Paris will forever hold a very special space in my heart. It is also the one city I have an almost complicated, bittersweet relationship with—and yet, hug my heart it eternally will. Lesser feelings aside, I truly don’t believe a girl will ever forget her first trip to the City of Light.
I first came to Paris as a young woman in her twenties, dreaming as an artist does, and longing for the ethereal experience I’d seen in film. What I’d encountered as a youthful, somewhat fearful and timid girl arriving in her city of dreams is mostly as you’d expect and all of which you’d not. That very first visit still stays with me to this day, due to the Summer Haze that hit and the many more that followed since.
Before I continue, Reader, I must share a small, celebratory update with you. A few days ago, I sent a private email to a select number of readers—perhaps you might’ve been one of them—amidst my summer haze, one in which I still find myself now. Each year, this season of my life arises where I experience a sort of soft, romantic outlook, lost in a blur of time, love, and rest for a few treasured weeks—my only complaint is that it ought to last a lot longer than it inevitably tends to. And in that moment—in reminiscing in the aura of that one summer in Paris all those years ago—I chose to share a small sentiment of that, of which I will now extend to you.
Reader, I am eternally grateful to have you here with me, reading my work, and attempting to make sense of this thing we call life together—and as a gesture of my gratitude, it is my honour to invite you to upgrade your subscription to of an artist with 50% off the yearly fee forever. This makes an annual subscription £20, which is the equivalent of £1.67 per month—but spots will be limited, and the discount will cease when each of them is filled.
Should you wish to take advantage of that, you may do so by clicking through below.
There’s so much I wish to share with you, and yet, I often wonder what to keep private and put behind a paywall or store safely in my journal to reflect upon alone. I know I overthink it, as I’m sure we all do from time to time—but I wish to be brave and part with more of my creativity as the days go on. As of an artist continues to grow, I desire to create a sense of community among us—I feel more at peace with the idea of establishing a small group of us who wish to go deeper on the philosophy of life, slow and intentional living, finding fulfilment, becoming, and enjoying the beauty of life.
It’s for this reason that I chose to limit the number of discounted annual subscriptions to 100 and allocate them to those who wish to take advantage first, of which there are now just 95 slots left—I shall continue to update you on when this offer will cease.
If you are considering upgrading with 50% off, I encourage you to click through via your chosen browser to ensure the fee equates to £20, as I believe it is more costly in-app.
As a paid subscriber to of an artist, you will enjoy:
private essays on slow living, philosophy, fulfilment, and the creative life of an artist and philosophical think pieces in the philosophy for being series.
exclusive subscriber-only series: little life in the hamlet and the upcoming launch of the writer
full access to intimate diary entries
The very first time I found myself in this effortless romantic, flow-like state of a summer haze, I’d not long arrived in Paris. I still remember how fast my heart began to race as I sped through the city in the back of a taxi on my way to a small room I’d rented for myself, how slow time seemed to go as I wandered street after street with little money to do much else, how proud I felt to have finally made it to the one place I knew my heart would feel at home in. I’d dreamt of that moment for what had felt like a lifetime, and in many ways, it was much of a dream as I’d always hoped it would be.
I rose early and made my way to a local bakery to fill up on baguette, hoping it would suffice for much of the day. I’d walk until my unsuitably clad feet couldn’t carry me any further, trying to sip as little water as possible to avoid having to head back to my room too early. I’d spent the evenings writing, painting, and contemplating a life here, a love here, and existence here—what it might look like, how it might work, what it might mean for my life and my future. I’d even found myself in conversation with a charming man who worked at a nearby hotel and once lived in a village not too far from where I grew up, allowing myself to imagine our life together and how that might look. I retired early—much as I still do—allowing my tired body to fall into the deep, unshakable slumber it so longed for, before doing it all again the very next day.
