Hotel de Paris

I’m sad to say my time at a WCW blogger has come to an end. I have deeply enjoyed expressing my thoughts and feelings about art each week. I have learned some great lessons and am now more confident in my abilities to talk about my work. As my thought, I’d like to share a personal story with you.


I remember the day like it was yesterday.

It was a chilly Parisian afternoon. The wind was frigid enough to chill your bones every time it weaved its way through the crowd. The sun was preparing to set. I’d say it was about 3:45/4:00 in the afternoon.

I was in Montmartre with my mom and we were trying to find the artists’ square. We asked many people who could only respond in their language. We kept going. Finally we met a man who was fluent in both French and English! We were so relieved. He pointed us in the right way.

The artists’ square was a beautiful sight. I felt an overwhelming sense of calm and community. There were many people walking around all the artists and their stands, but no one seemed rude or in a rush. It was not a bustling scene. It was relaxed, with wind chimes twinkling and soft music making its way out of the open shop doors.

Now, like I’ve said before, sometimes I make a connection with a certain piece and cannot provide reason why. My mom asked me to find the piece I loved most and together we began our journey through the tiny square, stopping at each and every stall to see all of their pieces. I wasn’t floored by anything… up until the very last stall.

An Asian man who had been raised in France was painting outdoor scenes. All of his paintings were of buildings, but they were each decorated in some way – a windowsill overflowing with flowers, a doorway blocked with children’s shoes and a bicycle.

My eyes grazed a painting of an open window and I was immediately swept off my feet. Through the window you could see another doorway open, leading to another doorway – as if there was a magical courtyard in there somewhere. The flowerpots on the window’s ledge were abundantly filled with flowers of every color.

The painting was very expensive. My heart broke a tiny bit, wishing so deeply I could take it home with me. I began to make my way through the vendors again, trying to see if I could find a cheaper one to buy myself.

My mom must’ve seen that nothing was catching my eye like that window painting. She’d seen the connection I’d made with it.

I was looking through some watercolor paintings when my mom tapped my shoulder and brought me over to the work I’d loved so much. She told me that every young artist has to begin their collection somewhere. She told me that she was going to buy me the painting as long as I promised to reflect on the memory, my time in Paris, and always cherish the piece.

I hugged her tight. I could not stop smiling.

Painting from Paris

To all the other young artists out there: It is never too late or too soon to start your collection. Cherish every piece you collect, and never forget the story behind each one. They will carry you through the times where all creativity seems to be lost, and they will inspire you when you cannot imagine a moment without a paintbrush in hand.

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