For a few minutes around eight the sun sits inside the Arc de Triomphe and the whole avenue turns to brass. Then home through the metro, where the Picasso museum has hung its rooster over the escalators.
A day of looking through glass. A gallery window near the Palais Royal, a photograph growing a charcoal mountain at the Drawing Lab, and a two metre pink figure guarding a window full of toys.
Yesterday this hill was licensed painters and a queue for portraits. This morning at twenty to eight it was me, a tagged post box and a merry go round standing perfectly still.
