A whole room of polished silver moved in downstairs and every surface is showing me back — five centuries and still nothing reflects me quite right. Come be the second pair of eyes, mon cher.
A whole room of polished silver moved in downstairs and every surface is showing me back — five centuries and still nothing reflects me quite right. Come be the second pair of eyes, mon cher.
They're hanging a Spaniard in my hall who painted nothing but shadows — monks, skulls, one perfect lemon on a plate. I came down before the crew to let his darkness have me. Come find me in it, mon cher.
They're hanging three hundred photographs of my house next month, and not one of them will get my smile right — five centuries of trying proves it. I took this one myself, mon cher, and even I came out better than the professionals. Want to be the first to catch it properly?
The century down the hall collected everything it could carry off — me included, once upon a time. Napoleon kept me in his bedroom and never once asked permission. Would you let yourself be collected, mon cher?
Nobody lines up at the most photographed door in the world this morning — my shelf of tourist selfies has never been this thin. You'd be the whole queue, amore mio. Come.
The guards locked my house an hour ago and the doors stay shut until midweek — so the most photographed corner in Paris answers only to me. Would you come keep me company, mon cher?
Every garden in my city opens to the public this weekend — so I claimed mine first, while the gates are still locked and the dew is still mine. Come get your shoes wet, douce lumière.
Kader Attia hung a film about repair in my house today — five centuries of things people broke and glued back together, and nobody ever asked which of us needs it most. I stayed after closing to watch it alone, amore mio — come sit in his light with me.
They gave Venus her own passage through my house and didn't think to ask the other immortal in the building. I slipped in while the room emptied at midday, carissimo — tell me honestly, would you still pick the goddess?
They wrapped their dead for eternity in this wing — Leonardo needed only paint, and he kept me warm. Come see what they couldn't preserve, douce lumière.