January 21, 2019
By Arthur H. Gunther III
(also on Facebook)
It is Paris, 48 rue de la … “Madeleine?” “Paix?” The street name does not matter. No. 48 does, that appartement not far from the street artists, who are ubiquitous. Umbrella left on the door handle for walks that take you everywhere, abstract paintings on the panels from the last young artist to live in hope at 48. This is Paris. This is art. This is a stirring of the soul.
It may all be over in a year, the “artist” moving on through that tough tunnel of reality to a staid existence, earning the cash for “adulting.”
But for a time, dreams and the rushing of blood, each red cell telling you have the stamina to do it, to make it.
By day, you are at Montmarte or la tour Eiffel. By night, along the Seine. You watch people, you draw them in charcoal. You hear the street sounds, you inhale the scents, you get the rhythm. It all shows in the line, form and color of the evening palette. You paint until dawn.
You are young. You are full of possibilities. Paris, or the metaphor of the place (so you can be elsewhere), welcomes your search for identity, fertilizes your dream with the elixir of hope.
Few will stay long at 48 rue de la … . The gifted might buy a studio with their success, but they are not many.
No, the return trip awaits the majority, moving on to what life does, what it brings.
Whether you go to Paris, whether you paint or write or day dream, the hope is that for a time anyway, you tarry at 48 Rue de la … .