Hôtel des Clochards
André Kertész at Michael Dawson Gallery
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Turnips and vegetables on the folding
table. Cut flowers, rather. First of May, 1928. A bunch of flowers, two or
three with their leaves, in the right hand. A metal handrail extends from the
right eye of the vendor through the flowers and the right forearm of the girl
to her right hip, passing through the girdle of Venus and the valise and
continuing into the white tiles, terminating with a flourish. To the rear, a gentleman advancing along
the sidewalk. In front, her back to the camera and about to descend the
flight of stairs leading to the underground train, and ignoring the proffered
flowers at her right hand while holding by its handle a small valise in her
left, and totally surmounted by a black trench coat loosely cinched at the
waist, flapper-capped at a jaunty angle and convent-shod with two-inch heels,
a young lady. In front of a café, by the Métro entrance, seated legless at the scroll of a
balustrade hawking his wares before a small folding table with three potted
sprigs beside it on the pavement, perhaps a veteran of the Great War. Two
large columns painted white above and some dark color below support the roof
above the café tables. The balustrade descends architecturally speaking in a
series of simple orders like a geological cut, dominated by the plain white
tile characteristic of the institution. The light is diffuse, and comes from
above. |
