The Artist
Paris – Covid 19 – confinement – a world without human contact – gave presence to another world, a world we often do not want to see or admit to, that of the harshness of real life.
During our first expression of freedom in France – being allowed to venture out slowly – I came across what evolved into a small and short story of a life lived. A man simply living and creating a world around him, painting. The difference being that he lived on a street in the center of Paris – a street filled with art and antique galleries as well as everyday life.
He blended in and no one seemed to be disturbed as he lived freely creating, painting. I would walk past when the opportunity allowed. Each time I passed, I noticed an evolution of his works as well as his life taking comfort in his surroundings. I would take photographs, most of the time when he was not there as I was curious and fascinated. The settings looked almost as if they were staged, by him. There were moments when he was there, where I opted not take photographs (witnessing to what I felt was inappropriate for varied reasons) yet I continued to observe the evolution of his life and art. I did engage with him, conversation, his works – unusual stories referring to his work (internal demons) – even a story about his jacket that was hanging on the back of a chair. He was kind and eager to talk, share his world.
There came a day when I was walking by and noticed a distinct change. He was no where to be seen and all of his works and belongings were piled up, not as usual. I went into a gallery and asked about him. He had been very ill and was taken away by ambulance. All of his possessions just there piled in a corner on the street, his works, his life. A week later I made it a point to walk by and everything was gone, his life, his works, he was gone.
I walk past the exact place he once was, always wondering.
My story and photographs depict just a small piece of a life lived in the heart of a city, Paris.
