Paris: Rodin's House (Wednesday 25/10/2017).
Periodically, you hear a story of some hapless tourist who stumbles in a museum or turns a little too quickly in an art gallery. A priceless vase shatters as they regain their balance; they turn in horror to see a tear in the Rembrandt.
Small children induce that fear in me.
I reassure myself that things can't really get too far out of hand at Bristol City Museum where we often while away a Saturday morning. Their stock in trade is stuffed animals and a collection of gem stones. There may be priceless artefacts but they must either in deep storage or on very long term loan.
Not so at Rodin's House in Paris.
Perhaps foolishly, I volunteered to chaperone the children while Clare, Ann and Bernie pursued more adult interests. The choice was half an hour in the garden with a perfectly good lawn to romp across or an ornamental pool to throw stones into.
The alternative was braving the interior.
I honestly do not know what possessed me to choose the latter; perhaps it was some half-baked notion that I could ignite in the children, a passion for modern sculpture with a whistle stop tour of Rodin's back catalogue.
And to be fair, they did pretty well.
Outside, they mimicked The Thinker and used the telescopes to inspect the miniature versions of Rodin's greatest hits on The Gates of Hell.
Inside the only sounds were the creak of floorboards, the odd appreciative murmur and the swish of plastic rain ponchos. Since there were no signs on the walls deterring talk we progressed through the downstairs rooms in an extended Q & A session. Sophie grasped the tragedy of Fugitive Love and Alex paused to appreciate the anatomical detail of Avarice and Lust. American tourists smiled indulgently at the children as a clearly anxious father desperately tried to prevent an expensive and irreplaceable loss to the world of Impressionism.
And then I had my Rodin Moment.
Like the punchline of a bad Christmas cracker joke, I asked them what game we could play in a sculpture gallery. They paused for a moment, adopting that whimsical expression of exaggerated thought; head tilted, hand grasping chin and eyes cast skyward.
After a further moment for conferring, and with only a little prompting, back came the stereo reply.
"Statues!"
There was clearly a theatrical flourish to this louder than strictly required exchange, but all the same, the barely stifled snort from at least three elderly couples in the vicinity, suggested that I wasn't the only one wondering. Was this ill advised foray into the art world was going to end in a mind expanding or bank contracting conclusion.
For the next fifteen minutes Alex and Sophie played the game like pro's. Every potential brush with a national treasure was averted with the cry of "Statues!" at which point they froze and I inserted myself between them and the vulnerable bust.
By the time the shine wore off the game, we were safely out of the front door and onto the shingle forecourt.
All that remained was to hand over my phone with instructions that they shouldn't come back until they had photos of ten different red things.
I watched from a safe distance as a bemused woman with an appropriately coloured coat, shoes, bag and nails was accosted by the camera waving children. Between good natured attempts to deduce their motives, she was casting a wary eye about the grounds in search of the prankster's hidden camera.
Eventually the children returned, bursting to share too many words in too little time, just as the others also materialised.
I left, quietly pleased that nothing was broken apart from the silence.
Small children induce that fear in me.
I reassure myself that things can't really get too far out of hand at Bristol City Museum where we often while away a Saturday morning. Their stock in trade is stuffed animals and a collection of gem stones. There may be priceless artefacts but they must either in deep storage or on very long term loan.
Not so at Rodin's House in Paris.
Perhaps foolishly, I volunteered to chaperone the children while Clare, Ann and Bernie pursued more adult interests. The choice was half an hour in the garden with a perfectly good lawn to romp across or an ornamental pool to throw stones into.
The alternative was braving the interior.
I honestly do not know what possessed me to choose the latter; perhaps it was some half-baked notion that I could ignite in the children, a passion for modern sculpture with a whistle stop tour of Rodin's back catalogue.
And to be fair, they did pretty well.
Outside, they mimicked The Thinker and used the telescopes to inspect the miniature versions of Rodin's greatest hits on The Gates of Hell.
Inside the only sounds were the creak of floorboards, the odd appreciative murmur and the swish of plastic rain ponchos. Since there were no signs on the walls deterring talk we progressed through the downstairs rooms in an extended Q & A session. Sophie grasped the tragedy of Fugitive Love and Alex paused to appreciate the anatomical detail of Avarice and Lust. American tourists smiled indulgently at the children as a clearly anxious father desperately tried to prevent an expensive and irreplaceable loss to the world of Impressionism.
And then I had my Rodin Moment.
Like the punchline of a bad Christmas cracker joke, I asked them what game we could play in a sculpture gallery. They paused for a moment, adopting that whimsical expression of exaggerated thought; head tilted, hand grasping chin and eyes cast skyward.
After a further moment for conferring, and with only a little prompting, back came the stereo reply.
"Statues!"
There was clearly a theatrical flourish to this louder than strictly required exchange, but all the same, the barely stifled snort from at least three elderly couples in the vicinity, suggested that I wasn't the only one wondering. Was this ill advised foray into the art world was going to end in a mind expanding or bank contracting conclusion.
For the next fifteen minutes Alex and Sophie played the game like pro's. Every potential brush with a national treasure was averted with the cry of "Statues!" at which point they froze and I inserted myself between them and the vulnerable bust.
By the time the shine wore off the game, we were safely out of the front door and onto the shingle forecourt.
All that remained was to hand over my phone with instructions that they shouldn't come back until they had photos of ten different red things.
I watched from a safe distance as a bemused woman with an appropriately coloured coat, shoes, bag and nails was accosted by the camera waving children. Between good natured attempts to deduce their motives, she was casting a wary eye about the grounds in search of the prankster's hidden camera.
Eventually the children returned, bursting to share too many words in too little time, just as the others also materialised.
I left, quietly pleased that nothing was broken apart from the silence.
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