Impressions

The sky was a constant powder blue. The sun had already reached its highest point and was relentlessly burning its way westwards. Several kilometers north of Paris, a garden was thriving. Had it been smaller, it would almost certainly have been described as a cottage garden. The house to which it was attached was considerably larger than a cottage and its grounds fairly extensive. At the rear several walkways led between mists of colour, each one blending into the next, vieing for space and the privilege to grow. No area of ground was wasted, everywhere shoots rose up like firework displays bursting into colour. All around the scent of lavender and sage and honeysuckle drifted on the air. Still further from the house was a small lake made intimate by the light that was gently distilled by surrounding plane and willow trees. The surface of the lake, was almost entirely covered with water lillies, their petals of cream and chalky blue, complemeting the emeralds, jades, olives and cobalts of the leaves and sky. Here the presence of irises and lillies was so strong that smell dissolved into taste.
At the far side of the lake a curved wooden bridge, painted green was neatly framed by foliage. On the apex of the bridge two young women clad in white silk and lace blouses with long taffeta skirts and each holding parasols were gazing into the lake.
"I do love to stand here and admire the garden. You are so lucky Brigitte." the elder one began.
"Yes it is a tranquil place. But we mustn't stay too long. He may spot us. And then we'll have to stay all day while he paints us."
"I don't think I should mind being painted here so much. It's so much more pleasant than lying naked on a couch in a back street of Paris."
"Yes. Each to her own I suppose." Brigitte twirled her parasol absent-mindedly.
"He does love to paint doesn't he. And you know, some of them are rather good."
“Well, I know how much people rave... and they do look quite good from a distance. But if you get close up - well it all seems a bit messy.”
“Oh Francoise, I wouldn't say they were a mess. A little random perhaps. But he does have a certain something. He seems to capture the impression of what he paints. Even if it isn't very realistic.”
“You know he can't see very well.”
“Surely not. You do surprise me.“
“Actually he's as blind as an albino mole. He fell into the lake last week, easel and all.”
“Oh Francoise, the poor man.”
“Poor man nothing! His painting, when we fished it out, was hailed as a masterpiece. I’ve heard there are painters all over Paris dipping their work into the Seine now. They even have a name for it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes they call it drenchism.”
“Oh Francoise, I can believe it. They really are most impressionable people these artist types. And always on the lookout for something new.”
“Well, I expect there will be a new movement starting any moment now.“
“If I were you Francoise I’d get my hands on one of those paintings, before London gets to hear of it.”
They paused to watch a dragonfly flicker through shafts of imprisoned light.
“Brigitte..”
“Yes Francoise?”
“Tell me about the back streets of Paris.”