French Doors and other clichés

Deep frost, low light, lines steaming, fast track to Paris, for existential adventure.
I am here to photograph French doors. Get some inspiration.

Outside Sacre Coeur there is frosty magic in the air. A man plays Hallelujah on the harp. The music turns the scene into poetry. I’m back, I’m away, I’m here. for now, everything is just fine.

Inside the cathedral there is the usual sense of peace to be found in these places. I am looking for that, some sense of peace, but peace that comes with NO RELIGION on my census entry. Something with no overbearing presence painted on arches and made flesh by bread and blood red wine.

Having said that, I like the architecture, I like some of the stories and images, bright stained glass and single solo flames, burning together on altars. Collected spirits waiting patiently for the next communion. Sure only that some time soon they will flicker and die.

I take a little tour of past glories: the fondue restaurant where we drank red wine from babies bottles; the corner cafe where we finished the evening off with a Kir Royale or three. The days of free drinking, I mean, thinking; the days of possibilities; the year of magic moments and too much money.

Then I remind myself or remember that the reason to be practical and organised is to allow ourselves time to dream and drift slightly out of focus like this, through a strangely familiar city on a sparkling, frosty-bright winters day. Because this is living. And this is all there is.