Maybe it was because I'd been on such a busy schedule -- so much fun this week with my simply mahhrvelous houseguest and dear friend, Brian. It was Brian's idea to go to the Rouault exhibit in the first place.
Maybe it was that I expected too much.
Maybe it was because Brian and I were running late after a festive lunch on the terrace at Le Grand Corona, and we kept poor Richard waiting.
Maybe it was because I had to fork over a 9€ entrance fee to view a relatively small exhibit. (These days I do all the mental euro-to-dollar math: $13.50.)
Maybe it was because the "museum" was dim and crowded and virtually windowless and hermetically sealed, and the stuffiness depleted my brain's oxygen levels.
Maybe it's because I'm not big on clown paintings, and one or two were enough. Some good landscapes and nudes, though.
Like I said, I dunno.
But on Sunday when Richard and Brian and I made our way through the Rouault exhibit at the Pinacotheque de Paris, I started off chipper and enthusiastic, and by the time we finished 45 minutes later, I was champing at the bit to find the exit. Something about diminishing returns?
I had been looking forward to checking out this relatively new boutique museum, since it didn't exist two years ago when I lived on the place de la Madeleine. Sunday afternoon when we entered there was a sizable crowd, mostly French, guessing from the banter I overheard. I didn't know much about Rouault, and for the most part left not understanding a whole lot more, but I did gain a newfound appreciation for Moreau, Rouault's maitre and mentor.
There wasn't anything awful or unappealing, but somehow as I moved through the exhibit I became less and less interested in the artist and his work. I'm no art critic, so don't take my word for it. Just one subjective view of an afternoon which would have been better spent outdoors on a glorious September Sunday.
Yeah, Richard had suggested going to the Parc de Bagatelle, and I nixed the idea.
Coulda woulda shoulda.
Maybe Richard thinks otherwise. Here's his view.