check-out at Kroger.

My experience with the Silk Road exhibit will be all tell and no show, since photographs were prohibited. It ranged from fragments of damaged, extremely faded wall murals, to an entire silk garment lined in squirrel fur, preserved in ice for over a thousand years. Multi-media elements included a stuffed dromedary, a two-story high wall projection/slide show of individual items in the exhibit, and audio of Tibetan monks chanting. There were sections on the archeological aspects, past and current, For me, the idea of the show was more interesting than the artifacts on loan. I think the Hermitage mother ship could have been a little more generous with what they made available for this.

I left on foot through spitting rain, toward the Museum van Loon. Passed by a bustling entry and peered inside at what turned out to be the Tassenmuseum Hendrikje, the Museum of Bags and Purses. I hesitated, but with a museumkaart, entry was free, so what the hay. Once inside I winced at the sign announcing a special exhibit – 50 years of Barbie! – but figured I could skip that, no one ever had to know. The collection is housed in a classic, canal view mansion, with the earliest objects on the top floor. One four-story climb later I walked in, and saw a goatskin drawstring bag with iron clasps from 1600. I was hooked. I loved it when they put a painting from the same era behind the purse – instant context. Like this:

The displays address the evolution of material and function. There are examples of beading, basketry, leather, plastic, and metal. Purses for brides and for chatelaines. Exhibits of what women carried, in various eras. So many of the purses were playful, inventive, or as hand held sculpture, like the clutch that mimicked a steamship. I pressed my nose against the glass more than once.

A cafe on the second floor had two formal rooms set for a high tea. They found me a table, slipping me in between the reservations.

I promised to be quick. Clotted cream, jam, and biscuits, how I missed you. I wolfed down crustless triangles of smoked salmon sandwiches, that biscuit, and a pot of Earl Grey. On my way out, I ducked into the gift shop. A Margaret Thatcher lookalike enthusiastically assisted me, and a mug, postcard, and one secret item later (a gift for Robert so I can’t include it here), I made it out the door. Guilty pleasures are the sweetest.

Walked on to the Museum van Loon, in the home belonging to the co-founder of the Dutch East-India Company. Interesting tension between the portraits of van Loon children by Dirck Santvoort and Nicolaes Maes, and a series of contemporary children’s portraits by artist Katinka Lampe they inspired.

Both disturbing, in their own way.

I revisited rooms multiple times. They had massive bouquets of fresh flowers throughout the mansion, a living version of Rachel Ruysch’s stilleven met bloemen paintings.

The formal garden behind the house was blooming in a palette of orange and purple and graced with a copy of the sculpture I last saw in the Louvre, Hercules carrying his son Télèphe.

Thirty more minutes of walking over bridges, dodging around bicycles and trams, and I was back at the B&B. It was a day that convinced me of how good it is to have a museumkaart in my pocket. and time to allocate as I wish.

Sunday & Monday, April 27-28, Days 8 & 9

May 5, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It rained all day, from trickle to downpour. Had I just arrived, I would have suited up in my raincoat, most easily dried shoes, and umbrella and hit the street, or called Uber and ducked the drizzle entirely in one of the museums, or the royal palace. But it was a Sunday, a day I avoid museums because everyone else is there, and the royal palace was closed. The famous fields of tulips would not be a pleasure in the rain. At mid-morning I went out to the Screaming Bean for a coffee. The streets were deserted. I suppose most of Holland had a hangover. I ended up sitting at a table on a cushy banquet in a mostly deserted eatery, and reading for pleasure. When I noticed lunchtime had arrived, I went for one of their top end (19E) item, Five Tastes, out of curiosity.

It was artful and delicious, and looked fit for the Stedelijk. A plus for me, it was more like 25 bites (yes, I counted). On the minus side, the lobster bisque was indelibly salty. Nevertheless, I was pleased to eat something rather less hearty than bread and cheese. When I left, I picked up some milk and fruit at the market and went back to the B&B, after I admired the orange juice machine. I want one in my local Publix!

I decided to take the rest of the day off – read and nap. We all need a day of rest, even the traveler. Maybe especially the traveler. This trip has required sustained physical and spiritual exertion. I’ve been well rewarded for my effort, but it has costs too. I’ve really missed the sustaining companionship and consolation of my significant other. One of the excellent things about being bonded with someone is the daily opportunity to appreciate what he brings to the table. You can’t miss ‘em if you don’t go away, but I sure have missed him.

