The Louvre


It’s big and has lots of art. ‘nough said ’bout that. One has to limit oneself to a few periods and accept that this museum is hard for the curator to master; a visitor has no chance. It spans from antiquity to the the point in time when the Paris art world rejected Impressionism, and if there is anything in it from Impressionism and beyond, I know not of it.

My favorite sculpture, aside of course from all the naked men in marble, is this piece in which the sculptor maded stone transparent:

How one sees through the stone veil to the face below is a mystery, but then all sculpture seems impossible to me. If someone were to write without a backspace key, I’d be shocked. So how to sculpt a hand without loping off a finger is beyond my comprehension—which leaves me to wonder how many male models complained, “Hey Mike, my dick’s bigger than that,” when the artist was careless with his chisel near the upper thigh.

We found a character from the Flemish period who is a spitting image of Matt Damon.

I learned the most from the Egyptian exhibits. For instance, poor pharaohs could buy off-the-rack sarcophagi. And some were equipped with late night reading, but the bandages probably got in the way. Egyptian mothers invented peek-a-boo, and I can now tell me lawyer friends that the original expression was “long arms of the mother-in-law.”

 

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