Random short story #1

If I were a painter, and not a photographer, perhaps I would think like this.... Written in the wee hours, in a streaming flow of thoughts and words as always...

Once upon a time....jk..

THE GILDED LIGHT of morning poured in through the open window, a stifling heat coming with the slowly creeping rays of light, making uncomfortable the artist’s quaint studio perched high above the street. The late-summer sun still rose early, not enabling the artist to sleep much past the breakfast hour. He enjoyed the playful light of morning; he adored the explosion of violet and mango on the horizon, beyond the spires and towers, which came with the summer sunrise.

The doors of the terrace had been left open late on the evening prior, allowing the artist to breathe the cool air of August after sunset as he lay awake as always. The sounds of a waking city, the modern city, now played a playful background tune – a familiar tune the artist craved in the morning as he placed himself in time and place, returning slowly from dream.

The sounds were quiet, yet buzzing in the distance; the world was alive, yet he was left to lie in peace, alone and in comfort. He could hear the steam trains rolling in at the nearby Gare Saint-Lazare, and screaming out again, in a plume of smoke he knew, charging towards the countryside, down to the coast, out over bridges hovering above city streets.

He could hear friendly greetings of the morning as the shops opened down on the street - at the fish monger’s, the pâtisserie, and the perfectly-lit café on the corner, where perfect strangers of the neighbourhood came to meet with their eyes. They sat in close proximity, yet never spoke, only watching – peaking above the magazine from the street side, between sips of strong coffee in a corner, or perched over a glass of beer at the bar.

He had returned home late the previous evening, having stayed until the closing a favourite café with his closest contemporaries and critics. He recalled the last sips of beer and sweet brandy, the shuttering of the lamps, and of course the sound of his wood-soled shoes on the cobblestones as he stammered down the narrow streets. For years the artist had been walking the city, not only the new ‘city of lights’ under the gas lamps of night, but along the ancient quays and avenues, in the shadow of centuries of art, religion, tradition and politics.

He had been witness to the city’s modern rebirth and continued restructuring. He did some days miss the maze of winding lanes and alleyways of the city he knew, but adored the great boulevards, the trees, the open parks and steady buzz of city life at heady pace. He had been spending much time at Fontainebleau in recent years, close to the tranquility of the forest and peace of the countryside, but far away from the charms of the city and its modern soul.

Buttoning a waistcoat over a light cotton shirt, pulling low a cap and tying a silk scarf – opting for a more casual look of the average urban man than the traditional painter’s smock this day – the artist was soon out onto the summer street. Walking quickly across to the corner café, and taking a seat at his favourite spot on the terrace, he was quick to order the day’s first cup of coffee. Although he was already stimulated for his forthcoming ramble around the city, a day like today would need something stronger – like the increasingly popular bitter brew – than his usual cup of chocolate.

The artist sat in silence, slowing tracing the lines of the street in his mind, not being bothered in pensive isolation, although he was already well-known in some circles for a number of his earlier works which had appeared at the official Salon. He was, however, just as well known, and heckled for, his contemporary works which were shown at the Salon des Refusés and at the first exhibition of the ‘impressionists.’

Patrons and wait staff were careful not to make acquaintance of the quiet artist, boyish even at 34 years of age – they thought him some recluse anyways, some madman constantly sketching on the bone white pages of his leather notebook, scribbling words on every detail, on every passerby, on every colour-tone of the day’s changing light.

The artist finished his coffee, slid the cup and saucer across the table, and placing his cap back on his head and tucking his sketch book under his arm, made off down the street, aimed on this morning for the heart of the city below.

He walked for an entire day it seemed, with no set path, opting as always to turn down any street of his momentary choosing, searching for undiscovered yet simple scenes of urban life. It was just before midday when he was pacing up the Rue Cambon, having arisen from a seat in the Tuileries moments earlier, now turning onto the Boulevard des Capucines. Out in front of him sat the grand Opéra, always a symbol of the new Paris, and there to the left the Madeleine church, and across the Grand Hotel.

The midday rays pulsed through the canopy of trees and foliage – already showing signs of the coming autumn – which split the packed boulevard, running in parallel to the pavement and to the perfect six-story buildings and their rooflines.

Instantly, splashes of red, blue, yellow and of course hot white filled his eyes with the life of an avenue on a perfect Parisian day - the shoppers, the strollers, the merchants, the families and the carriages, they all moved swiftly past, creating a fleeting snapshot of modern urban life. Soon he would splash paint to canvas in a fury of quick brushstrokes, capturing the niceties of this blurry masterpiece in his mind.

As he sat and sketched on his notepad the lines of a composition he must create, he knew that soon he would bring to life this perfect view in a wash of colour, in a gentle texture and treatment. He would capture this view with immediacy – with a painting style which was constantly ripped in conservative art circles for its simple ‘impression’ (nee instant clarity) of life.

This, the artist thought on that summer day, would be a work for the ages, a genuine glimpse of Parisian life – a simple everyday view of this grand city and its vibrant boulevards heaving with life.

Note: Perhaps it would look something like this.