Again, would love to know who the hell Rodin modeled this after. I know he based this on Dante {at the gates of hell}, but still, how can one not have someone more … personal in mind when sculpting?

How can one not channel others and themselves into the art they do and create?

What strikes me so incredibly strongly when seeing Rodin’s works en personne, is the emotion. You feel it. I suppose that should show me just how powerful energy is and how that energy continues on, hundreds of years later.

I stared at Le Penseur for as long as I could, getting caught in a total downpour. It was magical.  I calmly got out my parapluie, when in normal circumstances I would have been frantically running for cover. Instead, I stood there, umbrella in hand. Not caring that my feet and jeans were getting soaked.

To me, it only made it more memorable — to be in the Rodin Gardens, rain, everyone else seeking shelter inside. Just me and The Thinker.

Thinking.

There’s something very somber, very serious about him, and also very hot {hello, biceps!}. Actually, all of Rodin’s sculptures {who aren’t after specific people} look like they’d be brutally hot in person. I mean, just look at that body!

I could picture M. Penseur, staring right into hell. Maybe realizing that all along, it was just his own self creation. His own hell he made.

This is what I think of hell as. How Sartre and I would have gotten along so very well. That whole Existentialist movement.

The rain and The Thinker made me think : What will I be pondering at the end of my life?

These sorts of questions are always very sobering for me, a jolt, back to the present and what’s important. And while there are serious things about life, I never want to take it too seriously. I want to love all these days, even the crappy ones.

The other masterful piece of Rodin — les mains. I’m not sure why, but I was extremely drawn to his hand sculptures. Maybe because our hands are such a personal, delicate, over looked part of us.

That reveal so much. Stories are there. Waiting to be told. I suppose that’s what I’m drawn to — the stories.

And the absolutely breathtaking gardens … they are breathtaking, aren’t they?

I’ve already been considering going back, but I’m not sure if I can. I might prefer to leave My Thinker as he was during our time together. Rain cascading down, me, staring at him. Alone and cold.

I know he’s just a statue, so what I’m about to say is going to sound peculiar and funny and possibly alarming  — it was such a personal moment for us. Lord. I can’t believe I’m referring to me and a statue now as “us” {fear not for my mental sanity}, but I am.

Interesting that our Thinker is at the gates of hell … his contemplation first struck me as heaven-esque. That’s the parody, right?

Heaven. Hell. Which is which? What is what?

Like I previously stated :  Existentialist.