Walking the peaceful woods of Fontainebleau didn't make much sense once it became clear I'd have to carry Alex on my back, so here we are, plans thwarted, stuck in Paris for the long holiday weekend. But that's OK because there are many wonderful things to do in Paris, such as climb into giant uterus art.
I've been looking forward to Anish Kapoor's "Leviathan" sculpture at the Grand Palais because I have a weakness for oversized installation art. Lucien was forced to come along -- he is my ambivalent and occasionally grumpy art-seeking companion. You can tell from the picture above he thought it was really something special.
Upon entry to the Grand Palais, you are directed towards a quietly swishing revolving door. It's dark and nobody talks. There are signs everywhere warning you're about to enter a "pressurized area" so if you're pregnant, or a tiny baby, or have circulation issues, or maybe just a curious rash, RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE YOU'RE GONNA DIE. As we approached the dark, quietly swishing revolving door, Lucien's hand got a little sweaty and he said, "Uhh, mommy?" Then I said, "Go, son, enjoy art!" and pushed him through the door. He'll thank me someday for "encouraging" him to push through his fears.
When you exit the other side, your ears pop and you feel funny. It looks like you've just stepped back into your mama's womb. It's a bit disorienting, and if you think of it as your mother's womb, it's a little gross.
It's like we're all little twin babies hanging out in here together. Hug me, my brothers and sisters.
I really, really dug it. Lucien was silent, either with awe or crippling fear, the entire time we were inside. I liked Kapoor's piece even more when we exited the womb and walked into the nave of the Grand Palais where we could see the structure as a whole. Only then did it make sense where we'd been. It felt like a uterus, but in fact it was a giant three-headed eggplant.
Anyone seen The Blob? Here it comes --
This guy is about to be squeezed between two large breasts, or maybe they're butt cheeks? The interpretations of the piece are numerous.
I love this thing. Big, big thumbs up for the giant womb/eggplant.
That evening the four of us went out for dinner at a local creperie. We must stop attempting to dine with two small children. It's not fun. There's nothing relaxing about it. We consider the meal a success if everyone comes back alive -- the bar is really that low.
It's Coco. Her brother has finally learned how to behave himself (mostly) in a restaurant and now she's the one being a pill. She yells. She yells whenever she feels like yelling, which, unfortunately, is often. If we lean over and sshhhh her, pat her gently, try to calm her feisty self down, she turns and waves her little arms at us while yelling something unintelligible. We think she's casting spells.
You best bring me my crepe, little man, or you'll be a slug come morning.
I'd forgotten about toddlerhood -- they're like little animals with no self-awareness and no self-control. They're beasts waving forks and making whatever sound they feel like making at any given time. In a word, they're horrifying. (Yet at the same horrifying time, damn, she's funny...)
I took Lucien to the trampolines at the Tuileries today where he promptly jumped out of his pants. After wrestling his pants back up, this happened:
I wish I could say my cat-like reflexes saved me, but alas, they did not. He lost control and came firing straight at me like a missile. We fell down hard.
There is a lot to do in Paris. But I kind of wish we were in Fontainbleau.
I like big art and I cannot lie, mes choux,