In France, are you still guilty until proven innocent? I ask because I have just set off an alarm in the Louvre.
It’s our second day in Paris and I am suffering culture shock. In contrast to the emptiness of rural Burgundy, Paris is heaving with life. I’m not really coping. The city’s museums, to which we have retreated as a way of escaping what turns out to be 10 solid days of rain, are not the answer.
This should have been obvious. It’s the European summer holiday season in one of the continent’s most populous and popular cities, a city that houses many of the world’s great artistic treasures – of course it’s busy.
I’m unprepared for what it’s like to experience these treasures in the flesh. They are so familiar but somehow they look different, more alive. Wandering through the Musée d’Orsay, you turn round and suddenly there’s Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles or a piece of Lalique jewellery. I know them from books but in person they are breathtaking, more moving than you can possibly imagine, even those objects that are so commonplace they have become the wallpaper of our lives. I once had Monet’s Poppy Field on a set of coasters. It looks better hanging in a museum.
The Musée d’Orsay is, for me, the most engrossing of the major Parisian museums we visit. The Louvre contains wonderful things but it’s too big to take in. Although we follow a carefully planned route, restricting ourselves to only a fraction of the items on display, I suffer object overload.
And, of course, it’s the Louvre, so what seems to be the whole world is here to see The Picture. Except us. We can’t get near the thing. There are hundreds of people literally elbowing each other out of the way in an attempt to stand in front of the world’s most famous artwork and, once there, take a photo. It’s hard to appreciate a picture through someone else’s iPad screen. The Mona Lisa just looks bemused by all the attention.
The crowds finally prove too much, which is why we’re in the furniture section when I lean over to get a closer look at a typically exquisite Danish chair, thus breaking the hitherto unnoticed beam of light and setting off a thunderous alarm. Presumably this alerts a whole station-full of police officers, whom I expect to be armed to the teeth and who will soon skid, Keystone Cops style, in to the room, handcuffs drawn. I whisper a glum farewell to Melanya, mentally compose a letter to my parents and brace myself for the inevitable. Nothing happens. It’s slightly disappointing. We make a sheepish escape past two museum staffers. They say nothing but give us withering looks, just to let us know that they know.
Before heading for the exit we take a detour through the antiquities. Tucked away in a dimly lit corridor is a small, unobtrusive sculpture. It is a marble carving of a man’s head, produced in piercing detail. He looks like a young Laurence Olivier but his identity remains a mystery, a nameless Roman silently watching the four million tourists who dash past him every year on their way to the nearby Venus de Milo. For me he’s the highlight of the museum. While we are there, few 
people stop even for a moment to appreciate this beautiful, ancient man, but there’s something inexpressibly poignant about him. Someone knew him once, he probably had friends and family too, but now he’s anonymous. And yet 2000 years after those friends and family have turned to dust, here he is, sitting on a plinth in a Parisian museum, waiting for someone to see him. Out of place, out of time, immortal.
RICHARD
STRAY OBSERVATIONS
- If you want a photo of every painting and object in the Louvre (apparently a popular aim), please just buy the book
- Photography is banned in the Musée d’Orsay
- There are numerous smaller, perfectly formed museums in Paris. Musée Galliera (formerly the Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris) is a favourite of Melanya’s and didn’t disappoint on this visit
- If you think the Louvre is busy, wait till you get to Versailles
Kiwis on Tour 
I grew up with a to-scale copy of Poppy Field on our living room wall and I distinctly remember that very strange feeling of finally seeing it in the flesh after all those years of looking at it. Like it was mine and they’d nicked it.
It was different for me. I was much more impressed with it in person. Mind you, my coasters were kind of rubbish. That’s probably not Monet’s fault.
R