hear some of the lectures at the d'Orsay but they were only in French and I knew I wouldn't be able to follow along.
I could feel the jet lag creeping up on me again and my legs and eyes were heavy. Even the adrenalin rush of being in Paris, and lots of coffee, wasn't helping to keep me awake. Before I could leave though, I had to check out the gift shop: it was a tradition that Lauren and I participated in whenever we visited galleries. Always, always, always buy oneself a gift. And of course, a gift for one's best friend. And so I entered the shop with a sense of purpose and obligation.
It didn't take me long to find the one thing I knew I had to buy for Lauren: a silk stole created in homage to Gustav Klimt, inspired by several of his works. But then I remembered that the warm colours of pink and orange better suited me than her. So I did what any woman with a new-found sense of style would ' I decided to keep it for myself. I then chose a Van Gogh Irises scarf in soft blues and greens for my tidda. It would look great against her slick black bob, and the design itself was based on different works of the artist. I knew she would adore it.
Although I was so tired that my vision was blurry, I took my time in the store, thinking of ways we might further improve our own space at the NAG. While I checked out their book collection, I noticed the same man with the red béret from inside the museum was looking at me again. I felt unnerved by his presence and piercing stare so paid for my items and made my way to the exit. I stood outside and breathed in the Parisian air deeply. I felt more awake almost immediately. I was in dire need of caffeine though and was thinking about where to go and the best plan to get home, when I noticed the man in the béret was next to me.
'You are a curator?' he asked in English as if knowing me. His pale blue, wrinkled eyes squinted to focus on mine. I guessed he was in his fifties.
'I'm an educator at the National Aboriginal Gallery in Australia. I'm going to work at the Musée du Quai Branly for five months.' I wasn't sure why I was so forthcoming with my CV, but I just sensed that we had something in common.
'I knew it. I watched the way you viewed the artwork: with interest, with appreciation, with a sense of analysis. We artists like that,' he said, with the same sexy French accent as Michel.
'So you paint?'
'Yes, and I want to paint you.' He stared directly into my eyes.
I laughed, embarrassed. I worked with artists all the time and no-one had ever wanted to paint me.
'Oh, I am sure there are far better subjects and models in this amazing city.'
'I want to paint you nude,' he said, as if it was a completely normal and natural statement to make to a total stranger on the street.
I half-choked and coughed at the same time, assuming he must've been on drugs. What would the aunties back in Moree think about this proposition? Oh my god, what would my brothers think? Barry would want to kill him, and that thought made me laugh out loud.
'What is so funny?' he asked, as if offended by my not taking him seriously. 'You are an arts educator, so you need to know about the artistic process from all angles, oui ?' He was doing his best to persuade the one person who would never buy his crap.
I could hear Caro in my ear warning me and every sleazy line I'd ever heard was playing itself out over and over again. The only difference being that this time it had that oohlala sound to it, and I was in Paris.
I was keen to change the subject and get the conversation finished. 'So you are a local painter then?'
'I am not a parisien ,' he said, almost distastefully. 'I am provincial. I hardly ever come into Paris. I come just for the exhibitions, some supplies and always for inspiration,' he looked deep into my weary eyes, 'from beautiful women like
I could feel the jet lag creeping up on me again and my legs and eyes were heavy. Even the adrenalin rush of being in Paris, and lots of coffee, wasn't helping to keep me awake. Before I could leave though, I had to check out the gift shop: it was a tradition that Lauren and I participated in whenever we visited galleries. Always, always, always buy oneself a gift. And of course, a gift for one's best friend. And so I entered the shop with a sense of purpose and obligation.
It didn't take me long to find the one thing I knew I had to buy for Lauren: a silk stole created in homage to Gustav Klimt, inspired by several of his works. But then I remembered that the warm colours of pink and orange better suited me than her. So I did what any woman with a new-found sense of style would ' I decided to keep it for myself. I then chose a Van Gogh Irises scarf in soft blues and greens for my tidda. It would look great against her slick black bob, and the design itself was based on different works of the artist. I knew she would adore it.
Although I was so tired that my vision was blurry, I took my time in the store, thinking of ways we might further improve our own space at the NAG. While I checked out their book collection, I noticed the same man with the red béret from inside the museum was looking at me again. I felt unnerved by his presence and piercing stare so paid for my items and made my way to the exit. I stood outside and breathed in the Parisian air deeply. I felt more awake almost immediately. I was in dire need of caffeine though and was thinking about where to go and the best plan to get home, when I noticed the man in the béret was next to me.
'You are a curator?' he asked in English as if knowing me. His pale blue, wrinkled eyes squinted to focus on mine. I guessed he was in his fifties.
'I'm an educator at the National Aboriginal Gallery in Australia. I'm going to work at the Musée du Quai Branly for five months.' I wasn't sure why I was so forthcoming with my CV, but I just sensed that we had something in common.
'I knew it. I watched the way you viewed the artwork: with interest, with appreciation, with a sense of analysis. We artists like that,' he said, with the same sexy French accent as Michel.
'So you paint?'
'Yes, and I want to paint you.' He stared directly into my eyes.
I laughed, embarrassed. I worked with artists all the time and no-one had ever wanted to paint me.
'Oh, I am sure there are far better subjects and models in this amazing city.'
'I want to paint you nude,' he said, as if it was a completely normal and natural statement to make to a total stranger on the street.
I half-choked and coughed at the same time, assuming he must've been on drugs. What would the aunties back in Moree think about this proposition? Oh my god, what would my brothers think? Barry would want to kill him, and that thought made me laugh out loud.
'What is so funny?' he asked, as if offended by my not taking him seriously. 'You are an arts educator, so you need to know about the artistic process from all angles, oui ?' He was doing his best to persuade the one person who would never buy his crap.
I could hear Caro in my ear warning me and every sleazy line I'd ever heard was playing itself out over and over again. The only difference being that this time it had that oohlala sound to it, and I was in Paris.
I was keen to change the subject and get the conversation finished. 'So you are a local painter then?'
'I am not a parisien ,' he said, almost distastefully. 'I am provincial. I hardly ever come into Paris. I come just for the exhibitions, some supplies and always for inspiration,' he looked deep into my weary eyes, 'from beautiful women like
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