“That’s food, Cece,” I tease.
Cece is working on anature morte?* from the early 18th century. It’s not a Chardin, sadly, but one of his students, which makes it historic in its own right. Anything that is touched by Jean Siméon Chardin is.
The canvas is modest—barely half a meter wide, but it is exquisite.
Oil on canvas, 48 x 65 centimeters, it depicts a silver platter crowded with oysters, their pearly shells cracked open, arranged beside a bunch of dark, glistening grapes that spill over the edge of the table. A half-filled wine glass catches the light, and in the shadows, you can make out the rough outline of a cut lemon.
“It’s art,” she shoots back, mock-offended. “Which means every cluster of grapes has to look like heaven blessed it or they’ll kick me out of here.”
I look at her canvas and nod appreciatively. “Chardin’s student did indeed make each grape look like a drop of midnight.”
I swish my fine sable brush in a small glass jar of solvent with enough turpentine to loosen the varnish, then wipe it carefully on a clean cotton rag. “And,” I add, “they’ve rendered each oyster with almost indecentdetail.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighs.
She eyes the Fragonard at the other end of the room. It’s the famousThe Meeting, lovers caught mid-tryst in a swirl of silk and roses—propped on an easel, waiting its turn.
The Louvre will be working on it soon, a delicate spruce-up after two and a half centuries of dust and darkened varnish. It will be a senior art restorer, not Cece, who adores the artist and even wrote her master’s thesis on Jean-Honoré Fragonard.
“What can I say? Some people get romance. I get dead oysters on canvas,” she says sulkily.
“My first restoration jobs were nothing glamorous.” I step back from the easel to study the painting from a distance, judging how the corner I’ve been working on catches the light. “I got a gig at LACMA when I was eighteen—nineteen, maybe. I was the intern’s intern.” I laugh softly, remembering the thrill of simply being allowed in those rooms. “I was ecstatic if they let me touch anything. Most days, I was cleaning the backs of canvases, tightening stretcher keys, or mending tiny chips on gilded frames. Once, I spent an entire summer stabilizing a cracked plaster bust of some long-forgotten Roman senator. No one would have noticed if I’d done it wrong—but to me, it was everything.”
She glances at me. “You have a PhD and you’ve been doing the work for…like ten years? You work at the…? Where do you work?”
I grin. “The Philadelphia Museum of Art,” andbecause Europeans have no clue what that means, I add, “it’s highly regarded in European art and conservation.”
Cece nods. “You liked it there?”
“Yes, I did. I came here for the Carriera.” I trace a crack in the pastel with the tip of my brush. “I love the Rococo period, especially the women like Rosalba who made art that was dismissed as decorative, pretty, and minor. But it’s not. It’s brilliant.” I then look at Cece, who’s watching me with wide eyes. “And because I get to live in Paris and drink wine at lunch….”
“Not that you do,” she retorts.
“Alcohol, I worry, will make my hand falter. But I’m all in for a glass of wine after work.” I turn back to the canvas and coax another breath of color from the de Valois woman’s powdered cheek.
I know this is why I’m here. For the work. For the history. For the patient miracle of making something fragile endure.
By five, the lab quiets.
Parisians don’t work late. It’s the law here, and I appreciate it.
I’ve never had this much free time in my life.
People don’t work in the evenings, don’t work on weekends, don’t work when they’re sick—and no one expects them to.
I like thedouceur de vivre?* ofliving here.
I rinse my brushes, and seal the jars of pigment, before turning off my lamp. I am one of the last to leave. The crazy American who works longer than she needs to. But I like the quiet and the silence, especially now when the museum is closed unless there is a special event. The Louvre is open from nine in the morning to six in the evening most days, but on Wednesdays and Fridays, it remains open until nine in the evening.
I put on my jacket and scarf, slinging my satchel over my shoulder, as I step out into the early evening.
I don’t take the Metro home.
Paris, unlike Philly, is meant for walking.
I cut through the courtyard, the Louvre Pyramid behind me, and cross the Pont des Arts.
Couples fold into each other along the Seine, the glow of streetlamps gilding their silhouettes as photographers crouch nearby. For an instant, Paris feels like a postcard I’ve somehow walked into.
