Paris and I met in March on the eclipse of my thirty-second year after a torrid long-distance affair since I was a ten-years old. I got off the metro train at the Notre Dame stop and I was not sure what to expect at the top of the staircase. You know that feeling when you trust yourself to get off at the right subway stop, but you aren’t sure which staircase will take you to the proper street corner. I usually roll my luck. At the top of the stair case, Notre Dame stood, exactly one month before the fire that destroyed its Medieval roof and iconic steeple. The place was simple, and encouraging to me, very much like meeting an old friend for coffee. I knew this place. I knew Parisians. Or at least, I think I knew. I am a Francophile and defend their livelihood. They have centuries of solid evidence that suggests they are correct. I tend to agree. Parisians seem like a bunch of curated homosexuals; they know what a good life is and they grasp at it every day because they understand what horrid things life can bring. They are smart. They eat well. They smoke better. And they walk better. And they dress well. Oh, it does seem like every Parisian has a valet. And maybe my favorite aspect of Parisians: they look at each other. I had never seen so many eyes on one another, eyes shifting every direction. Maybe only in a New York Subway is where I see so many eyes on one another, every New Yorker strips everyone else down.

 I want to tell you about a chance reunion I had in Paris. Serendipity, they call it? I mean, I had met this person before, but never did I think of them in Paris. How well do we really know our friends? My itinerary was strict. (I swear I am fun to travel with). I need to see things. As the ghost of the American photographer Walker Evans clamors in my ear often, “Stare. <Gregory> It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.” It seems so Parisian. Walker watched them, too. I am desperate to know something before I die. My entire five days of Paris was a desperate marathon to know something. I thought my itinerary was a ticket to heaven, marked, approved, and sent from the Heavens to send Gregory right on his way – all on one Apple Note. I think I got pretty close. 

L’Orangerie. Yes, that’s right, where oranges are grown. Actually, they are not grown there any more. It was a greenhouse built in 1852, a stone’s throw from the shadow of the Musee du Louvre at the Southwest corner of the Jardin Tuileries. And not until 1927, the greenhouse became the often overlooked, Musée de l'Orangerie. Parisians know what treasures are held among the glass windows. There are two particular masterpieces there, one grand decoration. Claude Monet’s water lily explosion, “Les Nympheas.” Two oval rooms designed for maximize viewing pleasure. It is pure and utter immersion in an artist’s point of view. Contemporary artists are desperately trying to recreate this attempt through Augmented and virtual reality. Good luck. I will take Monet’s palette made of organic material over anything digital any day. I wandered the two galleries, back and forth, somewhat overwhelmed that I was actually in the place where they paintings live. I am attracted to places that can’t move or don’t change quickly. These paintings don’t move and I suspect won’t move for some time. Let’s hope so. In age of populism, millions of dollars are spent moving art everywhere, and it is nice to know, if you get to Paris, you can go view these artworks. I am a fan, if you can’t tell. This is what I came for and I got it. I am often guilty of giving poor directions to friends because I don’t want the other person will have to work hard to see something wonderful. But, this, this is worth it. Trust me, if you fly to Paris and go straight Monet’s water lilies, it is worth it at the Musee de l’Orangerie at the Place de Concord in the gardens of in the shadow of the Louvre and on the banks of the Seine. I was happy, content, and satisfied. 

At that moment, I decided to go downstairs and take a break from viewing. I was going to write some notes on my viewing experience, as I often do. I moved through the crowds and followed the signs towards the café. I actually did not know there was more art in the museum. I had an assumption that entire building was only holding Monet. I am always surprised what might around the corner in a museum. The building is a long rectangle and the staircase parallels the length of the park and then makes a sharp right angle into the basement in the center of the building. There is a bridge above you guiding viewers into the Monet galleries. It was designed for one focal point. I walk underneath to the first platform with the café mid-way down on the left. Throngs of people moving and up and down. Again, staring at people in Paris is full-time job. 

I finally look up to see where I was going and there she was. 

Joan. Is it you? Joan, really, you are here in Paris, too. 

It can’t be. It is. Joan. I yelled her name like reuniting with a friend in the street after long-distance travel. Think of the opening of Love Actually and the airport when people were able to go right up to the gate. I remember yelling my brother’s name, Paul, when he came back from Europe. We waited anxiously for him to de-plane in Chicago’s O’hare airport. He had been gone a month when he was 18 and traveled alone. He definitely saw things. 

Back to Joan. I know that blue anywhere. 

Similar to Yves Klein’s blue, but more intentional brushstrokes. 

There it was, a Joan Mitchell masterpiece across four canvases called The Good-bye Door. 

I often try to learn as much as I can about artists that pulls me in like Joan, but other times I wait. Sometimes I wait until later in life and the history knocks me over the head. There is so much to know. And the desperation to see is as strong as the desperation to read. I usually choose seeing first. I have known Joan Mitchell since I was a teenager where I grew up with her work Ici at the Saint Louis Art Museum meaning French for “here.” Though, I never did much early reading about her, I knew we would be friends for a long time. Here in Paris, there are four canvases that are placed next to each other, all same size, large in scale. I read on the chat panel (the descriptions written by curators, or curatorial assistants telling you more about the work) that The Goodbye Door is the work of an American artist who, in 1967, moved to Vétheuil, a village where Monet painted, not far from Giverny where he lived. Again, with all this information, the well-trained art historian would not have been so shocked to see Joan, as I was, so proximate to Monet’s lilies. It didn’t matter for the untrained eye, the connection was so clear, so vivid and visceral, after viewing Monet’s grand decoration. French curators made an obvious pathway for the viewers to the future of painting. Impressionism meets Abstract Expressionism. Mitchell had painted The Goodbye Door around the same time as Ici, both painted in France, and echoed the lilies of Monet. Mitchell’s vibrance takes you through the door to the other side of abstraction. She was saying goodbye to America and goodbye to a lover at the time. As a viewer, you cannot help but say hello to a Mitchell blue and imagine lying in bed with a Mitchell green. 

My friend Lauren, remarked months later to me about how she could hear me yell “Joan” as I went down the stair case. Lauren, who has known me since my childhood, but were separated until our own reunion in San Francisco in adulthood. As children, she always knew I was a loud individual and never remarked (as people do often). And in adulthood, nothing quite changed, unless when she remarks on my pitch when she know I have recognized something or have an idea. To have a friend recognize meaning creates some of the best friendships. We laugh now and just yell “Joan,” as friends do when they have an inside joke. This joke feels different. Good jokes reflect moments in real life. Of course, this one feels different. We both experienced Joan in that moment. Differently. We share Joan, as everyone shares Joan when they experience her work. I often treat artists that I connect with as a friend who sees me, as Lauren does. For much of my life, I only had the art. Only staring. I was alone wandering the halls of the museum, studying, hoping to know something. And now that Lauren saw me in that moment, it was like my world folded. Lauren saw my childhood and adulthood crash together amid French schoolchildren and Germans on holiday, on a staircase in front of The Goodbye Door. An American in Paris reunites with another American in Paris. I think, now I realized I can die knowing something, I know love. I needed Lauren, as a witness, more than I needed Joan, especially there, and particularly now.Learn More:Joan Mitchell Retrospective

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