thursday, april 04, 2013 | corning, ny

someone from the central circulation desk comes to me at the children’s desk and hands me a book that belongs to one of the local elementary schools, mistakenly returned to us at the public library. it’s a biography of winslow homer. i glance through the first several pages, focused on the images. at page 21, i stop for “Art Students Copying in the Louvre,” which, like the other images in the book, is in black and white. i recognize the broad arch of the hallway, the endlessness of its length, perspective drawing it out to some wall in a far distance which may, in fact, be illusory, and the crowded paintings leaning out from the walls. i have been there before. it almost has sound. it almost has a scent. but one thing it achieves, for sure, this trip to the louvre, is color. brown, yellow, green, in a murk of shadows left behind by visitors many generations removed.

the color entering my mind is a train i get on and, which, in a flash, delivers me out of doors to a spot on the sidewalk just beside the high fence at the edge of parc monceau. i am there watching art students enter the gates. the day is bright. the louvre, as always, is dim. and everywhere, here and there, it is paris, paris, paris.


About scribblelip

walking down the road with a book of conjugations in my hand.
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