French la Vie

These two are clearly a couple. Bound together by history, gravity, and matching frames that were once gilded and beautiful. Time has not been kind. Nor has moisture. They are barely hanging on.

She is attempting dignity, but dignity has cracked—literally—right across her forehead and is making a daring escape toward her temple. Her hair once pinned, now rebellious. Once smooth, now textured in a way that says, I used to care.

She sighs, folds her painted arms (you can’t see them, but trust me, they are folded), and says:

You couldn’t have ironed your shirt- a little? You look like you dressed in the dark and shook hands with despair.

His collar droops with exhaustion, and there is a rip near his chest that feels symbolic. He stands there, stoic, eyes slightly glazed, like a man who thought this sitting would be quick and painless.

He looks back at her, offended, and fires back:

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I have dressed up for this? And you—have you ever met a brush? Your hair looks windblown, but not in a romantic way. In a ‘lost a fight with the weather’ way. »

She narrows her eyes and replies:

“You really want to talk about appearances! Look at us. We’re peeling. We’re cracked. We’re barely hanging on the wall. And you’re worried about my hair?”

This is the moment where silence fills the space between them. A thick, centuries-old silence. Dust settles. Paint curls in embarrassment. And then they see me coming along looking at them like nothing was wrong.

I found these two very large paintings, at a brocante today, leaning on a truck. I fell in love with them immediately. I asked my French Husband what he thought about them. He said, “They look exactly like something you would buy. They’re so you.”

I took that as an enormous compliment. I swear I saw those two paintings crack, a smile.