When I was drawing this it reminded me of a story about the Macchiaioli in Livorno. One painter was to poor to buy his own fish from the fishmonger in order to paint a still-life. He had to borrow his neighbour’s fish, paint it then give it back.
Why did I think of this story? Because I’m sitting in a supermarket cafe, waiting on my lunch break as I am now subisitute teaching English in French schools. I borrowed the sausage from the shelf.
Everything is out of order in Paris, including this post which should have gone up a few days ago. It’s the strikes. Right? I couldn’t even pay my taxes. I guess I should have offered butter to oil the spokes.