Free Capturing Paris by Katharine Davis Page B

François was too busy traveling and taking pictures for the newspapers.”
    â€œYou’re a photojournalist?” Annie asked.
    â€œNot for many years, but that is how I spent my working life. A long time of living from the valise , you say—ah, yes, suitcase.”
    â€œHow fascinating.”
    â€œI loved it, mais oui , but when I was a young man I wanted to make pictures as art. I had not thought of journalism then. You know of Eugene Atget? He began in the 1890s and photographed Paris every day for more than twenty years. Some call him the architectural historian of Paris. He influenced me greatly, enormément . But then came the war, and I used my camera for the army and later for the newspapers. There was no time for my art.”
    â€œIt was not all bad, the war, I mean,” Paul said. “After all, that is when you met Eileen. Sometimes good things come of bad situations.”
    â€œ Oui, oui, ma belle Eileen . Paul is right. I met my wife during the war. She was a nurse, American, like you. Life is not the same without her.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” Annie said.
    â€œShe died fifteen years ago.” François became more subdued. “I think of her every day. She left a hole in my heart.”
    Annie saw that Paul was no longer paying attention to them but staring at the picture of his wife. François noticed too. “Paul, I am sorry,” he said. “I know it is still very painful.”
    â€œI am fine, François.” Paul appeared weary, drained of the enthusiasm he’d shown earlier. He looked at Annie. “You must excuse me. My wife and I were in an accident. On the autoroute , last spring. She did not survive.” He folded his hands together and rested them on the desk as if trying to pull himself together.
    Annie ached for this man. “Yes, Daphne told me that your wife had died. I’m so very sorry. I can’t think of anything worse.” Her words sounded inadequate and empty in her ears. To lose his wife in a grisly car crash seemed so cruel. His wife had been yanked away, taken from him while still in her prime.
    â€œTell me about your work, Annie,” François said. “When did you discover you were a poet?”
    â€œI’ve always loved writing.” Annie liked the way he asked the question. She’d always known that it wasn’t a matter of deciding to becomea poet. Writing poetry had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. “When I was a little girl I wrote mostly stories. I was an only child and I loved to create stories about imaginary brothers and sisters. My aunt Kate saved them all, saying one day they would make up a book. Just childish scribblings, and they’ve since been lost. Her encouragement kept me going though. By the time I was in high school I knew that poetry was my first love.”
    â€œHow do you begin a poem? Do you know right away where to start? I wonder if the process, the artistic process I mean, is the same as photography.” François had removed his glasses and waited for her answer.
    â€œI imagine it might be like when you decide to take a picture. It’s usually something I see that triggers a new poem. It could be a place or an object. If it’s a person, it might be the slightest gesture, a movement or glance, that becomes the kernel of an idea.”
    â€œAnd then what do you do?” Paul asked.
    â€œI’m always making notes, and if the image keeps appearing, if it won’t go away, I know that’s it’s worth continuing.”
    â€œThat must take time,” Paul said.
    â€œSometimes the idea and the images evolve very quickly, and other times I may linger on a piece for weeks. It’s an organic process. I guess you could say that some poems grow more quickly than others. After that, there’s the endless process of revising.”
    â€œFrançois’s photographs should lend themselves very