Writing at the Louvre

On day three of my writing retreat in Paris, it was time to get serious about . . . writing. Rain was predicted so I planned to spend all day writing at the Louvre. 

The museum was just a twenty-minute walk from my hotel, and as I strolled there for my 9:30 timed admission, it did indeed start to mist, and then to drizzle, and then to rain. I'd told myself - and everybody else - that I love Paris best in the rain. What if this turned out not to be true? A mere fantasy inspired by the picture of a rainy Parisian street that hung on my closet door all through my high school years growing up in North Plainfield, New Jersey?

I was relieved to confirm that I had not lied to myself. Paris in the rain, in the early-ish morning, is truly lovely.

The rain intensified as I approached the Louvre, so I was glad not to have to wait too long in line for admittance.

Once inside, I hastened to the cloakroom to deposit my dripping umbrella and soggy jacket (I hadn't opened the umbrella soon enough, too preoccupied with rhapsodizing), in one of the hundreds of free lockers provided. I finally figured out how to create a combination on the keypad and open the locker, but after closing it with my items stowed safely inside, I had zero success as I practiced trying to make it open a second time. Oh, well, it would be exceedingly unlikely if I had somehow done something to make the locker unable to be opened ever again, so I decided to deal with that problem later and set out to find an inspiring place to write in the huge and (at that hour) nearly empty museum.

Lacking any map (I think you're supposed to call one up on your phone these days), I simply wandered. What about the elegant Napoleon III rooms? Didn't my writing deserve such royal splendor?

But the red velvet sofa and matching chairs were off limit to visitors. I might have feel too intimidated by them, anyway.

When I saw a sign for Northern European paintings, that sounded more promising. I would love to write in a room full of Vermeers! But the Louvre, to my surprise, owns only two small ones. 

Then I found the room of Rembrandts. Ooh! My self-assigned task for the day was to read over the manuscript of a middle-grade novel written previously to see if I could revise the last portion of the book to add more depth and complexity to the characters. Nobody expresses depth and complexity of character better than Rembrandt; no one equals him in expressing the very soul of his subjects.

So I settled myself on a bench with my manuscript. 

It might have been nice to have found a bench with a back to lean against, but it was worth a slight lack of physical comfort to be in the presence of the master of character himself, as shown in this stunning late-life self-portrait that I could gaze upon every time I glanced up from my toil. 

I sat there for almost two hours, lost in this manuscript that I hadn't looked at for a full year. I was pleased to discover that, after this long time away from the story, I myself thought it was wonderful! Eminently worthy of being published! But I could see that at a crucial point in the story I had indeed rushed the action and flattened out the characterization. This was nothing that Rembrandt and I couldn't fix!

By this point I was hungry, so I somehow found my way out of the Northern European painting galleries (not easy for this directionally challenged person), bought myself a soup and salad lunch in the museum eatery (averting my eyes from the travesty of a Starbucks there!), and wrote poetry in my journal while I ate. The museum had become crowded now that it was afternoon, so I took one last hasty peek into the French and Italian wing; when I was in the Louvre back in January 2016, I had a chance for some one-on-one quality time with Mona (maybe I had been there in the early morning?), but this time she was mobbed with star-struck fans, so I called the writing day a success and prepared to head back to the hotel. First, however, I had to face the deferred problem of the impossible-to-open cloakroom locker. To my total (but most pleasant) surprise, this time I achieved success on my second try. It's such a relief when occasionally I am NOT totally pitiful and pathetic with all technology. The sun was shining down on me as I headed outside, and it's hard not to love Paris in the sunshine, too, especially after a day of progress on a stalled manuscript and a new stirring of creative joy.

Tomorrow: writing with the Impressionists at the Musee d'Orsay.