The photograph looks like the city, yet for certain my grandparents lived in a small village. They moved there after my great grandmother passed away, she was almost ninety; her husband, my great grandfather, had passed away only two months before, he was the village cobbler.
The critics always come second, for without the artists, who always come first, they have nothing on which to base their criticism upon. Of course they may make witty remarks, or show off their learning by referencing comparable works; though in truth, for any of this to be authentic, the artist will already have shown his hand towards these influences and witticisms.
We used to go to tea every Sunday; you had to go through the kitchen, a lean to extension, at the back of the house, to get to the downstairs washroom. It was an end terrace, with a small triangular garden to the side. A very nice old lady lived next door, we used to call and say hello.
This was Paris, England, not Paris, France, which is most probably where the photograph was taken. Any criticism of the original photographer must be laid aside, for he has brought back such sweet memories into my life, which otherwise might have been no more than dust.
