Okay, not really. But first I waited a solid 15 minutes behind a line of gray hairs for my ticket and then again to check my dripping coat and umbrella. Once in the gallery I tried to dodge the slow moving groups, but around every corner were canes and people wearing giant white headphones for their docent tours. I managed to find a pace ahead of one group laden with canes but behind another and I lost myself in the colors.
Portrait of Victor Chocquet, Paul Cézanne 1877
After observing paintings and trying not to knock into an older man behind me, I overheard his pointed observations to his wife.
"This one. This one is rather like Pissarro."
She didn't see it, focusing hard on the painting, eye brows concerned under her sleek gray bob.
"The shades of the roofs and the way the sky is colored."
They were absorbed by the painting. I was absorbed by them. Parisians. They really know their art.
Bords d'une rivière, Paul Cézanne 1904-1905
Throughout the rest of the exhibit I stopped trying to dodge the gray hairs and listened to them instead. Old men discussed the above landscape for a solid 7 minutes. Husbands and wives, friends and groups, all there to really see Cézanne. I had thought the museum was chock full of old people. But what it was full of was Parisians, art enthusiasts every last one of them.
