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Authors: Jeanne Mackin
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schoolchildren escorted by nuns—all to be sent back home, to Chicago or Memphis or Boston.
Paris had become the center of gravity. It drew in anyone not nailed to the ground by a different reality, and it had drawn in Lee Miller as well, who had left New York and returned to Paris about the time Jamie and I went there.
A few times I thought I saw her. I’d glimpse the back of a tall blonde strolling the Champs-Élysées, or a profile of a woman sitting in a café with Lee’s long, elegant nose. I had no idea how to find her . . . or, for that matter, why I would want to. We had gone our separate ways. Childhood felt long ago.
Jamie and I soon established a routine for ourselves. He took photographs in the morning, haunting the streets during the precious early morning light, and I went with him, holding his camera case, cleaning lenses, scouting ahead for interesting shots, for lovers kissing under bridges, lean dogs sleeping in private courtyards, old men smoking in front of a tobacco shop, women scrubbing the household linen at a municipal washing trough.
After a café lunch of ham and cheese, wine, coffee, we went back to our room and made love, and then slept wrapped in each other’s arms. I had not known that such happiness existed, being full of Jamie, full of Paris and the light and smells and tastes of that city. I was light-headed with joy. I even loved the smell of the exhaust from the cars, when rainy days trapped the air close to the ground.
In the later afternoon we strolled down the Champs-Élysées, or explored the Roman catacombs running much of the Left Bank, or took the metro to Odéon to sit on a bench at the Luxembourg Gardens. We stopped for coffee or a little glass of brandy when we grew tired, ate bread and cheese when we were hungry, and then when it was dark, went to a bar or café to drink for hours with friends we quickly made, tripping home in the early morning, singing, making love back in our room.
A month, three months, six months passed and Jamie’s portfolio thickened with photographs and he needed to purchase a second, then a third portfolio to hold them all. He had met some other young American artists, none of whom had yet a dealer or a gallery,but it was just a question of time, wasn’t it? The world could not hold out against them forever; soon they would have an exhibit, and they would sit drinking in the evening, thinking up names for the exhibit: The Outlaws, The Stoics, The Pont Neuf Exiles.
“We are going to rent a hall,” Jamie said one summer evening. We were sitting at the little table in our new room in Montparnasse. Even a fleabag hotel had become too expensive and we had moved to a single room. We didn’t have an indoor toilet or hot water, and the walls were so thin we heard the quarrels going on all around us in the other flats, but those things just added to the romance of it all, that’s how young we were.
It was so hot that night that we sat wrapped in dampened towels, and I had poured water over my head to cool it. Drops of water dripped into my eyes so that when I looked at Jamie, he seemed to be underwater.
“A hall?”
“For an exhibit. We’ll put it up ourselves. One painter, one photographer, one sculptor, and a poet who will read his work at selected times.”
“Sounds swell, Jamie.” I wondered how much it would cost, and if his allowance from home would cover the expense of a hall in addition to our rent and meals. “I was thinking. Maybe I should try to get some work.”
Jamie laughed. “What could you do?”
I decided to consider it a challenge. “You’ll see.”
The next morning, when he rose early to go in search of shots, I did not go with him. Sometime during that sleepless night, I had decided that I would be very good at floral arrangement, and I spent the next morning scouring the florist shops of Montparnasse and Montmartre, offering my services.
None of the business owners I spoke with agreed that they needed an
Paris had become the center of gravity. It drew in anyone not nailed to the ground by a different reality, and it had drawn in Lee Miller as well, who had left New York and returned to Paris about the time Jamie and I went there.
A few times I thought I saw her. I’d glimpse the back of a tall blonde strolling the Champs-Élysées, or a profile of a woman sitting in a café with Lee’s long, elegant nose. I had no idea how to find her . . . or, for that matter, why I would want to. We had gone our separate ways. Childhood felt long ago.
Jamie and I soon established a routine for ourselves. He took photographs in the morning, haunting the streets during the precious early morning light, and I went with him, holding his camera case, cleaning lenses, scouting ahead for interesting shots, for lovers kissing under bridges, lean dogs sleeping in private courtyards, old men smoking in front of a tobacco shop, women scrubbing the household linen at a municipal washing trough.
After a café lunch of ham and cheese, wine, coffee, we went back to our room and made love, and then slept wrapped in each other’s arms. I had not known that such happiness existed, being full of Jamie, full of Paris and the light and smells and tastes of that city. I was light-headed with joy. I even loved the smell of the exhaust from the cars, when rainy days trapped the air close to the ground.
In the later afternoon we strolled down the Champs-Élysées, or explored the Roman catacombs running much of the Left Bank, or took the metro to Odéon to sit on a bench at the Luxembourg Gardens. We stopped for coffee or a little glass of brandy when we grew tired, ate bread and cheese when we were hungry, and then when it was dark, went to a bar or café to drink for hours with friends we quickly made, tripping home in the early morning, singing, making love back in our room.
A month, three months, six months passed and Jamie’s portfolio thickened with photographs and he needed to purchase a second, then a third portfolio to hold them all. He had met some other young American artists, none of whom had yet a dealer or a gallery,but it was just a question of time, wasn’t it? The world could not hold out against them forever; soon they would have an exhibit, and they would sit drinking in the evening, thinking up names for the exhibit: The Outlaws, The Stoics, The Pont Neuf Exiles.
“We are going to rent a hall,” Jamie said one summer evening. We were sitting at the little table in our new room in Montparnasse. Even a fleabag hotel had become too expensive and we had moved to a single room. We didn’t have an indoor toilet or hot water, and the walls were so thin we heard the quarrels going on all around us in the other flats, but those things just added to the romance of it all, that’s how young we were.
It was so hot that night that we sat wrapped in dampened towels, and I had poured water over my head to cool it. Drops of water dripped into my eyes so that when I looked at Jamie, he seemed to be underwater.
“A hall?”
“For an exhibit. We’ll put it up ourselves. One painter, one photographer, one sculptor, and a poet who will read his work at selected times.”
“Sounds swell, Jamie.” I wondered how much it would cost, and if his allowance from home would cover the expense of a hall in addition to our rent and meals. “I was thinking. Maybe I should try to get some work.”
Jamie laughed. “What could you do?”
I decided to consider it a challenge. “You’ll see.”
The next morning, when he rose early to go in search of shots, I did not go with him. Sometime during that sleepless night, I had decided that I would be very good at floral arrangement, and I spent the next morning scouring the florist shops of Montparnasse and Montmartre, offering my services.
None of the business owners I spoke with agreed that they needed an
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