Tuesday, May 24, 2011


So, we pay our 5 euros, bags get searched (for those traditional-art-renegades who might fight back) and we enter, through a very fast revolving door, the belly of the beast--

Hard to describe the sensation of being inside this giant, um, balloon?  Beast's belly?  The air itself is more than red gloom--it has an almost tactile sensation.  Hearts race, people stumble, intellectuals propound, everyone nervously tries to take a photo, and no one quite knows what to feel.  Tartarus, I thought.

And then we exited, to find the entirity of the Beast, which is much, much larger than the one lobe we could walk inside (and we found that French insistence on rules over all, when one guard would let no one take two steps back to tell Dawn that her husband was already through the gate, and so David had to circle round the entire installation to find her).

Outside, the lobes of the exhibit overwhelmed even the huge space of the Grand Palais, the structure became even more organic, more the curves of flesh, or purple globules of blood, squeezing and changing.  Well, see for yourself:


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