"Paris, as everyone knows, is pre-eminently a gray city. I mention it because, in the realm of watercolor, American painters use this made-to-order gray excessively and obsessively. In France the range of grays is seemingly infinite; here the very effect of gray is lost." Henry Miller - Quiet Days In Clichy.
Counting only ten shades of gray in this purgatorial hallway, I recalled walking on a drizzling November afternoon in 1985 through the Marais. Buses spewing diesel fumes to create filthy clouds hanging head high. The facades along Rue Francis Bourgeois coated a somber gray contracted by a Verdun gray. Even the rain was gray. Henry Miller's words crossed my mind.
I have not counted how many.
But I have seen the grays of Paris.
They are without number.
But when there's light, there will always be the Eternal City of Light
Paris, le Ville-Lumiere.
Sauf quand il ya le pluie.
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