Page 62 of French Kiss

24

Art

July12

Picasso Museum

We spenttwo hours in the museum, starting on the ground floor and following the recorded tour on our headsets up each subsequent staircase that led us to the next floor and the next chapter in this history of Picasso’s life’s work.

I thought I knew what to expect from Picasso. I remembered the Blue Period and Dora Maar from my college art history class. But he’d painted and sculpted for decades before those periods. Some of the line drawings looked so regimented and studious that I couldn’t connect them with his later work, which was so much more free and strange. That was the beauty of the retrospective. It showed the evolution over decades. There were over five thousand pieces of art in the museum, which was itself a work of art, with leaded windows, detailed moldings, and arched doorways. Other than the one art history class, I hadn’t done much to further my appreciation of art other than breeze through the exhibits that came to museums wherever I lived. But seeing the breadth of Picasso’s work here in a city where he’d lived and painted gave me an entirely new appreciation of him and the importance of the masters.

“I think I need to see more,” I told Josh when we’d reached the end of our tour and were wandering around in the gift shop.

“More Picasso?”

“Just more art. Maybe not the Louvre, because that seems daunting, but would you be up for one more museum?”

“I’m up for anything.”

We looked at a list of temporary exhibitions, and I found one that sounded good at the Centre Pompidou, which was not far from the Marais. On our walk over there, Josh led me past L’Ami Louis, where he’d suggested having dinner the night before. I looked in the window and appreciated the old-school vibe of the restaurant, with its red-and-white-checked curtains, salmon-colored tablecloths, and dark wood panels on the walls.

“Looks very French, or at least what I’ve always pictured as French,” I said.

“Exactly. I just wanted you to have a look, to see why I suggested it.”

We moved on and rode an escalator enclosed in a clear tube up to the top floor of the Pompidou, looking out as it took us higher. The exhibit was much smaller than the Picasso, mostly works on paper by Chagall and colorful stained-glass windows on loan from cities all over the world. It was so different from Rodin and Picasso. Each artist we’d seen that day had a unique style and had been influenced by a woman. By the time we’d spent another hour wandering through the permanent collection of modern art, I’d logged more than ten thousand steps since the morning.

“As a feminist, I feel a little guilty that we’ve only seen art made by men,” I said.

“There’s an easy fix for that.”

“I know, but I don’t think I can handle a third museum today.”

“Let’s go outside.”

We sat near the museum, watching the sculptures in the Stravinsky Fountain whirl and spin and spray water. I leaned against Josh like any one of the other couples who were out walking, holding hands, and kissing whenever they felt like it in this city of love. Two days before, I never could have imagined being in Paris with Josh, but at that moment, I couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.

Sitting in front of the fountain, with his arm around me, my heart felt full.

“Which is your favorite one?” he asked, pointing at the whimsical spinning sculptures. I couldn’t decide. There was one that looked like a green elephant and another that seemed to be a serpent, painted in colored stripes. I couldn’t take my eyes off the largest sculpture, which looked like it had wings, a bird beak, and a head like the sun.

“I love them all. I wonder who designed them.”

“Niki de Saint-Phalle. Most of the ones you’re looking at are hers. Wanted to make sure you got your female artist,” he said. The fact that he knew it was important made me realize, once again, how perfect Josh was for me and how myopic I’d been for so long.

By the time we started walking again, it was after four o’clock. My legs weren’t complaining, though, so we crossed into the eleventh arrondissement and walked for about another half hour. We ended at Le Perchoir, a rooftop bar that gave us yet another view of the city.

“I’d be happy to spend the rest of the day sitting. And maybe eating and drinking. How about you?” Josh asked when we’d found a spot with sweeping views on a bench seat at the edge of the roof. I rearranged the striped throw pillows behind and around us for maximum comfort. Then I took in the view. A row of clouds had formed in the distance, promising a better sunset if they stuck around. The outdoor bar was filled with people, but it had a quiet, relaxed air.

“Am I going back to the scene of the crime if I have one glass of wine?” I asked. Even though my headache was long since gone, I was wary of a repeat.

“When in France… I think.” Josh grabbed a bar menu, and we opted to share a bottle of rosé. Our waiter brought an ice bucket along with it to keep it cold. Then he set out a dish of olives and another of potato chips on the low wood table in front of us. I was tempted to rest my weary feet on it, but I had a feeling that would have been a faux pas.

“Cheers. To another great view and another great day,” I said. We clinked glasses, and I sipped. The wine was a little more tart than the Beaujolais we’d had before, but I liked it.

Josh leaned back and rested a hand on my leg. I felt a welcome wave of heat every time he touched me. I wondered if that would ever go away. With old boyfriends, I’d definitely never experienced what I was feeling with him. There was something crazy good about the guy sitting next to me.

We sipped our wine and I wondered where we were headed. I couldn’t help wanting to know. It was deeply ingrained.

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