Narrowly beating out his fiercest competitors – naked people and a series of terrifying cherubs – in the popularity stakes, Mr Christ (as he is known in more casual circles) adorns the walls in such numbers that one could be forgiven for thinking that there had been a glaring area in the recounting of the story, and he had actually been crucified several hundred times.
Scan your eyes across the many, many walls of this artistic epicentre and they tell you in manner that would render denial a rather embarrassing act of stupidity that art, and the continued existence of it, owes an insurmountable debt to the religious world. Undoubtedly this is a fact long clear to the incalculable number of people with more knowledge on the topic than me – hardly a difficult task – but still, such a concentrated dose of evidence would leave even the most glaring personification of the modern artist stereotype, as they pleasured themself over the ideas of their own self importance and asthetic atheism, no choice but to begrudgingly agree.
It was day two in Paris, and having bribed our bodies back into compliance with a solid night's rest we had returned to the streets to gift passers-by with our mixed looks of awe and directionlessness that can only be properly assembled by the features of a tourist.
As it turns out, Monday is a day that has no affection for tourists in Paris, with the Musee D'orsay continuing its campaign against me by being closed, also recruiting the Catacombs into the cause in an attempt to wear down my enthusiasm. But with a stubbornness that often flirts with the appearance of stupidity, I was hardly one to be dissuaded by a city conspiring against me, so, dressed up in our finest looks of faux-intellectualism, we set off for the Louvre, careful not to let it know it wasn't our first choice as to spare its feelings.
We arrived early in order to make the best effort of avoiding the plague known as tourist groups – a group which, yes, we may have technically belonged to, but I was determined to feel unjustifiably superior to. Making our way through the glass pyramid and descending into the tomb of art that lay below, the windows of the surrounding building eyed us suspiciously as we went, curious to see the newest batch of voyeurs wanting to cast their eyes over what was contained within its walls. It seemed a little judgemental for something that's willing to let anyone enter it for just 9 Euros.
The building itself is a vast, four-storey labyrinth of rooms, some spacious and making no attempt to downplay their sense of significance, some barely noticeable, seemingly birthing themselves out of spaces in walls where no room has a right to exist, all of them filled with paintings, sculptures and historical artifacts fighting for their piece of personal space. The sheer overwhelming size of the place demands more time from people than some would be willing to give.
Noblemen, women and a large number of people comfortable with nudity watched us from within their intricately detailed frames as our feet led us from room to room. Meanwhile, Jesus was too distracted by the alarming number of times he was being crucified in this building to make eye contact. The cherubs may have also been watching us, but I was doing my best not to dwell on this idea for too long as I still wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night. I will say this though, some of the cherubs I did notice – between closing my eyes and denying their existence – had appearances that hinted at mental disability, so I have to give credit to the Cherubian empire for their equal-opportunity employment.
With the museum rapidly devouring the hours we spent roaming its halls, and having spent enough time admiring the works of more obscure artists to assist with that speriority I was aiming for, it was time to walk in the footsteps of many art groupies before us and check out the big names. And I find it very amusing that in a museum where you can get close enough to lick – if you were in the mood to get arrested – many pieces of art that would feature a conga line of zeros trailing at the end of their value, there was a grand total of only two objects that held the esteem that warranted any sort of restrictions in proximity.
Ms Lisa and Ms de Milo, queens of the Louvre and two women I wouldn't throw our of bed. I mean, come on, think of the bragging rights. Or course there would then be the series of intrusive questions as to how you managed to get two priceless artifacts into your bed in the first place.
For something the size of a smallish window, the crowd of spectators for the Mona Lisa could quite comfortably be referred to as ridiculous. People pressed shoulder to shoulder, trying to edge themselves just that little bit closer to the area that was roped off so that they could say they got to stand only a scant five metres away from the 2-inch thick glass that encased the Mona Lisa. I won't deny the fact the I was interested in seeing it and I'm glad I did - for a painting so renowned, who wouldn't be? But such a spectacle for something that is still, at the end of the day, a painting of a woman, is something my brain simply does not possess the ability to understand. Evidence in itself that I will never be a connesuir of the art world.
Also not doing my standing in the art world any favours is that fact that, after four hours, museum fatigue was setting in. The sense repetition in the works had begun to dawn on me and, although my brain was struggling to come to terms with the idea, it seemed I was beginning to tire of looking at pictures that prominently featured naked women. Fearing irrepearable damage, the wisest course of action was clearly to bring an end to the day's romance with art.
Don't worry, we promised that we'd remain friends.
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