portrait of eugene bock

Like many things in life, I fail at blogging regularly. I'm sorry! I am a bad child! I know! Anyway, I had to share what might be my new favorite painting that I saw in the Musee d'Orsay.

Ha, I had to write this for class, and its kind of corny... but here goes. I really love Van Gogh and this painting.

Portrait of Eugene Boch

Surrounded by so much ferocious beauty, it's nearly impossible to settle your eyes on one painting in the Van Gogh room. Colors melt and twist in storms of golden blue, the shapes of every day life whirl into the forms they've always been meant to take on, and reality starts to give way to transcendence. It's almost too much to bear.

However, with the possible exception of Van Gogh's fiery, electric-turquoise self-portrait, it is the portrait of Eugene Boch that finally takes you in. At first glance, it is the stark contrast in color sets him apart from the rest- blazing out from a dreary night sky, he radiates gold, lit by some divine inner light. It's as if one of Van Gogh's many sunflowers has come to life in a burst of yellow, explosive energy.

But contrasting with this light is an intense humanity. Look at his face, and see the saddened eyes; the cheeks which glow with gold are slightly emaciated, his nose is at wrong angles, gaunt and lean. This is the face of a saint who knows, who stares toward the painter, concerned and loving. While Boch's internal world is bright, he looks out with infinite sadness at those still wandering the dreary blue which lingers behind him.

blurbs

So, I haven't really posted anything of substance in a a few days. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! To make up for my laziness, here are some blurbs from my journal.

"Expectations"

I will confess: I've always been one of those Americans who romanticizes all things French. Take a look at the walls of my old dorm- my posters of "Funny Face" and "An American in Paris" vied for center position. We see a similar trend in my bedroom at home- while my French artifacts compete with my James Dean shrine and other relics from world travel, my Eiffel Tower poster holds the dominant position. I even took French from sixth to eighth grade, dreaming of one day studying abroad here in Paris in college. (No joke.) I guess you could say I've always seen France as a dark, sexy, and sophisticated dreamworld. That, and something like Ratatouille.

Staying here for the last two weeks, though, my expectations, while not disappointed, have definitely been revised. As much as France is about the Louvre and crepes ("They're like really thin pancakes!"), there's also a goofy, vulgar streak beneath the surface. I first noticed it in Blois, as I ate my croissant for breakfast in the "Buffalo Bill Grill." I'd noticed several of these on the highways, but I was unprepared for the sheer level of camp. Big, feathery Indian headdresses? Check. Cringe-worthy posters of gun-wielding cowboys? Oh, yes. While I hoped that this was a freak incident, I've noticed the theme while I've been here. Teenagers hang out at McDonald's eating terrible, overpriced fast food in an attempt to be vulgarly chic; at a very nice cafe, while my friends and I ordered the plat du jour, the French group at the table next to us all ordered not-so-great-looking, 12 euro bacon cheeseburgers. Here they are, in the culinary capital of the world, and its citizens forsake that heritage of subtle, delicate food in the name of the fatty burgers. Porquoi?

"Tourist trap or sacred space?"

My first trip to Notre Dame, on one of the first three days here, was a crushing disappointment. I can't describe it any other way- I wanted to cry, and not in the good way. The courtyard was packed, filled with loud tourists, gypsies selling trinkets, begging children; there was an international bread festival blaring bagpipes (don't ask), and a basketball game going on in the courtyard, with a loud announcer who kept breaking out into beat-boxing. The noise and crowd were so much that I decided to hold off going inside out of sheer disgust.

After the week in the Loire I came back, wary but determined. When I came there again, it was crowded and loud, but after a long wait in line I made it in. The organ blared, nearly shaking the building, and I cried. It was beautiful- after the din and confusion, the all-encompassing music and the delicate rose windows, the image of the twelve-starred virgin at the very top of the ceiling, made up for it all.


"Living History"

Shakespeare Books Co. was one of my favorite stops on the walk, because it gave a sense that the past isn't dead. Yes, I know that Notre Dame is still a functioning church; but look at the art and architecture- 500 years old= pretty new. But too see people living and working and actively continuing an art form- it was a relief to see active life.