It was a cloudy day, and the clocks were striking thirteen (Rue des Saints-Pères, Photo by T. Brack)
Marie France magazine, July 1951 (Image: T. Brack’s archives)
By Theadora Brack
Snapping to le point, I’ve been on the hunt for the fantastical, slip sliding all the way, up and down the wet rues of Paris. Suited with waterproof shoes, a parapluie, and sponge-like senses, I’ve been striving to capture the heady, surreal sensation of experiencing the rustling, bustling Parisian cityscape as if for the very first time.
I focused. I opened my eyes more. Seeking what Jean Cocteau called, “true realism,” I squinted and daydreamed, too. With cat-like whiskers and reflexes, I followed the poet’s recipe to a T—adding more than a heaping dash of transcendence in order to discover “surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.”
I walked new rues, rode unfamiliar bus…
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