Monday, April 28, Day 9

A woman on a shopping mission, I walked 30 minutes to the Monday morning Westermarkt in the Jordaan, following my progress on Google maps on my iPhone. I ended up doing this most of the time – getting my bearings on a paper map first, then plugging my destination in on my iPhone and glancing down to make sure I turned left or right. It has served me well.

I had fond memories of looking for a souvenir amid the trinkets and treasures on my last trip. A photo I took in this market became this painting, Vermeer Recycled.

This market is designated for cloth primarily, and sure enough, there were bolts of fabric and zippers for sale, along with shoddy but cheerful teeshirts extolling dope and sex, and cheap scarfs (2 for 4E). The other area of the market, near the church, is higher end, with vintage bits and pieces, handmade ornamentation (calling it jewelry is going too far and not far enough) boho clothing, boots and sneakers, books and leather bound journals, fruit and veg stalls, and (hey, I’m in Holland) cheese.

I started at the very beginning and was funneled along between the tents of merch. I really do hate crowds. Shuffling along, crammed cheek to jowl, personal space erased, I felt like one in a flock of sheep headed to slaughter. It made me nervous for my wallet and my iPhone, and I kept a tight grip on both. If I had been younger, I would have been nervous for my virtue. However, I entered the shopping fray with a will, flipping over dozens of plastic wrap packages to choose two tee shirts (2 for 5E ) from a bin* and four pairs of leggings (2 for 5E) printed with images of models from the seventies ( my era!) newspaper print, tigers and tattoos.**

*When I opened them later, they turned out to be worth rather less than what I paid for them but good for what they were. Tissue thin material and the XL fits like a Small, but they are for the girls who like thin and tight, so win win!

**Major score. Emily could hardly choose between them, she loved all of them so much.

Very shortly the merch in booths repeated with blocks and blocks to go. I broke out at the next opening and rushed towards the church end along the open street. Remind me never to get on the subway at rush hour in Tokyo. Many women in hajibs and abayas moving at a deliberate pace, were polite and noticeably courteous, while the Dutch women, generally jolly and optimistic, were ruthless shoppers. No ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon’ would induce them to step aside, and if they were zeroing in on something they wanted to purchase, they threw elbows like the NBA. A nation built on trade and tolerance, they take their haggling seriously.

From there, followed the Google maps directions to the nearest tram and journeyed to the Rijks. The Yellow Post-its I’ve loved to read were everywhere. A new guide to the museum’s collection was available, titled Art is Therapy, organized by Alain de Botton & John Armstrong. https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en/art-is-therapy

It’s genius. It’s taken the museum’s artworks and offered them in a new light, one that reminds us, using specific works paired with interpretive texts, how art can offer solace, insight, and encouragement. I snapped up the guide and begin the best treasure hunt ever, with big yellow post-its marking the spots.

Here’s an example – first the painting, of the interior of a church.

And here’s the Post-it text, cropped for just the English version.

Here’s a snippet of the philosopher’s manifesto: “… the focus should be less on where an art object comes from and who made it, and more on what it can do for the museum visitor in terms of issues that concern us all: love and relationships, work, status, memory and mortality.”

Isn’t that delicious? Even if you aren’t in Amsterdam or planning a trip there, you can download the free Rijks app that includes a guide to this exhibit, and listen as the text is read and an image of the art is shown.

Do it.

Do it now.

April 29 & 30, Amsterdam Finale

May 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday was the last day of my trip, the day before departure. Packing was first, so I could figure out if I needed an extra bag. Everything fit in, even the gift. The key was having some items that were used up and thus space created, and an expandable suitcase. I walked to the Rijks to do a fond farewell. I had saved the Art is Therapy https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en tour for this special occasion. Showed up, and the no line that hasn’t been there the whole time went all the way to the street.And these were folks with a museumkaart. I was staggered. Where have these people been? Of course, I went at 10 instead of 9. Who knew the difference was that great? As I assumed, but had never tested, the early bird finesses the line. It was starting to rain – and was forecast to increase as the day continued. Took me two seconds to decide to move on. Adios, excellent art at the Rijks.

And all your ships at sea.

