I have this resurfacing nostalgic feeling about snow every winter in southern california; being born here, my son doesn’t miss the snow much, but I, being born on a snowy December first, in Mashhad, Iran, miss it a lot…The quiet beautiful snow who always speaks softly…
There is this short novel I read a few years back called Neige (snow in french) and of course the great book of my friend Jean-Michel Maulpoixcalled Pas sur la neige. “Chaque flocon répète: nous n’irons plus au ciel.” (every snowflake repeats: we’re not going back to the sky)
I don’t know the name of the photographer of the above picture but I figured I would throw it in for all of you homesick persians.
I got to know the work of this great artist in 1998 in paris at the Michelle Boulet gallery. I just found out that Verlinde has been very active in the past few years. I loved this piece of one of his paintings which reminded me of Jean Ferrat‘s song, l’Amour est cerise.
I’ve always loved these ladies! I have fun playing with their images. They’ve been called torchères (torchieres), lampposts and some pretty banal names but I think that they deserve to be called by a “grander” name like “the green Lucinas” (Lucina: she who brings children into the light). I’ve photographed them several times (they are the best models, they never move). Their color changes from bronze green to dark jade passing by some moss and celadon.
The Paris opera house is not hosting any operas; it is now mainly used for ballet performances. Carrier-Belleuse, an old friend of Charles Garnier, the architect of this great theater, contributed the elaborate torcheres that hold the candelabra illuminating the grand staircase and the lampposts outside the opera house.
“Opera is where a guy gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings.“ Robert Burns
Brasserie Lipp in Paris remains very popular in spite of overpriced mediocre food being served under its roof; the history that goes with it, makes it a favorite among the average tourists, the jet set crowd and the Parisians themselves.
“It is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entr
so i woke up this morning at 5 and headed towards trocadero. the idea of seeing the Eiffel Tower by itself was enough of a reason – the last time i was up this early for a photo shoot was in prague, last may.
the pigeons and me weren’t completely alone… a couple of Parisian lovers were watching the sun rise.
i started walking towards saint germain; Paris’ saturday morning streets were empty but for trash collectors, some late party goers walking back home and the omnipresent american joggers; even my least favorite bridge, pont Alexandre III, looked majestic in the golden morning hue.