It is raining hard in these images. As it rains on the city. In the beams of headlights and below streetlamps. On the slate roofs, on the awnings of bistros. It is raining on the Butte-aux-Cailles, far below my apartment window; on the banks of the Seine on l’île Saint-Louis where my steps invariably lead me. It rains all afternoon, as high as a downpour, as high as rain.
The rain streams down my windowpane, it is the fog in my eyes: a veil of melancholy, or of joy, between the world and me. These pictures are much more than a souvenir of ephemeral instants; they are my inner landscapes. And I muse upon Henri de Régnier’s lines, making only the slightest change.
- It is raining, and eyes closed I listen
- To the landscape
- Spilling the entirety of its rain
- Into the shadow I created within myself.
