Perhaps starting off with pictures of the cemetery doesn't appear to speak to the good times one would hope to have in Paris. But to me it captures the tranquil, romantic, grainy staidness of the old city.
Two mornings I trudged out early, past all the people on their way to work, to wander the narrow paths of the cemetery as the sun began to rise and cast shadows. The cemetery hosts Degas, Foucault, Truffaut, Zola, Dumas, and the list goes on. But even with the help of the maps, I couldn't find any of them.
The cemetery is located below street level, and is dissected by a bridge that sees heavy traffic. But it still manages to be quiet and serene.
And along the way, I was followed, watched, and judged by the multitude of cats that call the cemetery home.
And this woman reminds me of the paintings of Jean-Francois Millet, who created spectacular depictions of pastoral farming folk (I was smitten with his work when I went to the D'Orsay).
I wouldn't mind a small lilac blossoming by my grave.
The little ears you see here followed me for a while, but kept a safe distance.
The thing of nightmares, but also draws one near. I can't figure out the intention here, but I dig it.
One of these things is not like the others...
More to come. A bientot!
