**click artwork to enlarge**
(collage painting on canvas, 40X40, 2012)
Paris. Montmartre. Rowdy cafes. Noise. Thin women in Chanel suits. Absinthe. Pointless philosophical conversations. Inebriated poets, artists, writers…. I have dreamy recollections of imagining as a little girl what Paris was like. I pictured myself inhaling the city with all my senses. I saw Montmartre at night through Pissarro's eyes, I cried with Hugo, held my breath getting lost in Dumas, laughed with Molière, and eventually fell in love with a city far away. I wished I could go back in time. I longed for reckless chivalry, snobbish art aficionados, and impoverished geniuses…
As I'm writing this I'm yet to visit the city of my childhood dreams. I had my opportunity to go to Paris and I chickened out at the last moment. I'm afraid it won't be the way I'm so used to picturing it. I know I'll eventually go. I'm just not quite ready yet. Most people dream of visiting Paris for fashion and romance. I think I should wait to go there until I feel like they do. I hate being disappointed.
"In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language."
"Paris is the only city in the world where starving to death is still considered an art."
"Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman."
"In Paris, everybody wants to be an actor; nobody is content to be a spectator."