In the Nizhny Novgorod Kremlin, I attended an exhibition—its exact title now escapes me—showcasing French advertising posters from the era of Maupassant and Gauguin. It was a mesmerising experience, offering a vivid glimpse into the essence of that bygone time: the allure of wine and absinthe, the hazy intoxication of opium, the dimly lit charm of cheap eateries, and dodgy dens with cheap sheilas.
I found myself wondering what it must have been like to live in such an age. To sit in flickering candlelit bistros where artists debated philosophy and love with fervour, to tread rain-slick cobblestones that whispered with history, to discover inspiration in the raw beauty of imperfection. It was a world so far removed from our own, yet it seemed to call out with a strange, undeniable familiarity.
I found myself wondering what it must have been like to live in such an age. To sit in flickering candlelit bistros where artists debated philosophy and love with fervour, to tread rain-slick cobblestones that whispered with history, to discover inspiration in the raw beauty of imperfection. It was a world so far removed from our own, yet it seemed to call out with a strange, undeniable familiarity.
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In the Nizhny Novgorod Kremlin, I attended an exhibition—its exact title now escapes me—showcasing French advertising posters from the era of Maupassant and Gauguin. It was a mesmerising experience, offering a vivid glimpse into the essence of that bygone time: the allure of wine and absinthe, the hazy intoxication of opium, the dimly lit charm of cheap eateries, and dodgy dens with cheap sheilas.
I found myself wondering what it must have been like to live in such an age. To sit in flickering candlelit bistros where artists debated philosophy and love with fervour, to tread rain-slick cobblestones that whispered with history, to discover inspiration in the raw beauty of imperfection. It was a world so far removed from our own, yet it seemed to call out with a strange, undeniable familiarity.
I found myself wondering what it must have been like to live in such an age. To sit in flickering candlelit bistros where artists debated philosophy and love with fervour, to tread rain-slick cobblestones that whispered with history, to discover inspiration in the raw beauty of imperfection. It was a world so far removed from our own, yet it seemed to call out with a strange, undeniable familiarity.
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