Time was a blur to me then, and Paris, in all its postcard perfection, was a watery smear of cafes, croissants, and cabs.
Buildings and other objects carry the words and thoughts of those who made them and those who lived in, used, or otherwise interacted with them.
If I make claim to anything, it’s to being both a poet and a photographer of place.
Who named that cashier Glory Be, and why does she look so miserable?
This boils down to the value of human exchange, which is, I suspect, near the heart of art in general.
