“Boulangerie Poilâne: A Toast to French Breads.” I inhaled the penetrating aromas of bread: strong, yeasty and hot –– and stood transfixed at the edge of this sweltering extraordinary place. In a flash, the steely glint of the master’s blade-tip slashed two long surface cuts into the boule to stave off tearing and brand the loaf. Could I steal a pinch from a raw, soft-white boule in its proofing basket resting close by?
“Paris, come sketch with me.” In my carry-on bag was make-up, a change of clothes to slip into before I left the airport, and my two-week itinerary of my day-to-day schedule: museum sketching in the mornings and neighborhood sketching in the afternoon and evening. Was there a secret for me to discover with brush and paint?
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