The Importance of Good Feet

A spring fervour was ignited in the creeping shrubs, faint and temperate in their beginnings. Their appearance of youth was an obvious disguise, vernal and fresh. I knew their inauguration had taken place long ago, but I hung onto this idea of adolescence, refusing to accept its ephemerality.

But then there was a white, everywhere a nod to some void which contrasted this abundance of growth, this outpour of verdant progress. It carried potential though, an understanding I came to realize only later, hours after the event.

The sequence of statues I passed seemed an accessory, secondary and artificial compared to what was inherent in the space. The sense was immediate, this wasn’t where we came for art. The sculptor himself had known this truth; it was a place of inspiration, a desire to fill what was previously vacant.

It was the white again, a signal concurrent with the remembrance of intent. It directed me again towards my purpose : evasion.

It would become a place I had known, a place I would remember through pictures and memories quickly growing soft. I had been doing it wrong, of course. I was looking through windows with no intent of analysis or scrutiny, just a gaze hopeful of charting this particular moment in the years to come.

Paris was quiet on Wednesday mornings.

Isabelle EymanComment