Paris, 1:30pm, a September day, a restaurant on the rue de Richelieu: two couples, two tables, a dozen empty tables. Ten tourists stop in and ask for a free table. The owner quickly replies “I’m so sorry, we’re full.” The owner’s name is Dave. The restaurant bears his name. He doesn’t like tourists. He doesn’t own a restaurant, but a salon that at nightfall transforms into a sort of international Mecca of photo, cinema and fashion specialists. He takes pictures of his clients (oops, he takes pictures of his friends). Confidants, critics, matchmakers, occasional lovers, he saw them all, knew them all, took pictures of them all. They are the first part of his journal, we will publish three others in the next few weeks. Don’t be surprised if you can’t find his restaurant’s address. Dave didn’t want them listed.
Dave’s polaroids part 2
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