A summer in Barbizon.

The wheels of my Gitane bike are blocking the cobblestones of Rue des Artistes, fucking cobblestones... The air is dry and hot, I'm eating dust.
My freshly washed, yet still tangled, hair slides on the curves of the light air currents, like the breath of God. I imagine the nest forming on the back of my skull, smiling at the wind I close my eyes, "this morning is like a dance."
A loud horn pulls me from this moment of grace and reminds me that I am driving on the only busy road in the pretty village of Barbizon.
I throw my bike into the planter on the hotel forecourt and stride across the main room.
A picturesque artists' haven, in La Folie, time seems to stand still, the furniture, the paintings, the works are ageless... We are somewhere else, we are finally at home.
A familiar face dazzles me with its smile, I stop running, I kiss Lionel. It's time for my painting class with Alejandro, a rather reserved Argentinian, dark and charming, not very tall and not very virile. Alejandro always wears gas station attendant overalls; painting is serious.
Today I'm the muse. I put on the sand-colored linen voile dress he made available to me in the entrance hall of his bright studio. The smell of turpentine scratches my throat and catches my eye, I take off my underwear, he asked me to, I accepted, the dress is almost transparent but only the sun's rays pass through, the sweet voice of the Hermanos Guttieres resonates in the enclosure, mingling with the fields of colonizing plush from the Fontainebleau woods, the sun floods the room, the white cotton curtains create areas of shadow, it's warm, there are bursts of color everywhere... It's masterful.
I lean against the wall bathed in light, arms at my sides, head slightly raised, and the work is born little by little, with joy in my heart and the passion for happy days....