gauchecritic
When there are grey skies
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2002
- Posts
- 7,076
I've been put in mind of my holiday this year (Paris; all the sights, all the museums, tea at the Georges V on the Champs Elysee. If you get the chance, just do it, fuck the cost)
The height of summer, open shirt and linen trousers, 9.30 at night eating crepes and drinking rum and coke on ice. 9.30 in the morning eating ham and croissant with my fingers and all the time surrounded by loud Yanqui, technologically dainty Japanese and muttering provincial Francais.
Standing virtually alone for 15 long, lingering, heartbreaking minutes staring mutely at Study of Black and Grey, Portrait of Painter's mother: Whistler's Mother.
And this is what the subject and responses to the thread reminded me of:
A sea of scrubbed clean, eager, jostling touristoes silently (forever in that queue silently) one tiny shuffling step at a time, making miniscule millimetre headway, cursing those at the front standing too long and taking far too many pictures. Then, having kept your eyes glued forever on that one place, standing at the rail to gaze and see what all the fuss is about and to forget you even have a camera
La Joconde. La Gioconda. The Mona Lisa.
So now I'm at the front, but I treasure more surely and with fonder memories those 15 minutes at the Musee d'Orsay when most were merely glancing and passing by.
The height of summer, open shirt and linen trousers, 9.30 at night eating crepes and drinking rum and coke on ice. 9.30 in the morning eating ham and croissant with my fingers and all the time surrounded by loud Yanqui, technologically dainty Japanese and muttering provincial Francais.
Standing virtually alone for 15 long, lingering, heartbreaking minutes staring mutely at Study of Black and Grey, Portrait of Painter's mother: Whistler's Mother.
And this is what the subject and responses to the thread reminded me of:
A sea of scrubbed clean, eager, jostling touristoes silently (forever in that queue silently) one tiny shuffling step at a time, making miniscule millimetre headway, cursing those at the front standing too long and taking far too many pictures. Then, having kept your eyes glued forever on that one place, standing at the rail to gaze and see what all the fuss is about and to forget you even have a camera
La Joconde. La Gioconda. The Mona Lisa.
So now I'm at the front, but I treasure more surely and with fonder memories those 15 minutes at the Musee d'Orsay when most were merely glancing and passing by.
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, but not winking)
