Phantasmagoric

We spent an hour at the Musée Matisse, a museum dedicated to the life and work of the artist. I was reluctant to go at first because I had already visited previously, but our tour guide was really engaging and informative. Unfortunately, photographs were banned, so I have none to show of the artwork, but as a consolation prize, I do have a picture of the somewhat less interesting exterior of the building.

We then visited the Musée Chagall afterward. I personally find Chagall's artwork more interesting, with their phantasmagoric (my host mom actually used that word in everyday conversation) explosions of color, and was anticipating the visit.

Unfortunately, our tour guide was one of those cloyingly sweet, regrettably well-intentioned old ladies too absorbed in her work to notice the grumblings of 26 unhappy Americans. She talked at such. a. slow. pace., as if someone had taken her internal metronome marking and divided it by two, and every so often she would uncoil her hands toward the sky and bulge out her eyes and gesticulate like a failed interpretive dancer.

A representative picture of our guide:

Best of all, the incredibly chic director of our program, Madame Winn, started laughing uncontrollably when she noticed the pointed shoes the tour guide was wearing. Her comment: "we've found our own elf!" She started again when a horde of Asian tourists passed by and cried, "These are my people! France is becoming China!"

I took a few pictures of some of the paintings in the museum. Unfortunately, I had long ago stopped listening to the tour guide, so I can't contribute any artistic or historical context, but I really think they're interesting enough to look at on their own.