“A Morning with Monet”
Walker Johnston
Beads of sweat have begun their descent down my spine. I pull at the front of my shirt to move the air, but it’s no use. The sun shows no mercy, and I continue to melt. My black pants, saturated, stick to my skin, and I’m beginning to regret the fact that my desire to fit in as a Parisian made me disregard the weather forecast as I prepared for a day of exploring. As if the fact that I’m a tourist isn’t already evident—I’m probably tourist number two hundred and seven in this line. I look behind me at the queue wrapping around the length of the building. It seems as though every visitor in Paris had the same idea I did about how to spend this Sunday morning. Usually I would never subject myself to forty-five minutes of standing in the oppressive heat of Paris in August, but today I’ve decided that it’s a price I’m willing to pay to go back to one of my favorite impressionist art museums—the Musée de l’Orangerie.
Referred to as “the Sistine Chapel of Impressionism” by French artist André Masson, the museum contains works by various impressionist and post-impressionist artists—including Renoir, Cézanne, Matisse, and Picasso—but everyone in line is really here for Monet’s Nymphéas, his series of water lily murals. That’s why I’m here, at least.
I visited the museum once before, almost two years ago, yet I can envision with experience as though it were sketched in my mind. I remember walking into the first of the two oval rooms, designed specifically by Monet to house his eight water lily paintings. Sunrays flooded in from the skylight above, casting an ethereal glow on the white walls and floor. The murals themselves, though nestled into the curve of the walls, seemed to transcend the room. At a distance, shades of blues, greens and pastel pinks swirled together forming foliage and flowers—motifs that make up the dreamy landscapes. If you stood close, you could make out individual lines brushed boldly across the canvas, unapologetic in their conspicuousness against misty backgrounds. But there was also a sort of haziness blended in the brushstrokes of each work—a soft blur that obscured what in the paintings was real or reflection. This haze surrounds you as the paintings wrap around in an endless loop, making you feel smaller and smaller but in the most comforting way possible. I stood there for quite a while, unblinking, trying to discern what it was about each fleck of color that mixes to make a masterpiece. Then, I remember, I pulled out my sketchbook and pen and attempted to recreate the moment.
I reflect on my experience from two years ago while I’m stuck in line, and with each step toward the entrance I notice my heart beating a little faster in anticipation. There’s just something supremely satisfying about going to art museums by yourself. Maybe it’s just the introvert in me that enjoys having an excuse to devote two hours to an activity where I’m not expected to converse with anyone. But I like to think that a work of art is really a manifestation of the most creative part of someone’s soul—that there’s a piece of the artist lingering in the brushstrokes of a painting, in the contours of a sculpture. It seems as though if you continue staring into the depths of a painting, it begins to stare back, and before you know it you’re making uninterrupted eye contact with the artist himself. Like when I peered into the water lily murals, I began to see through the layers of paint to the inner workings of Monet. While I know, of course, that no interaction like this with an artist can really be achieved by examining a piece of art, it’s this intimacy, found in these moments of stillness that makes me prefer going through museums alone.
***
Finally. Trailing behind my fellow tourists line, I shuffle into the first oval room and stifle a gasp as the first water lily slides into view. Knowing that I’m going to stay in this room for quite a while, I decide to squeeze myself into the one opening on the oval bench in the middle of the room, next to some chatty middle-aged British women and an Asian couple with their wriggling toddler. A sketchbook and ballpoint pen in hand, I center myself to face Nymphéas: Reflets verts and take a few moments to try to meditate on the work, to soak in its magnificence. My eyes stay fixed on the painting as my pen moves across the page. It’s a bit of a memory test for me, because as soon as I home in on which piece of swirling vegetation I’m drawing, someone masks it by entering my line of sight—so I’m forced to improvise. I squint, trying to discern whether or not the bit of greenery I’ve identified in the composition is a reflection.
A group of teens appear suddenly, obstructing my view of the work as they linger for photos. My fingers tense around my pen as their giggling reverberates off the curves of the walls.
“Oh my god, this is perfect—I really needed a new profile picture!” one of the girls exclaims through her smile as she poses with her back inches from Reflets verts.
With each click of the camera, annoyance bubbles inside of me and threatens to escape as a tirade. Don’t they see these beautiful works demanding attention? Can they not give a moment of reflection, or at least a glance that isn’t obstructed by the lens of a camera? The babbling toddler sitting next to me squirms away from his mother and scampers with fingers outstretched toward the closest mural in reach. The mother rushes after him, scolding him loudly in a language I don’t understand, adding even more noise to the already bustling room.
“Excusez-moi, mesdames, messieurs, you must be quiet!” a voice proclaims in accented English. I glance to see a woman, dressed all in black, presumably a museum attendant. She has stood from her chair. “There are a lot of people in this room, and it isn’t possible to enjoy the work when everyone is talking.”
There’s a momentary lull, about a minute when the roaring quiets to into a dull chatter. But then the chaos begins anew as a horde of Asian tourists enters the room. My pen tumbles to the floor, knocked out of my hand by the woman taking off her backpack as she makes room for herself on the bench. I can’t take it anymore. I grab my pen, shove my sketchbook into my purse and weave my way through the crowd and their camera lenses toward the exit.
I stumble out of the museum in a daze and seek out a solitary seat in the shade of a tree overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. As I settle myself, finally away from the crowd, I think about how this experience couldn’t have been more different from the first visit two years ago. I open my sketchbook again and look down at my drawing. Consuming the page is a mass of tangled lines that in no way resemble the tranquil abstraction of organic shapes that make up Reflets verts.