I took the tram to the Royal Palace (plan B) and joined that line. It wasn’t too bad – maybe 15 minutes. Worse was the rule you had to leave you purse, no matter what size, in the coatroom. That line took half an hour. One old man in sunglasses and shoe polish black hair was the only person behind the desk. He moved with great deliberation, while the line increased exponentially. Free at last, with all my money stuffed in my pockets, I walked around the palace. Turns out there is marble in Amsterdam. It’s all here! Marble floors and pillars, marble statuary, even marble ceilings.

People often ask me, just what does a Key Grip do? I found a statue of one at work at the palace.

Lots of nice paintings, but difficult to see in the dark, formal, cold rooms that smelled like mildew and damp tourists. For once I felt sorry for royalty, stuck in these moldering, musty marble piles. Surely they have more comfortable, brighter rooms upstairs. I hope so. I was done in less than an hour and went back to the same line to get my purse. Another 30 minutes elapsed because it was the same elderly retainer. About 25 minutes into this shuffling line, someone called in reinforcements on a walkie talkie. As I was leaving, they were closing down the entire palace because too many visitors had come and they didn’t have enough personnel.

Raining steady now. Pulled out my umbrella after a few streets and set my Google maps for Spui, the outdoor antique market. Got there, and it was closed, due to the rain. Headed back towards the B&B, thinking lunch would be nice. Down a side street, I stopped at a hole in the wall that served french fries. Perfect! Crispy, smoking hot, salty, mayo on the side in a paper cone. The whole day brightened. A little further on I stopped in a bakery and bought a square of apple pie and a mozzarella/tomato sandwich for my dinner.

Back at the B&B, I saw the check-in email for the flight home. Looked at the flight online and saw some open seats in first class. I’m hoping I can buy my way in. (didn’t happen) Noticed they have changed the departure time for the third time, but not that much different, and tried to check in online only to get some kind of Dutch error message. My intrepid hosts, whom I cannot praise highly enough, straightened it out with a phone call. Thanks Oki and Frank!

The next morning I was up and out the door before 8am, en route to Schiphol airport via Uber. The first line stalled out when the DIY luggage machines quit. They look like a line of igloos. You place your bag inside the machine, it spits out a sticky tag you loop around your handle and a claim ticket for your boarding pass. A plastic dome comes down and when it goes back up, like a magic trick, poof, your luggage has vanished, on its way to the cargo hold of your plane. Only problem: three of the four machines jammed and the clueless tourists who were hefting their bags in were stuck waiting on the automated luggage check machine repair man. Eventually, order was restored, my bag was checked, and I tried to retrieve my VAT tax money. Another line and I waited in this one to be told I could only send paperwork to Paris via envelope. Not what I was told in Paris, but we’ll see. Finally at the gate where the security/customs crew waited. That was painless. Trans-Atlantic flight remains a grueling endurance feat for me, but my economy comfort bulkhead aisle seat, while not quite as comfy as business class, was tolerable. I sat next to an interesting fellow from the bayous of Louisiana, headed home from a stint on oil rigs in the Black Sea. He slept nearly the entire nine plus hours, and I read on my Nook.

When we landed at Hartsfield, medics boarded the plane to assist a stricken passenger seated in the tail section. We retrieved our bags and waited as instructed. My roughneck seatmate assessed the situation, muttered ‘go go go’ and hustled us out the door of the plane onto the walkway (bulkhead seats, remember?). I guess you don’t get to be an oil rig worker without a healthy dose of initiative. Off to baggage claim where a drug sniffing beagle passed up my luggage.

Through the customs gateway and into the loving arms of Emily, who in an awesome welcome home Mom gesture, painted my Prius rims.

Yeah, that’s how I roll.

Next trip, LA. June 4-9.

LA: June 5 – The Getty Villa

June 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Gorgeous breakfast brought to our cottage dining room table by the couple who run the B&B. They’re a study in contrasts. Ahuva is an exuberant Israeli – part international sophisticate, part California earth mother, all bubbe. Bob is a goofy, laid back California surfer dude in his 60s , always ready with a quip. Their partnership gives the B&B its idiosyncratic vibe.

After inching our way through the dusty, drought-stricken; palm tree-lined streets of LA, and along the car-clogged Pacific Coast Highway, Robert drops me off at the Getty Villa. http://www.getty.edu/visit/villa/

The modern California world falls away.

