Art History: WOW!

Breakfast:

Pain au chocolat

Coffee

Jus d'orange

Fortified with a far from nutritious breakfast, we returned to the hotel to prepare for the day ahead, and arm myself with a fist full of hankies. My cold was now in full, nasal flood.

Once again, I couldn't stop myself from "snapping" everything in sight. The foyer of the hotel sported a very emotive bust. It's not just the furrowed brow, but the strong line of the nose and the firm thrust of the chin that is a stark contrast to my sweet and gentle face.

I have a soft spot for flowers. These beautifully placed, perfectly formed orchids provide a classy display in the foyer. Looks as though some guest are chatting to the receptionist.

Stephen and I set off for an art museum that had been recommended to us by the "arty" family. The weather had been threatening; everyone shook their head in dismay as they relayed the weather forecast: rain. 

"Er... sorry, Stephen. Please stop for a minute while I indulge in a Kodak moment"; an exquisitely ornate doorway.

At first it began to drizzle and we poo pooed how insignificant it was. 

Here is a shot of the entrance to the museum. Stephen figured things out. It was necessary to buy the entrance tickets from another venue about 5 minutes walk away. It was about now, that the heavens opened and we quickly became drenched in the outpour. Meanwhile we were trying to find the secretive venue in which to purchase the tickets. There was a long queue of tourists from every corner of the world, waiting to purchase their tickets. What a good idea to visit the museum when the weather is foul.

My tiny umbrella hardly shielded one person, let alone two. We stood in the pouring rain for what seemed like about 10 minutes. My streaming nose mimicked the rain. Once we eventually squeezed into the foyer, it was probably another sardine-like 20 minutes before we were able to purchase our tickets. 

We braved the rain again and made it into the foyer, water bottle confiscated and detected for metal.

Once clear of the entry, the scene began to bring me into sharp focus of a truly memorable experience. I soon realised that I had died and gone to heaven. I was looking at, and appreciating,  magnificent roman sculptures. The romanesque bust in the hotel foyer was nothing compared to what I was now experiencing.

 When I was young, Mum was able to borrow art work from the library. We had a piece of wall in the dining room that was allocated to a frequently changing array of contemporary and classical art. Without realising it at the time, I was intrigued as to the story behind the pictures. These were my first lessons in art appreciation. I also had attended art lessons behind Lopdell House in Titirangi. (I was always frustrated at not being able to produce masterpieces.)

I was the world's most attentive student in 6th form art history lessons. I gobbled up assignments and LOVED learning about the art movements and famous artists. (My teacher had the audacity to say to me that I was TRYING TOO HARD!!!!!!!)

Later on, when I was a young adult, I benefited from Mum working in an art framing shop. I adored all the prints that were brought home and framed.

In the bedroom of our bach was a painting, "The girl with the Pearl Earring." I would stare at it for hours,  when I drifted off to sleep at night and then again when I woke up in the morning. There were so many prints that I would contemplate upon for hours!!!!!!

So ..... here I am, standing in front of ORIGINALS!!!!!!!!!!

The incredible truth of the moment was beyond words. I paused in front of Cezanne, Renoir, etc. as my art appreciation moved into a multidimensional, personal experience! The Fauvists, cubists, impressionists, etc became alive. The colours exploded in my head; the clarity and sharpness of the lines, forms, textures and interpretations of subjects were a sensory melange. I floated between exhibits on a cloud of surreal estacy, oblivious of the thronging tourists. (Trying to find a dry spot on my hanky was a futile task.) 

In a way, it was good thing that I wasn't allowed to take photos. That meant that I could just focus on what my eyes were experiencing directly. When I spotted a quote from Cézanne, I couldn't agree more; forgive me if my translation is not 100% accurate.  " I have returned to Aix and this country that I have found so beautiful I had forgotten again the ( advantage)?

Yes. Yes. Yes. All these artists had lived in the South of France or had visited it. I could now understand why and how they were so inspired.

What an incredible coup de la chance that enabled serendipity to play its cards for me to end up in a visiting exhibition of pioneering artists. 

Meanwhile the heavens poured a torrential burst of water onto the roof of the museum. Unfortunately, it was time to go and we once again became drenched whilst negotiating our way back to the hotel. I decided to leave Aix en Provence early as I was feeling very much under the weather; the pinnacle of a torrid /horrid cold. 

I caught the midday train back to Gap. I sat on the train exhausted, watching the moving countryside with intrigue but with none of the gusto that I exuberated in the morning. I was disintegrating into a miserable, self -pitying mess. My cold had won a victory as it painted the countryside with a dull, faded blue. All I wanted was to close my eyes for a rest. However, I daren't, as I could have missed my stop.

As you can see by this insignificant and boring photos, I was shrouded in self pity. From ecstacy in the morning, I was now experiencing the other end of the spectrum.

I humped my backpack, shoulder bag and large handbag away from the station. I walked through the desolate township of Gap, (Sunday, everything is closed), to the other side of town to catch the bus home. I slumped in despair as I realised that buses don't operate on Sundays. Oh well, I'll just have to burn some calories and walk home. After walking for about 10 minutes my bags became 20 kilos heavier. I stopped at every bus stop for 5 minutes to gather my strength for the next trek. Eventually, I swallowed my pride, texted Marthe and asked for a lift. By the time she arrived bright and breezy in her little white car, I was a mess, to say the least. 

Once I arrived home and downed some Panadol, the world began to lift off my shoulders. 

Closing my eyes before drifting off to sleep, I was incredulous that in one day I had flown with the angels, and also, scraped the bottom of the barrel.