Past Stalingrad and Rome, pronounced Hrom by a disembodied Metro Woman. My school-girl French left securely in the classroom. A man from Bradford in Paris, his tiny round glasses the toast of the town. My huge glints out of place in the City of Light, every third person sporting coin-sized spectacles. Stylish and dismissive older women, eye-wandering older men and young eyes on the lash are Hockney knock-offs this season. The real spectacle, a life’s work in the Bois de Boulogne. The man’s throwing shade(s).
*or That’s The Way I Saw It.
by Anmarie Bowler
Brevity 