In Ireland, of course, “Jesus Mary and Joseph” is not an enumeration, it’s an exclamation. And yes I know this is the St. Therèse. Another strange Parisian shop window somewhere near the Salpé. Thankfully there are still a few of these left in Paris.
Now here in this one I am wandering the streets of Passy which used to be a remote unwashed suburb that impoverished writers like Balzac exiled themselves to. But today, ach, it is full of wealthy ladies in fur coats with small dogs. But… what’s this?
He’s not on the telephone, but he is not combing his hair, it seems…
At a certain academic institution, not far from the IAP, the signs are contradictory.
Push here?
You’re certain?
The 31st of October: a minor (expected) outpatient operation and I’m confined to the house once again. In the days that follow I don’t go further than a few hundred metres from here. Of course there is a long photographic tradition of such confinements. Kertesz photographed constantly from his window. And poor Josef Sudek spent decades photographing his house and garden.
From our front window here? Avenue Rene Coty, and in these days, fading winter light. On the street, below our window, there is a bench where all kinds of Beckettian shows can take place. But on this particular week, I’d perhaps already had enough of waiting. Slanting shadows were enough for me.