Most days I ate in my room. I passed Café de Flore, wanting so very badly to take an empty seat, order the famous hot chocolate with chantilly cream, and take out my notebook to make notes on what I saw, what I felt, and what I knew, but I didn’t. I saw a mother with her young daughter, drinking tea and enjoying chocolate eclairs, as I walked by the window of Mademoiselle Angelina after an afternoon spent reading in the Jardin du Luxembourg, smiling myself in recognition of a future wish I had for myself. I spent a portion of my budget on admission to the Louvre, allowing myself to get lost in a blur of art and beauty as I made my way around the maze, roaming from room to room, forgetting time and sitting with some of the world’s great works, before finally refusing a kind stranger’s offer to take a photograph of me with the Mona Lisa. Most days, as I made my way back to my room, I picked up cheese and fruit to accompany what remained of the baguette later that night, before writing more of what I knew, some of what I did not, and little of everything else.
This time in my life felt like a coming of age.
Each of the days quickly blurred into one as I forgot time, immersed myself in the experience of living, and felt truly present and alive for the very first time in my life. It was as romantic and peaceful and soft as I’d always wanted it to be, but it was also lonely. I spent the entire time alone, rarely speaking to another, rarely looking another in the eye. And despite being a largely introverted character who much prefers her own company to that of sizeable groups or those who aren’t agreeable, it left me with a sense of melancholy. It was also the very first time in my life I’d come face to face with a dream I’d yearned for for years, only to realise that dreams don’t always play out how we’d hope.
And yet, that wasn’t a bad thing. My bubble didn’t burst, my haze didn’t falter—it simply left me with a strong desire to do something with my life, to make more for myself, and seek out that connection I so desperately desired, in the right way, and on my own terms. As much as I’d romanticised expatriatism, I’d come to realise that it wouldn’t quite work without a small connection to home. I knew I still wanted a life in Paris and that this wouldn’t be my one and only visit—in fact, it was and is not—but it wouldn’t be then, nor in that way. I knew I needed community, belonging, and— one thing my heart was missing—love. And I knew I could make it happen.
That summer, the haze I found myself in felt so infectious. I’d never felt so at peace in myself and how I’d spent my time. I was more creative than I’d been in months, and the words just seemed to flow. It was nothing short of beautiful. The following summer, I hoped I could recreate the very same feeling—but not in Paris. Still not in love, still longing to find my place in the world, and still caring too much, I pulled myself into a similar summer haze by memory alone. I gave myself permission to roam freely and widely, taking days out as I saw fit, working from various places, choosing to live on as little as I could as I immersed myself in nature, art, and life. I’ve encouraged myself to do it every year since and, so far, it’s paid of tremendously.
If you’ve been considering becoming a paid subscriber to of an artist, I invite you to take 50% off the yearly fee forever in honour of my summer haze by clicking below.
Life is full of so much magic, if only you know where to look for it. While I can’t dismiss the pain and suffering that exists in the world, that which we can feel ourselves over trivial and not so trivial experiences, there is an abundance of beauty for us to tap into whenever we feel ready. Just before my first summer in Paris, I’d been quite poorly. I’d felt a loss that I never thought I’d be able to feel, a low I’d never thought I’d reach—and yet I did. I also lived through it, survived. I found passion and joy again, I reached health once more, I gave myself permission to want once again. It wasn’t easy at first, but finding myself fully present and wrapped up in the air of Paris and all that it represented to my hurting, healing, and impressionable self gave me a new appreciation for life and all that it could be.
I was an artist in Paris with little to my name and not much more to give, but I was there, and I was willing to take whatever the city wanted to leave me with. I may not have fallen in love or fostered a friendship group or even found it in myself to sign a longer lease on where I was staying like I secretly wanted to, but I found myself in that city. I found what it meant to live, I nurtured my creativity, I travelled alone for the first time, and I fully saw what life could be, and for that, I am forever grateful.
Reader, perfect moments may not always go to plan and our dreams may end up a little differntly to how we once thought they might look—but true, real, raw moments always await—and they’re often the ones that hit us the hardest, stay with us the longest, and put us on the true path we were always meant to be on, that I’m sure of.
Thank you for being here and reading—it truly means the world to me.
If you’re not ready to become a paid subscriber but you’d like to make a donation to support of an artist and keep pieces like this free for readers, you can do so here.
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