Gaston.

@highcontrastgrey.bsky.social

246 Followers 76 Following

A nomad, a collector, a flâneur, a bohemian artist, a tea cup kind of guy, a Master of Architecture currently searching for a new home. https://highcontrastgrey.weebly.com/links.html

Looking up at the sky between the valley of golden stone buildings of Provence. The light illuminates the top storey of the building as it chases away the shadows those of us at the ground thrive in. Thin, whispy clouds break up the field of blue above.
A candle just out of frame illuminates my apartment. Hand to my chin, I gaze at the dancing flame - watching it swirl and twist as the wax of the candle shrinks. I'm wearing my great grandmother's beret, pulled to a point in front of me with her Scottish crest pin resting behind my ear, to match my black suit jacket. Although, it's the weekend, so I'm casually omitting a tie. One can't be too formal when home alone on a Sunday.
Foggy morning near République. The streets are empty as clouds devour the tops of buildings in Rennes. Mansards fade away into the white of the sky. Looking down the road in the center of town, the repeating form of tall street lights lining the river rest at the same height while the road undulates below.
Beautiful stone Parisian construction blends the ground floor and first storey in varying hues of grey as though it has been raining, but only drenched part of the building. Recessed in this double-height doorway is a TARDIS blue double door with shiny brass details. Above this door a Juliette balcony with a less-violet blue and white trim completes the doorway.
A selection of four windows above a "Morello no.146 kebabs, pizzas, burgers" neon sign. The bright greens and oranges of the sign stands out boldly on a black field upon a yellow (well, yellow-grey) sandstone Glasgow tenement. The lower two windows have curtains matching the stone parted to expose the black interior of an unilluminated home. Some poppies peer out the window on the right. Striving for light and remembrance upon the world. The upper two windows have white paper curtains that fold down and reflect a more modern sentiment. One open one closed.
Dressed in my best antique French tuxedo and bowler, I stand with my teacup and saucer in hand. Looking out, I have somehow found myself in a forest next to a rushing river, far from civilization and cafés and everywhere that I would hope to find myself. At least I have some tea to ground me in my memories of civilization.
A façade in Aix. The Provencial stone glows with a golden hue with taches of greys and browns giving texture and beauty to the unrefined and imperfect. An enameled metal 52 is embedded into the wall by the upper-left carved stone of the entrance door framing. That classic French white field with blue numbers. Bundles of wires dance around the exterior of the building to give hint that it may have been constructed before the advent of electricity or our worldly connections via cables. Above the entry doorway there's a 1st storey window framed out in repeated order of its neighbors, but is only a quarter open as a window, as the rest has been filled in. Shutter open, it exposes a solitary potted plant, a piece of living nature in an otherwise stone and metal setting.
A sleepy, rainy city beginning to wake up under a grey-blue sky where night holds onto its last vestiges of darkness. The streets are stained in rainwater and the lights stream vertically across the pavement in their hazy reds and yellows. All the apartment lights are still turned off - with a few shutters closing the world off - as the buildings sleep under the white noise of Bretagne rain. There's a beauty in the quiet early morning where few are out or awake. A feeling that the streets are for the taking. That the sound of one's footsteps on the wet pavement has yet to be lost in the din of the day.
Black and white Paris. It's night and the streetlight flares as though it were directed by JJ Abrams. The life of the evening fills the lively streets as people dash about, passing by the illuminated restaurants attempting to lure them in.
Dressed in my best antique French tuxedo, I rest against a back alley brick wall. My bright red parasol up, it keeps the falling snow off of me as I sip my tea. I've perched my vintage Samsonite suitcase on top of a metal girder to act as my table for my teaset.
While I'm lost in the middle-of-nowhere and searching for civilization, I pause to have some tea as I perch on a cliff face overlooking a waterfall. As I dip my madeleine biscuit into my tea, my memory transports me back to France and my mornings of madeleine biscuits and tea next to the window as I would watch the world pass by. The Bretagne rains make a beautiful din as I watch people walking along the street under the rain. But soon the memory fades and I find myself back on that cliff face wishing that I could find the way home. At least the tea keeps me warm and connected to happier times in the past.
Rennes at night. There's a competition of lighting temperatures for streetlights illuminating a shut corner shop (Kaki Crazy Station with its anglophone name painting a curious setting in France) - warm yellow to the left and cold white to the right. The chamfered corner between the two holds the shadow line, preventing their combative mixture while the night claims the Mansard roof of the building, bathing it in blackness. Only thin slivers of light escaping from the attic apartment windows hold back the complete consumption by the inky night. Streetlights expose a palimpsest of old graffiti - scrubbed of, but leaving a lighter wall shade - hastily scrawled upon the space between windows of the first storey. Were the artists precariously perched on the thin ledge of shop façade, or did they have better means of reaching such heights ?
Doorway of the former Bank of Scotland branch in Glasgow. Located at the corner of Carlton Terrace and Bridge Street. Architect : John Burnet, senior (1814-1901), 1857. The mascaron is unclear. It could be the goddess Demeter (Ceres) because of the fruit and ears of corn, or the blindfold may point to Themis. Sculptor : John Crawford (1830-61)
