In the House of God

I finally made it to the Louvre today.

It was amazing.

It was embarrassing. It was gorgeous and it was humbling. I was astounded at the architecture of course, the sheer size of it, the intricacy of the carvings on surfaces high and low,

the magestic arched halls,

the painted ceilings, the gleaming floors- everything. I kept having brief moments of eye contact with strangers that would make me realize that I was walking around with my jaw hanging open. Embarrassed, I would cut my gaze to the floor, snap my lips shut and go on again until the next stranger reminded me to close my mouth and check for drool.

Someone used to live here.

I started at the Denon wing and just walked. I didn't make it far. There were enormous marble sculptures everywhere of classic figures, burly men and buxom women but something wasn't right. I don't know why I noticed- but the female figures all had uncleft vaginas! What? How could someone miss that?

Artists please!

Do these guys look a little concerned to you?

I was unable to process anything at all, I had a map in my hand and still I was completely lost. It didn't occur to me to ask anyone about anything. There were, however, these unsightly little signs everywhere directing visitors to La Gioconda.

And so like everyone else I was led like a schoolgirl to the Mona Lisa.

The scene reminded me of communion.

I fumbled through the crowds until I found her.

wow.

I was not expecting her to be so marvelous. She is so incredibly SEXY. Every written thing mentions her smile but you don't feel it until you stand in front of it and just look. I've read "enigmatic," "ambiguous," "inscrutable," LO QUE SEA, it reads clearly, unmistakeably,
like a really hot
$@)%#
-period-

Seriously, from whence cometh all the doubt? The need for a scandal? A marketing ploy? What?

I was surprised really because it doesn't come through on even the best photographs. Historians allegedly wonder why the picture was never delivered, why Leonardo kept it with him until his dying day. Standing in front of the small frame, struggling to see it over the giggling hordes of tourists it didn't seem like so much of a mystery to me. 

I would have kept it too- commission be damned!

Directly accross from the lacivious Mona Lisa there is Paolo Caliari's gigantic

Les Noces de Cana.

The painting is nice but what is up with Jesus!?!?

He looks so akward- he is definitely not having a good time. Really, you can kind of tell in this closeup shot but it is entirely obvious in the real thing. It was so sad to consider uncomfortable little Jesus eternally watching the licentious Mona Lisa getting all the attention while he's busting ASS turning water into wine.

Hours later, I was still wandering around, slack jawed and dumb, marveling at all the buttery nude skin on the walls, the taught tendons of so many Greek and Roman warriors, avoiding the Venus de Milo and hoping I would stumble back onto the door soon.

When someone talked to me.

At that very moment I was actaully standing in front of Celine's favorite painting, Le Radeau de la Méduse and feeling some neurotic pressure to be astute even if only in thought to myself. It is transfixing, the horror on the men's faces, the pale deathly tone of their skin. The emotional intensity is hypnotizing. The voice, a whisper actually, right in my ear, "Isn't it beautiful," broke me out of the spell.

Damn it.

I turned around, hopefully with my mouth closed but honestly I can't remember, and saw a very daper gentelman in fedora and scarf, smiling and standing altogether too close to me. He was so cool and handsome and felt a million years older than me- but in a really good way. When I responded, who knows what I said, he knew I wasn't French and so continued in such a suave English that it occurred to me to just run away. Clearly, I was in danger. Then it happened, "What do you do," he asked. "I'm an artist, I responded." I choked on the words -just a little bit- but I choked on the words?!? In the house of God, I lost my nerve and for a moment questioned my faith.

Almost instantly I said, "I'm sorry, I'm married, I really shouldn't talk to you." He smiled and then bowed and responded, "I see, thank you for telling me, have a beautiful day."

In retrospect I wonder if he might not have been Satan, he fits my mother's description precisely.

I finally made it outside, nervous and grateful and craving a Hollywood love scene cigarette.