Don't mind me, just leave me here

The other day was a heady experience.

We spent time at the Palais Garnier, wandering the staircases and mezzanines, peaking into the theater, and later we had an hours long session at the Bibliothèque nationale de France looking at items from their photography collection.

For the first time I felt grounded in the places we visited; I felt grounded in Paris. For the first time I found myself thinking, “What would it be to live here and work here?” Things finally felt like they were at a relatable scale and the environment felt familiar, despite the grandiose scale of the Palais and the prestige of the BnF.

The Palais was certainly bustling with tourist activity, everyone crowding onto the grand staircase snapping photos of the ornate ceiling and wandering the halls just as we were, marveling that the splendor of the building’s interior. As I ascended each flight and meandered back and forth to each display, I found myself eyeing the doors to the main house, wondering about what sort of world lay behind them. As I reached one of the upper levels, I saw a door that opened up onto a balcony into the theater. Entering the space, my eye was immediately drawn to the grandeur of the house, but my attention was quickly drawn to the stage. I quickly realized that they were in a middle of a tech rehearsal for their opera Giulio Cesare and immediately I felt a pull. I wanted to be out there, on the stage, moving in that space—working. As they brought the house lights down to work on focusing a spot cue, I felt myself transfixed, my focus zeroing in just as the spot was narrowing in on its target. I imagined what was possible in a city full of living art.

If I felt a pang of envy at the Palais, it was nothing compared to the exquisite heartache I felt looking at items from the photography collection at the Bibliothèque nationale. Standing in the viewing room, just outside the archives of the photo collection, I felt an even greater pull to cross the threshold and consume the world just in view, but out of reach. I am thankful for what we were allowed to view from the collection. It’s been so long since I’ve been moved by a photographic experience, and I felt reaffirmed in a truth of my heart—I have an affinity with photography that is bone deep. 

There was a strange moment when I was holding a daguerreotype from 1843, try to tilt it just right in order to reveal its image, while juggling my own camera to capture the moment. And when I saw the image on my viewing screen, of my hand and the fragile plate and transitory image, it suddenly felt very real and I felt myself tear up. I was on the verge of tears for much of the experience—viewing certain works that have been integral to my becoming a photographer, and this experience has fueled my desire to become an archivist.