Visiting a museum with a bull-headed

Note préalable : Je passe bientôt le TOEIC. Du coup, je compte améliorer mon anglais écrit. Ce texte est un peu personnel. Il raconte la visite que j’ai effectuée avec un proche au musée de Frans Hals. Lequel ne nous deux est le borné ? À vous de le découvrir. 😉

I have a feeling of acquiescence when I go to a museum with you. I still don’t know where this feeling comes from. I have never liked those overrated places that are art galleries.

You started with : “Will you visit the Frans Hals’s museum with me ?” I equivocated at the question. You replied with one of your little smiles. The day after we were in Haarlem, walking down picturesque streets. You were cold, as usual, trying to catch my hands and sheltering yourself from the wind. I must admit that I was shivering too. Probably why I let you drag me there. I noticed your grin as we were reaching the gates. You had this all planned this the beginning, I bet.

The ticket was pricey for you. You should have lied about your age, but this idea didn’t even cross your mind. Are you candid or stupidly honest ? Sometimes, I wonder.

Bland. At least, w.c are available and it’s warm here. As we are moving around, all I keep thinking is : “Gosh. I hope that I will not miss the match.” Some paintings are not that bad though. Still? I don’t understand why people give a toss about Franz Hals. The guy must have been blind while he was smearing his canvas.

I didn’t keep this point of view for me. You raised your eyebrows and looked bewildered when I reported it to you. You babbled something about vibrant brushstrokes, lively portraits. Not really convinced, I tried to get out as quick as possible. It’s already a miracle that I achieved to stay calm. You’re taking your time. Inspecting each centimeter of “the masterpieces” in front of you. When will you be ready to leave Margot ? I don’t want to skip my footie match for your god damn museum ?!

« Le bouffon au luth » de Frans Hals, 1623 © Getty / H. Armstrong Roberts/ClassicStock / Contributeur

I do like Dutch painters. They invented oil painting and their portraits are so full of life. The characters are not frozen in cheezy, unnatural poses. They frontally look at you, their mouths full of greasy meals, wine, beer, dropping on their clothes. Giggling, mischief-making, loving, they are not as pure as people in artworks inspired by middle ages or antiquity. They are closer to us. That’s why I usually enjoy dutch paintings. “Usually” cause this time I feel a tiny bit disappointed.

I was looking for a, based on the name of the museum, gallerie filled with Franz Hals’s works. Instead, plain artworks are being displayed. Next to me, Yossi is getting impatient. By his attitude, I can tell he just wants to run off, but he behaves. I appreciate that, and I feel sorry for him. I wish he could read paintings. He would be less bored.

The thing is secrets are always hidden somewhere. I glance at flowers, tools. I stare at garments. Everything as a purpose. People used to read and interpret the signs artists had fun disposing. I enjoy saucy and cheeky details. They were not as puritan as we think or maybe artists were less prude. I don’t know.

I feel like drawing now. An Idea is popping to my mind: a belly-dancing woman in fact. Her braid would be bouncing on her back. I need to improve my technic as soon as I come home.