Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg Page B

paintings and wares of the street displays of the artists and merchants. Even when Francois encouraged him on toward the fair, he was reluctant. He kept lagging farther and farther behind as they walked, and Francois had to retrace his steps and try to hurry Taylor along.
    “But look at all of these,” Taylor said, pointing to the inventory where he stood. “I do know a little about art—they are intriguing and accomplished, not really amateurish. Francois, just wait a moment. Indulge me.” He would not be coaxed from the stall of one young artist, with dozens of oils on display and with splashes of paint adorning every section of his clothing, including his shoes, as if he were a mobile canvas. Taylor studied a number of pictures and finally settled on one. In it, a woman was walking along the bluff overlooking a lake, and the beauty of the landscape, the trees swaying in the heavy wind with the woman tightening her shawl, reminded him of a fall day in his own back yard. “Look at the colors. Emily would love this. That’s my girlfriend, back home, in Chicago.” Francois let only a small smile show, but inside he was extremely amused by the suddenly adolescent enthusiasm of this very mature looking young adult.
    “Could you please ask him how much it is? I would love to bring this home for her. Do you accept a price? Do you negotiate? I’m sure you do. We could settle on a price and I could return with the French francs.”
    Instead of answering him immediately, Francois took Taylor aside. The French artist would unlikely have a command of English, but he had such a burgeoning optimism in the anticipation of a sale that Francois felt sorry to have to be the spoiler. “I am guiding you in many ways on your stay—and now I am just asking you—to take time in making a selection. Do not buy the first thing you see. Become more familiar with the offerings.”
    “But everything is so beautiful. How could there not be a thousand great paintings, when there are a thousand beautiful scenes here, everywhere I look? The Seine, the bridges, the parks, the buildings, there is such character here…” And he would have continued if Francois had not interrupted.
    “Mr. Taylor. I do not mean this disrespectfully to you, as I am honored by your praise of my city, of everything Parisian. But I assure you, you will find many more wonderful objects for your discriminating tastes.” Within hours, he would be proven right on two counts.
    When they entered the fairgrounds, they immediately procured a map of the area, and stepped aside from the moving throng to review their choices.
    “Ah, exactly what we want. We will have time now for one stop only and so I see where we should head.” Francois continued speaking as they walked in the direction his finger was following on the map. “In a short time already I feel your tastes. Today, we will enter only the Exhibition des Maitres d’Art Independants at the Petit-Palais, where it is said the Impressionists have an inviting showing.”
    It seemed to Taylor as if Francois had read his mind. He understood that this initial visit to the exposition would have to be brief, as he felt that in the days to come he would have many opportunities to visit the international pavilions with the rest of the group and to study the technological advances at the exhibits. But first the art galleries were a magnet to him. He had loved studying the many works of art that hung at his parents’ home in Kenilworth, impressive works that his grandfather, the senior Addison, both loved and shrewdly invested in. Paintings by many famous artists were on view in the gallery on their upper reception level at home. Among Taylor’s favorites were two oils by the American expatriate Mary Cassatt, each featuring a pair of women relaxing on couches at tea time. He knew that Cassatt herself had spent most of her productive years with the other Impressionists in France. Another treasured painting was by Alfred