Strong Coffee at the Munch Museum

“Some people say that beauty is a curse. It may be true, but I'm sure I should not have at all minded being cursed a little.”

Went native and slept in. Proud of myself. At one point there was an idea I might take a side trip to Stavanger or Gothenburg, but this trip has been more about absorbing a single city than the "See all you can! You'll never be back!" type.

Feels like the right choice, or certainly did today where the goal was to explore museums and take a long, quiet walk.

Started at the Munch Museum, which has a very nice cafe. Some very interesting people, as well. Marvelous old man with a big Hans Christian Andersen nose was wrapped in one of the gaudy sweaters they make here. He read the paper while his grandson picked the capers off of his salmon bagel.

Papers and capers, I thought. Capers and papers.

I drank a very nice cup of coffee and read more from the Cowley book. It's so good, so happy it found me. Long, interesting chapter about how Americans were taught that all culture, all real culture, was to be found in Europe. Then, in WWI, all the schoolboys who has learned this got the chance to go and see it.

And because what they saw was the slaughter of the war, Europe didn't seem as magical as they had dreamed. So they began forging their own American style. Tinged with a kind of cynicism. You know, your Hemingways, your Dos Passoses, your E.E. Cummingses. Fitzgerald dodged it all, but they told him what it was like. He went later. After the shooting was over.

Finished the chapter and went inside. Small place with a very beautiful collection. Paintings you've seen reproduced on Penguin paperback covers your whole life.

Curiously, many of them were displayed at waist level, so you had to crouch to face them. I got a burst of raw emotion when I saw Munch's "Madonna." It's objectively beautiful, of course, and I suppose it was the shock of recognition that did it. I think I also like that she looks like someone I could be related to or could... love.

As opposed to the traditional, sterile white madonnas. This Madonna knows what Joseph likes and also what she herself likes. And she'll show you both after he falls asleep over his woodwork and you're invited inside for tea.

I don't think I've ever compared Munch to Matisse before, but their styles struck me as similar. To the degree that it's an obvious comparison. Colors where they don't belong. Strange drafting for emotional effect.

It was a nice walk through a very fine space. Someone was working on a project where they took photographs of people in poses from the paintings. It was... I hurried past it. There was also a dude there who kept standing in front of people and staring at the paintings for a long time. As if they were there for him alone.

"You don't understand. I've had The Scream as my iPhone case for, well, since forever. My connection with Munch is much deeper than yours."

In one of Munch's self-portraits, there's a bedspread with an attractive red and black geometric pattern. The museum has seized on this for their logo, and I bought a mug with that pattern on it. Now I can have coffee served in his bedspread forever.

The gift-shop also had a bunch of hilarious baby clothes with The Scream on them. I think the Norwegian word is "Skrik" since that word was everywhere over the famous home-alone-lookin' alien on the bridge.

But The Skrik was in another museum, the National Gallery. So that is where I went next.

Long walk. Through a snow-covered park decorated with interesting wooden sculptures of apples and mushrooms. They looked very beautiful in this environment, brown with white crowns. 

Sparrows looked for berries. The silver-chain crows hung out in the trash cans. We don't want no fruit, mate. It's pizza we're after.

After the park, you wind your way through where the city keeps its Middle Eastern restaurants and "ethnic" supply stores. After you cross under an overpass, you see a fascinating large statue of a fist bursting through the pavement. It's holding a rose.

Again I was struck by how unstriking the city is. There's a reason you don't have an image of Oslo in your mind. The buildings are all functional. Even the old churches look like they were put up cheaply and in a hurry. Dude, it's cold, slap a spire on this thing and let's get inside.

The National Gallery was just a big, solid block. The door was nice. They were having some sort of computer problem at the ticket counter, so I went back outside and got a hamburger. It was that or Subway. Not a lot of cafes open on the Lord's Day.

Caught up on the play's progress while I ate. The dances have come together and the prop-master is back from Thailand, so that should all be awesome to return to next week.

Shook the fry salt out of my pathetic, patchy beard and tried the museum again. They had gotten it all worked out.

You're not allowed to wear a jacket inside, but they give you a free locker with a card key. Very civilized. New York would charge you for this service, fine you for some imagined transgression, and afterward, your stuff would have bird shit on it. Sahry, pigeons get to the lackers sometime. Have a nice day, ok?

Very cool collection in a pretty spare building. The focus is 90% paintings. There was the odd sculpture. Of those paintings, most were Norwegian painters I'd never heard of, and they were great. Like, so many of them made me feel like fame is almost random.

Got turned on to a dude named Johan Christian Dahl whose sad landscapes I liked very much.

Room after room of paintings that I thought were by someone I knew but were by a Norwegian who had jacked their style. Beautifully.

One painting showed an old man sucking on a young woman's breast. The title was "Roman Charity" and that cracked me the fuck up. Come here, grandpa. You can have some. I feel sorry for you.

The shrill new laugh I have here carried through the galleries. It's my Oslo laugh, I guess.

That would make a great title for a play or a great name for a burlesque dancer. Roman Charity stars in Roman Charity. Written by Roman Charity.

Big room with more Munchs in it. The Scream at last. It's the only thing behind glass, since it's been stolen a bunch. Probably by that dude who got in everybody's way at the other museum. It's faded, the colors all washed out.

There was also a larger, brighter version of Madonna. All very cool. I like thinking that Freud was writing while Munch was painting.

Took the long way home and took a long nap. Then went out briefly for salmon and akkavit. Touristy little warren of bars and restaurants called The Mathallen. The usual mix of pricey tapas, expensive cookware, tacos, and whiskey.

And the little fish place I went to. They were kind of in a rush, so I only had time to read one chapter while I ate. Quick cup of coffee and a quick walk home.

In a window, I saw that the movie Frozen is called "Frost" here.

Lucked out with some sunny days. Hoping it holds out tomorrow for the crazy sculpture park. I bet it will. Why wouldn't it? It's destined to be a day of nutty sculptures, second-hand sweaters, and maybe a cruise 'round the fjords.

Who knows? Maybe I'll see a Norwegian Blue parrot. Who really knows?

Papers and capers.