I walk along the winding path through the gardens to the hilltop museum. The architecture is based on a Herculaneum villa. I pass by four gardeners kneeling alongside the walkway, in obeisance to Demeter, clipping stray twigs off the espaliered foliage, while a fifth sweeps up the trimming.

Entering the museum, I immediately notice the absence of water. Due to the drought, all of the water features are empty. The empty basins, the lack of sparkle from light reflected off the water, the absence of the gurgle and plash of fountains, has a big impact – more than I would have expected. It’s like a well-preserved body without a pulse. Throughout the museum, pools and fountains link one courtyard to the next, and the villa to the gardens. The lack of water gives it all a deserted, abandoned air.For a museum dedicated to a vanished culture from another age, this isn’t altogether wrong. I walk through the rooms on the ground floor, paying my respects to the gods, goddesses and heroes who are up to their fabled hijinks. http://www.online-literature.com/donne/865/

I climb the marble stairs to view the visiting Byzantine art exhibition. Martyrs with dour, accusing looks, squinty-eyed Virgins with dolorous faces, dim lighting. I compare this with the last exhibit I saw here, one that celebrated Aphrodite. It showcased objects associated with the goddess; sated sleeping hermaphrodites, drinking cups helpfully illustrated with amorous positions, courtesans’ poetry, and general flaunting of naughty bits. When it comes to content, the goddess of amore (Passion! Beauty! Desire!) wins hands down over Byzantium Christianity (tortured martyrs, long-suffering virgins, avenging angels).Flocks of children in school uniforms swirl in and out of the rooms, following adults wearing Educator badges, old people blink in the shade cast by table umbrellas, young couples eat their brown bagged lunches on the amphitheater steps, touching shoulder to thigh. The museum grounds feel occupied and reasonably full, but not crowded. The wisdom of requiring timed tickets to park and enter is immediately apparent. The Louvre should try this. No joke. I forgo lunch in favor of a high tea in the Founders Room – a smallish venue with wonderful views and more than I can eat, nicely presented on tiered cake stands. Well-trained staff leaps to fill my teacup every time it falls below a third of the cup.

Back in the center courtyard of the villa, I see a woman in a hadjib and jeans taking selfies, and a similarly slender, tatted-up man with a sleeveless hoodie do the same. It’s a California cultural mash-up of dueling silhouettes that works for me.

Strolling along the outer peristyle (covered walkway) gardens, I try my hand at taking my own selfie. Gah. The key is to persevere until one appears tolerable. Many, many pixels later –

A peristyle, or covered walkway,. The key is to persevere in various locales until one is tolerable.

Afterwards, I walk beside the long empty outdoor pool with statues stranded on dry outcroppings in positions that suggest aquatic cavorting.

he Outer Peristyle Garden

The walls, marble floors, and ceiling of the peristyle alongside the empty pool are painted with trompe l’oeil swags of foliage and historically appropriate decorative flourishes.

I walk through the lower gardens, until I find a long, grapevine-covered arbor. The dappled shade is wonderful to look at, lively but restful to the eye. I sit and read a while. This day marks my sixty-fourth birthday. I think how supremely lucky I am.

After his morning of visiting old friends, and afternoon lunch on the pier, Robert picks me up at 3pm, his (successful) strategy to avoid the worst of LA traffic, and back to the cottage we go.

Chi-town at Christmas

December 18, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The day after Christmas we depart for Glen Ellyn, a charming suburb just outside of Chicago. I go to visit my bio-dad, a man of great aplomb and consequence. This is my fifth consecutive year for this trip, so it didn’t occur to me to write it up in Chasing Paint until the other day, but my special treat is a day in the Chicago Institute of Art. Robert drops me off at the entrance and we meet for lunch at the museum’s restaurant, Terzo Piano. Last year, I scored with Lobster Nachos (lobster in hollandaise over fries). Divine!

Not much prep required since I always go just around Christmas. The suitcase contents stay the same, and I can confidently predict the Lions outside the Chicago Institute of Art will be wearing wreaths and standing on Christmas present wrapped plinths. Today I’ll look up the special exhibitions at the CIA, and consider where I’d like to focus. It will be hard to top last year’s show ‘Art & Appetite’ – a still life artist’s dream exhibit. One twist is my curiosity about small scale sculpture. More on than anon.

Back to baking, decorating, wrapping and otherwise making spirits bright.