The Artist’s Muse
Paris… an irresistible place to search for one’s Muse.
During my sojourn in the writers’ city, I sat in literary cafés contemplating le beau monde with a drink or two, tracing back the artistic history, scribbling illegible and inspirational notes in my little black notebook. Paris seduced with an unmistakable charm that sparked a renewed passion, flirted with a languid imagination and fuelled an ardent desire for the written word.
Yet in the midst of its literary milieu, I did not write a complete piece. I filled my notebook with phrases hurriedly scribbled before the next inspiration wafted by like the ephemeral scent of jasmine in the early spring.
Je flâne dans les rue de Paris…
… unhurried strolls along boulevard st-germain, in quiet contemplation
… wandering among ghosts of mythical literary figures who once gathered in passionate discussions over a café or a drink
… an early breakfast at Café de Flore where luminaries such as Apollinaire once created
… the ghosts of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir at les Deux Magots where they once sat, wrote and deliberated
… sauntering along rue st-André-des-arts in the evening in discovery of gems like these
… time travelling to yesteryear with the bouquinistes that line the banks of Seine
… meandering my way through the sinuous streets of Montmartre where artists and painters once took up residence
… that lingering aperitif at the fabled Hemingway bar followed by a feast at La Closerie des Lilas
… names of artists and literary figures echoed a faint remembrance of language and literature classes and heated arguments with the teacher
Je flâne dans mes pensées…
Ideas danced around like butterflies.
The last of my scribbles sealed the little black book as the last drop of Armagnac was savoured. I looked up from the tiny round table of the café trottoir and took in the charm of the city one last time city. By the dawn of the next day, as the taxi pierced through the early morning fog across the sleepy city, I pondered if Muses congregate there when they suddenly take leave of their writers.
My Muse was the city.
The inspiration my companion.
The words would always come… later.
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