What will you find when you go on a walk in Paris?
An interplay of light and shadow in an airy hall, far more interesting than the dubiously-titled art on its walls; and the company of a beloved sister, far more valuable.
The source of a favorite album. A riff on a favorite cocktail.
A daydream about snapping winds and foamy seas, wrought in thin spires of bronzed fancy.
Tiny explosions of color and chlorophyll, waiting to beautify a room or a corner or just a passing glance.
A temple to a man that accidentally, in dizzying golden heights and shafts of warm piercing sunshine, honors God instead.
A place that begs questioning, if only you were brave enough to stop for the answer.
A new friend: adoring, persistent and soft around the edges.
A gateway into another place, another time.
A bracing remedy for whatever ails you.
A symphony of pattern, texture and composition that welcomes you with glass drums and trumpets of steel and, with soft undulating wood-paneled woodwinds, begs you to return and explore it again: on foot, as it was meant to be seen.