Paris is inspiring. Each building, each painting, every lamppost, the metro signs. It really is like a movie set. I was amazed to see people being allowed to paint in the Louvre. Mom didn't really see the point in recreating the masters, her point was what will this skill allow them to do? Portrait painting? I argued that it didn't matter if they never made a cent, they were following their dreams, they just DO.
Going to Paris has been a lifelong dream of mine. It was further fueled when I was told by a distinguished looking lady at a bar that I looked like Anais Nin when I was 21. I asked her who she was and she said you have to find that out for yourself. Go to a bookstore. And I did. And I bought one of her books and then discovered Henry Miller. Now not only did I want to go to Paris, I wanted to move to Paris. I wanted to drink absinthe, smoke opium and write. Or paint. Maybe be a muse to some disheveled but handsome fallen aristocrat artist. I wanted to to live a purely sensuous decadent life with no real purpose.
I did none of those things while I was there. But if I had I wouldn't tell you about it.