Pop goes the Pinacothèque

It’s almost a week and I’m still smarting from the slap of being ripped off. I went to slake my curiosity at the newest cultural attraction in Paris – the Pinacothèque, opened in mid June. It is a privately owned museum magnificently sandwiched between the gastronomic temples of Fauchon and Hediard on the Place de la Madeleine. Its opening exhibition highlights the work of Roy Lichtenstein, the primary-coloured king of comic-strip Pop Art.
Now I’m generally a glass-half-full kind of guy. And I will say that I enjoyed the exhibition itself; it was an illuminating and surprisingly intellectual study of the artistic process and the derivative/transformative nature of inspiration. (Gosh – even I don’t know what that last sentence means… how impressive is that? I might have to consider a new career as art critic or wine connoisseur.)
Howsomever.
I couldn’t help but feel that this particular glass was on the half-empty and outrageously overpriced side. Firstly, the space has not quite finished being transformed from its previous incarnation as the Baccarat Crystal Museum (which apparently was as tacky as it sounds). So the paint is still fresh and smelly, the concrete unfinished and the electrical wiring still disturbingly visible. The Lichtenstein exhibition is in the basement, so it feels like you’re looking at pictures in someone’s garage.
Secondly, the guards all seem to have graduated from the Rude and Surly Academy of Museum Personnel, with first-class honours in Aggressive Photo Prohibition, and a minor in Unnecessarily Heavy-Handed Direction-Giving. Before descending to the substratum, we had wanted to have a quick look around the ground floor’s light-filled spaciousness. One of the guards actually shouted at us, instructing us to go down the stairs to the exhibition. Other guards, possibly needing a break from strip-searching art lovers and confiscating cameras, actually stood gossiping sourly right in front of the canvasses, breathtakingly oblivious to the polite neck-cranings and throat-clearings of the frustrated aficionados.
Finally, and most gallingly, there was the price. Eight Euros. You’ll appreciate that this is a not inconsiderable sum for an Expatrician. Not that I condone anything as crass as putting a price on Art, but when you consider that you pay less than that for access to numberless masterpieces at the Musée D’Orsay, it does seem insultingly steep for a hundred-odd works, no matter how good. So unless you’re a Lichtenstein loony, I’d think twice about popping in to the Pinacothèque.
Call me a philistine, call me cheap. I guess I’m just looking for a bit more brush for my buck.

image © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein New York / ADAGP, Paris (2007)