I had no plan that day, just classic Paris wandering. The kind of wandering where you trust your instincts even though they’ve betrayed you before. I got lost. Again.
Of course I did. But in that oddly predictable way, getting lost dumped me right in front of the Emanuela Campoli Gallery, like the city rolled its eyes and said, Fine, here’s where you were meant to go. (We have a slow burn type of relationship.
Inside, the Paulina Peevey exhibit pulled me in immediately. Her work always feels like it’s prying open some forgotten drawer in your mind, but nicely, with good manners. I was circling the room, pretending I wasn’t internally unraveling, when the gallerist approached with a spark in their eye.
“Would you like to see more?”
Now, listennnn.
There are few phrases more intoxicating than that. I lit up like a kid offered the keys to the candy shop. I probably nodded too fast, but the damage was done.
They swept open these massive double doors.
doors so theatrical I’m convinced they were cast in a supporting role in a past life. Behind them: a marble staircase that looked like it belonged in a film where everyone wears sunglasses indoors and has extremely complicated relationships. (I mean.)
Up we went. The street noise evaporated. The air shifted. And then…
they left me. ALONE. In the private section of the gallery. No supervision, no soft reminders not to touch the art. Just pure, unfiltered trust.
It was delicious.
I wandered that hidden room like I had been handed state secrets. It all felt slightly illicit, like I had slipped backstage at someone’s memory.
And honestly? I loved every second. (That may be an understatement.)
Eventually I made my way back down the marble steps and out into the chaos of Paris.
But that upstairs moment
being lost, then found, then ushered into a secret,
stuck to me like perfume.
The foreign kind.
Sometimes the best part of getting lost is who decides to let you in while you’re wandering.
~A
*Photos from the Emanuel’s Campoli Gallery