beaux arts

the creative chaos of scavenged kitsch, the jumbled spontaneity of blindly expressive neophytes at l'ecole de beaux arts...I envy their uninhibited impertinence in these hallowed halls...

battre les murs

the lines scribbled, the names scratched, the backs leaned, the tears stained, the dishes thrown, the pictures hung, the furniture scraped, the beds rattled...against these leftover walls for decades and decades...now exposed to the elements, the curious gaze...another remnant of lives lived, well or otherwise, in this corner of paris...

flatface

a stain on a curb, an arrangement of a few pebbles from the inner courtyard of the bibliothèque nationale and a character emerges... until the wetness evaporates and the eyes/nose/lips are all brushed back onto the pile below...

baby battalion

a disarray of head-wrapped infantry at a bastille brocante...

madame chinoise

I no write francais good
english also not so good
I come to paris for new life
but life not so good hier
I massage many body all days
some veri harry an smell bad
one man say he like asian put becos they small an no har
but I too old for him
he like yeung with long black har
I go now
put more papier on wall with my phon nombre