The arrival of spring in Paris has been marked with nights huddled in bed listening to raindrops fall along white rooftops, roaming the desolate streets as grey skies peak overhead and small ounces of blossoms preparing to bloom. It is the halfway point: my sixth month of living in this inspiring city.
We walked through the empty streets of Paris on a grey spring day. Narrow passages filled with boutiques, coffee shops -- a vintage baby blue car sitting on the corner. Stumbling upon a book store visited once before, packed from wall to wall with memoirs of creation.
I picked up a tiny book, no bigger than a mere pocket planner that read "Paris: Le portraits de le ville." Scattered across the pages were glimpses, moments of life as seen through the eyes of the photographer - a pure, unfiltered accumulation of experience.
I would find that this shop, although petite and quaint, was full of vast and spanning art created from people of various places. Books of fashion, design, writing -- etched with insight and knowledge -- all snuggled into this tiny corner of the world.
There has always been the pursuit to create art.
As many others before me, I have felt inspired and truly awed by the movements of this city: the architecture, the sounds of the streets, the reflection of lights glistening on the Seine at nightfall, the language and the people.
And as I held this tiny book in the palm of my hand, I knew that these empty streets we wandered were a fresh slate of inspiration. A blank canvas. A new visual beginning.