The Mona Lisa: Just Another Potato in the Fryer

A Regular Guy's Guide to Pretending to Care About Famous Paintings While Dodging Selfie Sticks

Look, I spent €17 on a ticket to the Louvre, stood in a line that snaked around the building like some kind of artistic conga line, and then fought through a crowd that would make Black Friday shoppers look civilized, just to see what everyone calls the most famous painting in the world. And you know what? It reminded me of french fries.

First, let me tell you about this museum situation. The Louvre is basically a fancy mall where nobody's selling anything but everyone's taking pictures. You've got tour guides waving little flags and umbrellas like they're directing airplane traffic. Groups of tourists follow them around like ducklings, bumping into each other while staring at their phones instead of the art. Half of them aren't even looking where they're going because they're too busy vlogging about how cultured they are.

Security guards stand around looking both bored and suspicious, probably wondering how they ended up babysitting adults who can't follow simple "don't touch the painting" rules. Every few minutes, someone tries to sneak a flash photo, and the guards have to do their whole "Non! Non!" routine. It's like a really slow, really cultured game of whack-a-mole.

Now hear me out before you start throwing your art history textbooks at me.

You've got french fries from McDonald's, right? They're consistent. Not mind-blowing, but they do the job. Then you've got your fancy restaurant fries, triple-fried in duck fat or whatever, served in a tiny metal basket with truffle salt and herbs that look like they were picked by virgin monks under a full moon. And somewhere in between, you've got your local diner fries – the ones that are sometimes amazing, sometimes just okay, but always familiar.

That's what I see when I look at the Mona Lisa. Just another potato in the fryer.

The journey to the Mona Lisa is like trying to reach the bathroom at a crowded stadium. You follow these little signs, squeezing past people who've stopped dead in their tracks to photograph every single ceiling tile. You pass countless other paintings that probably took just as long to paint, but everyone ignores them like they're advertisements in a subway station.

When you finally reach the famous room, it's like a mosh pit at a very polite concert. People are aggressively gentle, pushing forward with apologetic smiles and mumbled "excusez-moi"s. The painting itself is surrounded by a crowd eight layers deep, all armed with phones on selfie sticks that wave around like some kind of tech-savvy seaweed. And everyone's going nuts about her mysterious smile. Have they never seen someone trying not to laugh at a bad joke? That's all it is. She's sitting there like someone just whispered "duty" in church, and she's trying to keep it together. I've seen the same expression on my cousin Derek when he's holding in a sneeze.

And the background? People write entire books about how it shows Leonardo's mastery of perspective and atmosphere. Come on. It looks like when you're driving through the countryside and there's that weird fog that makes everything look blue and hazy. I saw the same effect yesterday morning when my microwave steamed up my kitchen window.

The thing is, just like french fries, I don't think there's anything wrong with the Mona Lisa. It's fine. It does its job. If you're hungry for art, it'll fill you up. But people act like it's the second coming of Christ in oil paint. They analyze every brushstroke like it's encoded with the secrets of the universe.

You know what I think? I think art people are like those food critics who write thousand-word essays about the "mouthfeel" of a potato. Sometimes a french fry is just a french fry, and sometimes a painting is just a painting.

Sure, there are bad paintings out there, just like there are bad french fries – the ones that are either too soggy or so overcooked they could double as roofing materials. But even the worst french fries are still pretty okay if you're hungry enough. Same with art. Even the paintings I don't particularly like still show that someone took the time to make something, which is more than I did today.

The whole museum is like this weird mix of church and circus. You've got these huge, echoing rooms with ceilings higher than my apartment building, but instead of feeling sacred, it's filled with the constant chatter of audio guides in fifteen different languages. People walk around with these weird expressions, like they're trying to look thoughtful while secretly wondering if it's too early to stop for coffee.

And the gift shop! It's bigger than my local supermarket. You can get the Mona Lisa on everything from socks to soap dispensers. Nothing says "I appreciate fine art" like a Venus de Milo bottle opener or a David magnet with strategic fig leaf placement.

So yeah, I saw the Mona Lisa. It's hanging there behind its bulletproof glass like the world's most overprotected french fry. People are taking selfies with it like it's a celebrity, writing poems about it, making documentaries about it. Meanwhile, I'm standing there thinking about whether I should get lunch at Five Guys or try that new bistro down the street.

Maybe that makes me uncultured. Maybe I'm missing some deep, profound truth that only art historians with multiple PhDs can understand. But I've eaten a lot of french fries in my life, from greasy spoons to Michelin-starred restaurants, and you know what? They're all just potatoes cooked in oil. Some are better than others, sure, but none of them changed my life.

The Mona Lisa didn't change my life either. But like a decent batch of fries, I don't regret the experience. I just wish people would stop acting like it's more than what it is – pigments on a board, just like french fries are just potatoes in oil.

Now, if you'll excuse me, all this art criticism has made me hungry.