Leviathan

The French Blonde loves that fact that in Paris, there is always a wonderful exhibit. She and pal LMC recently stopped by the Orsay to see some old friends from the nineteenth century, only to get into the Manet show, which had been touted as being impossible to get tickets for.

Not all of the FB's beloved paintings were on display. "Bar at the Moulin Rouge" wasn't there, and in addition to this being her favorite Manet painting, it inspired the FB to get bangs a few years ago:

Also, the perspective and reflection is so wonky, you can look at it for hours.

But "Olympia" was there, and she's magnificent:

Did you ever notice the awkward little black cat at her feet? The FB had forgotten about it.
There were also several delightful letters with flower watercolors.

LMC and the FB also went to this year's Monumenta show at the Grand Palais, to see Anish Kapoor's "Leviathan." As they waited in line, they heard Spanish, German, Hebrew and American English. A group of young men sat on the balustrade nearby, smoking a joint. One was a handsome blond with long hair and a skateboard, the other a Keanu type, the third the moody, pointy fox-faced poet of the trio, complete with pants about 3 inches too short.

The FB is not sure what this means as a fashion statement, but the rock star chef in the FB's building tends to wear his pants short too. A fad it is hard to get with, and yet, attendrissant (touching). She is also similarly puzzled by the proliferation of smart men wearing shrunken boy suit jackets. If anyone can explain this to the FB, she would be grateful.

See? The FB still doesn't get it. Not everyone looks like Hedi Slimane. Though if the same jacket looks good on women and she can borrow it, she might reconsider.

Meanwhile, back to "Leviathan."
LMC and the FB went through a revolving door and were suddenly sucked inside a red, womb-like fantasy world, as if we were in the belly of the whale, if the whale were made of a visualization of the fabric of the space-time continuum. Sounds echoed weirdly inside. Shadows of the Grand Palais iron structure created patterns in the material, then disappeared when the clouds rolled by.

Inside, it was like this:

From the "outside," that is, the outside of the sculpture, but still inside the Grand Palais, it looks like this:

and this:


It's the closest the FB has ever come to being at a crossroads of art/science fiction/the womb.
It's weirdly unsettling, magnificent, and delightful all at once.