Catherine Futter, Curator of Decorative Arts at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, commented to me once, “All art is decorative.”  And, indeed, most artists create for personal buyers.

One of my favorite spaces in Paris was the Musee de l’Orangerie.  The Waterlilies, yes, the waterliles.

But more so for the remarkable collection of Paul Guillame.  Guillame was a dealer and collector in Paris in the early part of the century – a great supporter of the arts.  He amassed a remarkable collection that his widow, Domenica, donated upon his death.  Cezanne, Matisse, Modigliani, Picasso, Rousseau. (My youngest son studied the Impressionists in second grade and since he will say things like, “That is so Rousseau,” and “That’s definitely a Matisse.”  His voice was in my head the whole visit.)

There are small dioramas depicting Guillame’s home, its walls graced with the art now in the galleries.

It was so personal.

The collection is actually the Jean Walter and Paul Guillame Collection.  Domenica named the collection for both her husbands, Guillame and Jean Walter who followed him.  This seems a little wacky to me, but women do all kinds of crazy things when it comes to men.  All images my own, some tragically blurry, but I could not leave them out so charming were the “rooms.”

Paris was such an interesting combination of large and small.  It’s difficult not to be struck by how many enormous and enormously beautiful buildings there are.  And the enormous egos and energies that it took to create them.

Additionally, the amount of detail involved was staggering.  No anonymous, graceless office buildings these, but intricately detailed spaces.

Sometimes it was all I could absorb, the painstaking details of the personal necessity of these spaces.

As we approached the massive facade of the Louvre, I asked my son, “Can you even imagine conceiving of something so massive?  Of designing something so large and in such detail?”

Without a glance to me, his gaze steady on the building all the time, he said, “Yes.  I can.”  And I marveled some more.

Hugo saved Notre Dame with Hunchback, so writers can have great impact, but what am I going to tell you about Paris?  Writers and artists and photographers for ages have captured her spirit better than I ever could.

It was rainy and chilly, which dampened not our enthusiasm, our energy or our exuberance for Paris.

Only there seven days we did not see it all, but checked off many of the greatest hits: the Louvre, the Orangerie, Versailles, the Rodin, les Invalides, the Conciergerie.  Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, Sainte Chapelle. The Eiffel Tower, The Arc de Triomphe.

We delighted at Deyrolle, received a C- from our guide on the Fat Tire Bike Tour, ate our weight in bread and pastries and bowed down to the French teacher who was our guide; she made the entire visit both spectacular and spectacularly easy.

And through all of it I marveled at the floors and steps, some tile, some marble worn into indentations deep enough to offer a dog a good, long drink.  After all those feet upon those treads, what can I tell you of Paris?