I know from visiting the Vatican years ago that ‘art fatigue’ is a real thing. I remember arriving at the Sistine Chapel, collapsing on a bench, and saying to myself, “check, seen that.” I never wanted to do that again, to not properly honor art just because I was in the wrong headspace. So when we visited the Louvre, I wanted to go straight to the Mona Lisa and visit the lady when I was fresh. And that we’d plan for two days in the museum. And take breaks. And sit and savor. Nothing in my plans, however, prepared me for the mass of people crammed together, inching forward in a line thirty feet wide, phones waving in the air. I was not alone on this mission. Dan took one look at the insanity and stepped to the side. Nope. No way. I, the claustrophic one, somehow got swept into the mass. I raised my eyes upward, studied the paintings high on the walls, and made my way slowly to the front. Took my requisite photo. Then just looked at this painting. Looked and looked and looked. Those eyes. They drew me in, deeper and deeper, some kind of connection building the longer I stared. I read later that the Mona Lisa was an experimental work on many levels, and that it was incomplete. I will never understand the level of sophistication that da Vinci brought to that painting, and his other works, not having that technical knowledge of painting, but I am in awe of that small work. And I will happily stand in line all over again to experience that smile and those eyes. Oh yeah, and the rest of the Louvre (that we saw in our seven hours of wandering) is pretty spectacular, too. Can’t wait for round two next week. But for the moment, other adventures await.
