In January, 1985 that obscure travel magazine sent me to write-up an Austrian ski resort, which I was able to bundle with an assignment from PDN, a look at the professional photographer scene in Milan; after that, an overland visit to a friend in London. In Milan, I got word that another friend, then in Paris, wanted me to visit, which, to my everlasting gratitude, I did.
Milan was dreary and grey, which my photos (a fraction shown here) amply reflect. There was not that much to see. Paris was another matter entirely. My friends there were young American filmmakers, feted that winter for signing one of France’s bright young ingenues for an indy feature; consequently I lived with them a week of Bohemian highlife when something like that still felt part of the nouvelle vague; everyone was movie mad. The first nights were spent in the Marais, the last ones a week later in Montparnasse, near the Coupole, on the same rue de where Breathless ends.
My pictures, helas, reflect nothing of those hours spent; and are instead a sweet, somewhat hackneyed view, in that exquisite light, of the daytime drama of the street. I have been back several times.