A thrilling trifling anecdote

 

Standing in a multi story clothing store above the main street here, looking out the window, I saw a tram go by. It was festooned with advertisements for a museum up in the hills just outside of this city, near the glorious Saint Paul de Vence, possibly the loveliest village edging along the entire Cote d'Azur. It was for the Maeght Foundation Museum, a lovely estate-like museum we went to a few months ago. And all these ads reminded me of a trifling anecdote from there that I wanted to share with you because you adore trifling anecdotes.

You don't adore trifling anecdotes?

I could have sworn you were really keen on trifling anecdotes. Let me check my notes.

Oh, I see what happened.

It turns out you like something around here, but it's unclear what, so I guessed "trifling anecdotes".

You know what? Why don't I share this trifling anecdote and see how you feel about it.

I mean, you'll see how you feel about it. And I'll make up in my head how you feel about it, and, spoiler alert, in my imagination you are going to love it!

So there we were at this pretty museum way up in the hills overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean. The museum actually has gorgeous grounds and an amazing collection that oddly is just a bit less than the sum of its parts? Like, maybe if you took the best third of it, which would still be a lot, it would be the best modern collection in all of Southern France. But somehow it all seems a bit unfocused, and some of the lesser works can get a bit... off. 

Its curation is a bit funky.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. That's just me, er, judging the world around me with an implacable tiger-like ferocity.

Anyway, I'm walking around this museum in the hills near Saint Paul de Vence, and, this is important, so don't shut your eyes, I was wearing the same t-shirt I am wearing right now! It features this picture:

 

Now here comes the trifling anecdote.

Wearing this I started walking into a new room of the museum, and as I was walking in there was a woman walking out. She looked down at the picture on my shirt, and, in a knowing sort of way, she laughed!

She laughed!

"Hmm," I thought. "She must be a fan of Clerkmanifesto and an admirer of trifling anecdotes."

But no. I mean, probably not.

So I sort of shrugged my shoulders metaphorically, and I proceded into the new room of paintings. 

There were sixteen paintings on the pale ivory walls of this one big, but simple, room. Some of the paintings were quite large too.

And every last one of them was of tigers.