I moved to Paris in 2010 for an exchange at l’École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux Arts through my university in British Columbia. It was here that I began visually documenting my quotidian experiences in accordion notebooks.
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I moved to Paris in 2010 for an exchange at l’École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux Arts through my university in British Columbia. It was here that I began visually documenting my quotidian experiences in accordion notebooks.
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One late evening, walking home along the Canal Saint Martin from the Jaurès métro station, I saw a blonde woman with a small frame rolling her shopping cart towards me, on the opposite side of the street. I had headphones in, she had headphones in. Even when she was far away there was something familiar about her outline.
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In 1960, Louis Malle directed a film called “Zazie in the Metro,” telling the story of a young girl who is sent to Paris for two days while her mother spends the weekend with her lover. All the child wants is to ride the Metro, but as is often the case in Paris, the trains are on strike.
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I was late for Creative Writing and was rushing up the stairs when I suddenly met my class who were on their way to the computers to hear our guest speaker. Immediately I pictured a middle aged man or woman ready to tell us about his life and career as a writer, resumed into a tedious two hour lecture. Of this I was completely mistaken.
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The news came down heavy on Sunday morning. On one half of the Observer’s front page: Amy Winehouse is dead. On the other: a Norwegian fascist has gone on a killing spree, murdering a hundred teenagers and an increasing number of people in Oslo. People borrow each other’s newspapers and shake their heads. The tone is quieter today.
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