Turn the page

I’ve been to Paris before. In 1993, I went for Spring Break with two girlfriends. We got a hotel so far outside Paris that it took an hour to get to the sites. They were good friends, but not great, and travelling with them was problematic. After days of togetherness, I took off for a day alone and went to Jim Morrison’s grave. Oddly enough, I became very territorial when some Germans were defacing his tombstone despite that fact that I really don’t care for the Doors.

Then, I went to the Rodin museum and loved it. It was one of those places that shaped me as a person. The sculpture, the building that housed it, everything was so monumental to me. It was the first time that I was genuinely and authentically awed by art. I had been in presence of great art before, but I was always expecting to be impressed. The Mona Lisa, Degas, Monet, Michelangelo. I was told before I arrived that I would be inspired by the greatness I was about to see. I think that knowledge can tamper the experience of art. You already know what you are going to think before you see it. Before going to the Rodin museum, I had never heard of Rodin. I knew of the Thinker, but didn’t have any thoughts on it in particular. When I went, his sculpture elicited a visceral response. I loved the way he captured a moment that was so poetic and emotional with nudes in white marble. With Rodin, it was about the moment, the emotion, The Kiss. The stuff moved me.

My Mother keeps asking if I have gone yet. To be honest, I am waiting until the perfect day to bask in the glory of his stuff and delaying the possibility that the connection will have disappeared. I’m like Grover, afraid to turn the page…