to the open-air markets at Clignancourt and buy some cheap art supplies, since I’d run out of everything I’d brought with me and couldn’t afford high-quality materials from the shops on the Rue de Charonne. I had to force myself to calm down. I couldn’t get out of doing the assignment. I would just have to get it over with and then there would be time for my own work.
I was too annoyed to paint, so I took a walk down Avenue Matignon in Faubourg St. Honoré. Most of the galleries were here. I scouted out the neat little shops, with all manner of paintings set on easels in the front window. They looked so clean and well lit and so unlike the chaos of Pankratov’s atelier that I found it hard to imagine that the paintings on display had come from any paint-splattered artist’s studio. These words seemed to have been transported into a different dimension, where I could neither purchase them nor bring my own work to be sold. I walked home along the Quai du Louvre. I stopped to look at the bronze statue of a lion fighting a wild boar. The bronze was pale green with age. In the fading light, the metal seemed to glow from inside. It was as if the bronze were only a shell, under which the beasts were waiting for the moment when they could cast off their cocoons, thin and shattering upon the road. Then they would roam snarling through the streets, forgetting their centuries of patience.
At ten o’clock Saturday morning, I showed up at the Musée Duarte. It was an intimidating yellow stone building on the Rue Louis Blanc. In the courtyard was a fountain made of the same yellow stone but streaked arsenic green from decades of water trickling over the side. The fountain was turned off and empty. The main entrance was barred with iron railings. The tip of each rail was formed into a spike. The gates had been locked and the main doors were shut.
I walked across the road to a bench and sat down, waiting for the place to open. I set my portfolio on the bench beside me. One hour later, I was still sitting there. I walked down the road and bought a crêpe filled with hazelnut paste from a street vendor. Then I went back to the bench and was there another half hour before an old woman sat down beside me with her shopping in a little basket with wheels on the bottom.
We both stared straight ahead for a minute or two.
Out of her wheely basket, baguettes jutted up like clumsy replicas of the museum gates. “Are you an artist?” she asked.
“I’m working at it,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re Canadian,” she said, having noticed my accent.
“American. My mother was Canadian.”
“American,” she corrected herself. “You aren’t waiting for the museum to open, are you?”
“Actually, yes, I am.”
“Well, you will have to wait a long time. On the weekend, it is only open on Sundays.”
I stood up suddenly. “What?” I marched out into the street. “Well, why the hell don’t they have a sign posted?” I shouted at the gloomy building. The locked doors and shuttered windows made it look pug-faced and asleep.
“I don’t think they’ve ever had a sign,” said the old woman. “It is just a thing one is expected to know.”
I spun around. “This whole city is making me crazy!” I shouted. I marched back to pick up my portfolio and tried to calm myself. “Thank you,” I said to the old woman. “I apologize for shouting.”
“Not at all,” she said. “One expects this sort of thing from foreigners.”
I rode the streetcar out to Clignancourt. I was thinking I might get those art supplies after all and still salvage something of the day. I knew this was some joke of Pankratov’s to send us to the Musée Duarte when he knew it would be closed. Some test that had nothing to do with how well we could draw or paint. And only I had failed it.
I jumped off the streetcar at Porte de Clignancourt and disappeared into the swirl of alleyways that made up the Clignancourt fleamarket. Tables were laid out on the
I was too annoyed to paint, so I took a walk down Avenue Matignon in Faubourg St. Honoré. Most of the galleries were here. I scouted out the neat little shops, with all manner of paintings set on easels in the front window. They looked so clean and well lit and so unlike the chaos of Pankratov’s atelier that I found it hard to imagine that the paintings on display had come from any paint-splattered artist’s studio. These words seemed to have been transported into a different dimension, where I could neither purchase them nor bring my own work to be sold. I walked home along the Quai du Louvre. I stopped to look at the bronze statue of a lion fighting a wild boar. The bronze was pale green with age. In the fading light, the metal seemed to glow from inside. It was as if the bronze were only a shell, under which the beasts were waiting for the moment when they could cast off their cocoons, thin and shattering upon the road. Then they would roam snarling through the streets, forgetting their centuries of patience.
At ten o’clock Saturday morning, I showed up at the Musée Duarte. It was an intimidating yellow stone building on the Rue Louis Blanc. In the courtyard was a fountain made of the same yellow stone but streaked arsenic green from decades of water trickling over the side. The fountain was turned off and empty. The main entrance was barred with iron railings. The tip of each rail was formed into a spike. The gates had been locked and the main doors were shut.
I walked across the road to a bench and sat down, waiting for the place to open. I set my portfolio on the bench beside me. One hour later, I was still sitting there. I walked down the road and bought a crêpe filled with hazelnut paste from a street vendor. Then I went back to the bench and was there another half hour before an old woman sat down beside me with her shopping in a little basket with wheels on the bottom.
We both stared straight ahead for a minute or two.
Out of her wheely basket, baguettes jutted up like clumsy replicas of the museum gates. “Are you an artist?” she asked.
“I’m working at it,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re Canadian,” she said, having noticed my accent.
“American. My mother was Canadian.”
“American,” she corrected herself. “You aren’t waiting for the museum to open, are you?”
“Actually, yes, I am.”
“Well, you will have to wait a long time. On the weekend, it is only open on Sundays.”
I stood up suddenly. “What?” I marched out into the street. “Well, why the hell don’t they have a sign posted?” I shouted at the gloomy building. The locked doors and shuttered windows made it look pug-faced and asleep.
“I don’t think they’ve ever had a sign,” said the old woman. “It is just a thing one is expected to know.”
I spun around. “This whole city is making me crazy!” I shouted. I marched back to pick up my portfolio and tried to calm myself. “Thank you,” I said to the old woman. “I apologize for shouting.”
“Not at all,” she said. “One expects this sort of thing from foreigners.”
I rode the streetcar out to Clignancourt. I was thinking I might get those art supplies after all and still salvage something of the day. I knew this was some joke of Pankratov’s to send us to the Musée Duarte when he knew it would be closed. Some test that had nothing to do with how well we could draw or paint. And only I had failed it.
I jumped off the streetcar at Porte de Clignancourt and disappeared into the swirl of alleyways that made up the Clignancourt fleamarket. Tables were laid out on the
Similar Books
