|Upping my photo montage game.|
Three days after returning to Paris, I received a call from my local bookstore. My new book was in.
I was breathless.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming right now. Hold on!”
I nearly ran, I was so flippin’ excited.
I ran into the bookstore Kramer-style. “I’m here! I’m here for my book!”
He didn’t ask me what book it was. He grabbed it from the top of one of the many piles on his desk and handed it over. He knew what book I wanted because I had stopped by two days in a row. I “happened” to be in the neighborhood and was “wondering” if my book was in yet. I even “happened” to veer Christophe down a small alley on our walk that just “happened” to be the fastest way to the bookstore. Just to see.
I snatched the book from him, bid a swift adieu and headed to the nearest café, which happened to be a Tabac shop. Little known fact: Tabac shops in Paris are some of the best, most lovely, haunting, beautiful cafés. And there are no tourists in them. It’s a good place to hide.
I could have bought it on Amazon, but I considered ordering it through a bookstore an artist date. The book in question:
Holy frig its good. The author, Nichole Robertson, spent many a leisurely lingering afternoon snapping photos of Paris. She works in the neutral background of Paris and finds colors that pop. Then snaps them and mashes them together for a photo montage that makes my teeth tingle. So good. There are no cliché touristy Paris shots, just fantastic images of daily life.
After absorbing each and every page of this book with my eyeballs bugging out of my head, I walked toward home. It was as if I was struck by enlightenment. Colors popped. Flowers, candy, chairs and scooters revealed themselves as vibrant as toys. I tried snapping shots like in the book. I realized just how many shots and how much exploring it takes to do what Robertson did with Paris in Color.
Upon returning chez moi, I checked my email and found yet another brilliant poem by Samantha Reynolds from Bentlily. She endeavors to write one poem a day. When I see her new poem, everything else stops. She’s a cup of hot tea on a rainy day. She makes loving poetry easy. And every poem leaves me sighing with satisfaction. She does to poetry what Robertson does to color.
These two make me want to up my game. Bring it.
Oh it’s brought.
Who said that?