I’m just back from three weeks in Paris and staring at the images I snapped on one of my favorite afternoons strolling solo around the city. I’d set out to find a quiche, some sunshine, and Diane Arbus, which brought me to the Jeu de Paume, a national gallery found at a corner of the Tuileries. Fun fact: “jeu de paume” was a French precursor to tennis, and the modern art gallery is now housed in the beautiful old building originally constructed for the tennis courts.
The Diane Arbus show was wonderful, and I had as much fun looking at the spectators as I did at the snapshots on the walls. Faces contorted into odd, unintentional mimicries of those they were viewing: a Dominatrix and her client, a Halloween procession at a home for the mentally retarded, a family of nudists reclining in their armchairs. People packed the gallery, moving in a bloated, snaking line past the images, pushing faces closer and closer to the still visages that stared back at them.
However, it was upon emerging from the gallery that the true sight awaited me. I exited the building around 4:15pm, and stopped on the steps to absorb the light that fell across Paris. It was the most golden-peach-cider of a sundown, everything glazed in a mist that both clarified and obfuscated the reality of things.
I wandered around the Tuileries, watching the shadows change. Sometimes when I’m alone and happen upon something beautiful, I find myself wishing that a particular person were there to share it with me. The moment of pure exaltation at discovery is in some way tinged with a sadness. This time, instead of yearning, I found myself drawn to the other solitary figures around me, and for that moment, I was happy to be in their ranks.
Some other Paris moments:
