Revisiting Paris was like a rusty run-through of old art history text books.
I did not have the luxury to admire great masters at the Lourve museum. But still, they were everywhere, in the architecture of churches, in the city’s layout, the cobbled-stone streets, the artists and musicians who had time – time for a sketch, time for sunshine, time to breathe the day in.
The Clignancourt flea market in Paris was such an amazing experience of furniture. Old airplane parts converted into a bar. Baroque mirrors, Bauhaus, Modernist and Art Noveaus galore, unique pieces and upholstery to be found.
And then there was a stall of Louis Vuitton luggages and cases, in sizes so surreal you see them only in Annie Lebovitz pictures.
Wish I could cart some of those armchairs home, and add them to my already bursting “future apartment” collection.
Wouldn’t it be so lovely to have a studio of high ceilings and timber flooring, that smells of linseed oil and oil paint and glue, with a separate section for a studio and lights hanging from the ceiling, with a cherry-picker so you could shoot from above?
On a Sunday where the streets are empty and shopping is almost non-existent, enter the Eugene Delacriox private collection exhibit and it was packed! Storming! with people.
Staring at his brushstrokes, I suddenly remembered that Cezanne came after him. And then a flood of memories of the movements that came after.
I walked out, feeling mentally refreshed and creative.
More than making photos, I wanted to get my hands dirty and start drawing again.
Start creating. in any medium. in crazy ways that push boundaries.
I am feeling new blood rush through my soul.
A line from a Eugene Delacriox exhibition held in the premises of his former studio and in the room he died.
“My lodgings are indeed charming. The view from my small garden and the cheerfulness of my studio always give me pleasure.”
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