25. Le Louvre, Part Deux.
I needed the creative inspiration, even if it meant braving the carnivorous tourists.
Bienvenue to the 25th article in my Medium publication, Inside Me Inside Paris, a work-in-progress memoir about my 2016 deep-dive into Paris & my journey to find my soul amidst the onslaught of depression…
C’est 25 juillet 2016.
One who deeply appreciates art can’t visit the Louvre once. There is at least a week’s visits worth of art here. But one who deeply appreciates selfies taken with the art, you only need to come here one time. So how is it that everyday in here seems like the entire world has gathered to take selfies with the Mona Lisa? It’s an infestation of social media photo-bugs everywhere in the Louvre and I’m not wearing bug repellant.
I’m braving the tourists for round two, hoping to get inspired today by immersing myself in this museum of historic artistry. Maybe more than inspired. Maybe more to inject some performance enhancing creative steroids in my soul. Metaphorically, of course. All the while having zero expectations. Just focus on enjoying the art and fight off the voices that tell me I’m a shitty artist, which in turn, feeds into my depression. It’s not a lot to ask of myself, is it? To just enjoy?
Artists are my kind of superhero. They actually exist on this planet, they’re real, their back stories are better than anything even Marvel Comics can come up with, and they affect a lot of lives in a transcendent way.
I’m enamored with the artist’s life. Whether it’s Van Gogh or Bono or Hugh Laurie or Richard Pryor or a jewelry maker at the Sunday flea market, I admire the journey, the process, the angst and the commitment for which they dedicate themselves to put their individual brand of art out into the world. I learned a ton by observing Picasso’s early art at the Picasso Museum here in Paris. Hope it someday informs my own creative process. If I still want to be creative, that is.
I’m envious of artists who are able to be themselves, express their personality, articulate who they are, not be afraid of making mistakes, and are able to overcome catastrophic decisions. Artists are my kind of superhero. They actually exist on this planet, they’re real, their back stories are better than anything even Marvel Comics can come up with, and they affect a lot of lives in a transcendent way.
I’m afraid of being myself artistically, especially working in the creative epicenter of Hollywood, where all its inhabitants believe they’re experts at judging art and have no qualms wanting to prove it to you. In great detail. I’ve had my moments of creative expression for sure, but sustaining a consistent effort to pursue and express my voice is difficult for me.
First of all, I hate rejection.
I remember a time that I directed a music video for a local band from Long Beach. The essence of the music video was that it was my love letter to Los Angeles. I loved making that video. I even sold my West Point¹ ring to fund the video, thinking it was a significant offering to the creative gods and a demonstration of my commitment to making art. I neither got recognition from the creative gods or from the Hollywood community. I remember asking someone’s opinion about the video, and she remarked, “it’s alright. I mean,” as if to clarify, “it’s not great. It’s alright.” It crushed me.
As of this writing, I understand that making art is not about the outcome, so reserve your inspirational comments. At the time, which was around 2005, I needed validation that I was an artist. I needed the information to help motivate me to keep pursuing film directing. I needed someone to stick this piece of art on their refrigerator door.
Second of all, I don’t even know what being myself is. I know I’m a bit unconventional in how I see the world, and expressing my opinions has gotten me in trouble in my past. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by judgmental environments, whether that’s been family, religion, college, the Army. Even my best friend is judgmental. No wonder I’m so fucking depressed.
Back to the Louvre. One of my favorite paintings is Veronese’s The Wedding at Cana. It’s massive and the details are precise, the tones in the colors so life-like and vibrant and sexy. It is awe-inspiring in its 6 meters x 10 meters large format. Made in 1583.
2012 was the last time I was in this room admiring this painting. In between then and this moment, I directed a short film, wrote a TV pilot that got me a few meetings, I directed a comedy troupe and a one-woman show. And I was also one of thirteen fellows selected to the ABC-Disney Directors Fellowship. I was developing a documentary. Little to show for it.
Right now, I’m not inspired. I’m trying to be immersed by all this world history in front of my very own eyes. Nothing. Not feeling a sense of anything concrete. Partly it’s my voices and the depression that’s muddling the signal, but to be fair, the energy in the room sucks balls. There is so much cosmic pollution in the room.
There has to be a more peaceful way to enjoy the art here. It’s like the Disneyland crowds on shitty cocaine. Loads of inconsiderate self-serving behavior. As I’m trying to enjoy a piece of art in peace, I get elbowed around or people just walk in front of me, ignore that I’m enjoying the art, thrashing for a good vantage point to get to the art and snap photos. It’s fucking exhausting. There needs to be a day when only the hardcore art fans can come — like late at night or super early in the morning or some other hardcore window.
Well, after a whole day fighting through the lot of carnivorous tourists and their fucking cameras and selfie sticks, I went to the food court to meet up with Ingrid Jean-Baptiste, a Facebook friend I actually never met in person, until today. Ingrid is remarkable and beautiful and a successful entrèpreneur. She founded the Chelsea Film Festival in New York with her mother. She also makes The Ingrid Cuvée Wines, elegant wines from Languedoc. Ingrid truly impressed me. I need to hang around with people like her more often. Why aren’t I?
All I could offer her from my end of things was advice and tips on using Snapchat and Instagram video to help enhance her film festival social media presence. Otherwise, she had me beat by a mile, thus furthering the notion that I’m merely an average Joe and THAT is depressing to me.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A West Point ring is a ring that a graduating cadet from the US Military Academy receives upon graduation. Dwight D. Eisenhower has one, MacArthur has one, a former CFO of the National Football League has one. I do not have one. I sold it for a music video made for a local LA band who have long ago disbanded.
Thank you very much for reading this memoir I’m workshopping. Looking for publishers! I’m a writer/photographer based in Burbank, California. Some of my work is visible on my Instagram.
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