In the hall of Baby Jesuses

The first time I was in Paris, I went to the Louvre and like a million other tourists before me I headed straight for the Mona Lisa.

Since the famous French museum houses one of the most extensive art collections in the world, I'll admit that making a beeline for a painting I'd already seen on countless refrigerator magnets and coffee mugs was a wholly unimaginative act. In tourist terms, hurrying through hallways of miscellaneous masterpieces to seek out the Mona Lisa was kind of like picking one harried celebrity from a crowd of a thousand interesting people and bugging her with questions I could have answered by reading a gossip magazine.

Apparently aware of this compulsion for artistic celebrity-worship, Louvre officials had plastered the gallery walls with signs directing impatient tourists to the Mona Lisa, and I soon fell into step with crowds of Japanese, European and North American tourists eager for a glimpse of Da Vinci's famous portrait.

Anyone who's been to the Louvre, of course, will know that I was setting myself up for an anticlimax. The Mona Lisa was there all right — looking exactly like she was supposed to look — yet this was somehow disappointing. Standing there, staring at her familiar, coy smile, it occurred to me that I had no good reason for wanting to see her so badly in the first place.

Moreover, once I'd left the Mona Lisa gallery and moved on to other parts of the Louvre, I discovered just how ignorant I was in the ways of art history. Surrounded by thousands of vaguely familiar-looking paintings and sculptures, I realized I had no clue as to how I could meaningfully approach the rest of the museum.

Fortunately, before I could fall into touristic despair, I was saved by the Baby Jesus.

I don't mean that I had a spiritual epiphany in the Louvre. Rather, having noted the abundance of Madonna-and-Child paintings in the museum's halls, I resolved to explore the Louvre by seeking out every Baby Jesus in the building.

Silly as this may sound, it was a fascinating way to ponder the idiosyncrasies of world-class art. Each Baby Jesus in the Louvre, it seemed, had his own, distinct preoccupations and personality. Botticelli's Baby Jesus, for example, looked like he was about to vomit after having eaten most of an apple; Giovanni Bolfraffio's Baby Jesus looked stoned. Ambrosius Benson's Baby Jesus resembled his mother — girlish with crimped hair and a fistful of grapes — while Barend van Orley's chubby Baby Jesus looked like a miniature version of NFL analyst John Madden. Francesco Gessi's pale, goth-like Baby Jesus was passed out in Mary's lap, looking haggard and middle-aged. Lorenzo di Credi's Baby Jesus had jowls, his hair in a Mohawk as he gave a blessing to Saint Julien. Mariotto Albertinelli's Baby Jesus coolly flashed a peace sign at Saint Jerome.

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