Orangerie

What do I feel.
Monet was possessed by light.
Renoir didnt always get it right, big mistakes.
Derain’s still life’s are best.
Picasso was an enquiring genius.
Cezzane is astonishing.
It’s a good thing Rousseau loosened up.
Modigliani geometric paint and mood.
I’m going to slap the children.
Matisse I love you.

Sometimes the marks on the canvas are a lot more naive then I expected them to be. You can see them trying, mixing, finding and missing.
I’m looking at my teenage years jumped out from books. The books in the library at school. There were no books at home. And my art teacher Mrs Shields who knew I could see and draw and paint. If only I’d sat with these paintings then.
Thank god for art teachers. A funny old duck who was always going on about lapis Lazuli but she always stressed that a painting should be seen in the flesh as no book could do it justice.
She was right.
After the Orangerie we got terribly confused in the underground. No clear signage, no sense. I felt like grabbing a Parisian by the throat and cursing their lack of numbers on doors and stairs descending to an un-named station and all of it stinking like piss. Awful.
Everyone said, oh everyone speaks English. Ah, nup. The kids shy away in embarrassment as I navigate the blank face of whoever I’m talking to. I feel so stupid not being able to speak the language. A sequence of difficulty followed. Perhaps you could’ve mentioned that Paris shuts down on Sundays.
Then the Pompidou, and I calmed to the sound of Rothko. A difficult day in between beauty and paint.

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