Bitter Bazille

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Go.

Up the stairs. Or take that new, fancy elevator.

All the way to the new, fancy wing.

They’ve given them all a fancy, new wing.

With their pastels and harshly-lit nudes,

Their dappled tea-drinkers and bronze ballerinas,

And of course, those sloppy water lilies.

Don’t worry about me.

I’m just fine here on the first floor.

I have my own room and everything.

My gatherings of families in their fine attire,

My own attempts at naturalism,

My relevance is just as valuable.

Sooner or later you’ll all at least pass through.

Or walk on by, because of course

They put me right next to that stupid marble fawn

and his stupid, adorable bear cubs.

So go, or stay, whichever you choose.

It’s not like I hope to make…an impression on you.

While at the Musee d’Orsay, I wandered into a room of works by Bazille. There was no one there.  Everyone was upstairs seeing Monet, Degas, etc. It occurred to me that Bazille might be less than happy.

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