Sitting at a small table by a window, there's a bouquet of flowers that have dried in their glass vase. A couple of teacups sit on the table in front of the flowers with their cups overturned on the saucers. No friends are visiting to join for the morning tea. I sit in at the table, lazily holding my teacup as I gaze out at the diffused light filtering through the lace curtains. The springtime winds shake the old windows in their frames as I look up to the sky and wish for rain. My apartment is an oasis of civilization while I'm in exile. All dressed up and with nowhere to go. I'm not wearing my jacket, but still wearing my best antique suit.
Paris at night. Looking up, the tops of the buildings get lost in the darkness of night except for the illuminated windows putting out different shades of yellows like glowing golden gems. The decorations on the balcons become silhouettes in front of the illuminated windows. A tree twists and dances before its spotlight of the center stage second storey window.
Rennes at night. The liminal space of the groundfloor shop lights on at the corner store, but no one is to be found. The old stone buildings are illuminated by streetlights mounted to the sides of the buildings. The white light streaming down the sides of the buildings shows off the curves of the buildings that flaunt their bulging center. There's a beauty in architecture that pushes beyond the boundaries of straight lines.
Black and white street view of Paris. Walking down the middle of a pedestrianized street in Paris, a man buries his hands deep in his jacket pockets. Slightly hunched, he hopes to keep warm on the walk. To his left, a gathering has come together outside a brightly illuminated doorway. Unknown what is through the light, it fills the street with the long shadows of those who wait outside of it.
Sitting at a small table by a window, there's a bouquet of flowers that have dried in their glass vase. A couple of teacups sit on the table in front of the flowers with their cups overturned on the saucers. No friends are visiting to join for the morning tea. I sit in at the table, pouring myself some tea with turning away from the diffused light filtering through the lace curtains. My apartment is an oasis of civilization while I'm in exile. All dressed up and with nowhere to go. I'm not wearing my jacket, but still wearing my best antique suit.
The blue hour in Paris. The sun has just set, but the sky is still a bright light blue as the last vestiges of the day have yet to be cast away. Looking out across the dark waters of a canal, the streetlights reflect their bright lights. Slowly people are returning to their homes and turning their lights on, creating a patchwork quilt of light upon their building's façade. A tagged graffiti delivery van glows under the streetlights adding that touch of life, where people add their own little mark upon their city.
It's a cloudy day in Scotland while wandering the Pollok Country Park in the southwest of Glasgow. Looking at the eastern side of the Pollok house and where the library is kept, the view out is of a beautifully manicured geometric hedge maze (at knee height so as no one gets lost). The house, built in 1752, is of that beautiful Scottish grey and tan stone, and the chimneys show years of usage, as the closer to the top, the blacker they get. Irregularities of stone give way to different shades under the pollution. Like a patchwork quilt, the beauty is not in the sameness, but the coming together of differences.
A wooden door in Paris. The Parisians love their details, and this façade is no exception - carved filigree adorns the doorway header, which has resting up it a short but wide Juliette balcony covered in small pots of plants. Ivy is taking over the balcony, and a wide planter of red flowers hangs over the balcony railing. The green and reds are a beautiful contrast to the light tan of the stone and the oak of the door.
Once again, I've found myself in the middle of nowhere, far from civilization, but taking a little break to watch a waterfall. Standing at the water's edge and dressed in my best antique French tuxedo, I jauntily rest my vintage red floral parasol on my shoulder. The brisk winds whip down the chasm caused by eons of water slowly eroding away at the landscape and the chill of the wet wind laps at my face. The warmth of the many layers of antique wool sustain me.
A deserted view in Paris looking out from the Pont de Bir-Hakeim. The Art Nouveau riveted columns in their organic curved forms hold up the upper elevated train track. It's a grey spring day with clouds blocking the sunlight and the trees only starting to once again turn green after a long break.
Paris in the blue hour - when the sky is shining its last bit of silvery blue, but the darkness of night has already started to claim the streets. Looking out from the lower of a split-level street, the neon signs of the city fill the darkened valleys. A green cross dances on the corner, signaling the pharmacy, while red and yellow lights next door advertise a boucherie. The colors of lights compete in a display of contrasting colors.
Paris at night. It's late and most people have already turned off the lights and ended their day. Headed to bed and ready to let the next day start. The building in the foreground looks like a slice has been taken out of the side where the details don't wrap the corner and from there a golden light glows. An architectural valley filled with light.
Dressed in my best antique French tuxedo and bowler, I stand on the top of a rock edge, looking across a chasm. My furled psrasol stands in my hand as a walking stick. The whipping winds through the chasm being too strong to leave it unfurled. A vintage yellow Samsonite suitcase sits crooked on the rock edge, acting as a table to hold my teapot and teacup at my feet.
It's the end of the sunset as the gradation from hazy grey-blue to dirty yellows and oranges fills the sky. A couple of lines of jet plane travel intersect the horizon. Looking out over the rooftops of Paris, the last moments of sunlight highlight their edges while their chimneys and television aeriels stand in silhouettes. In the distance, the Dame de Fer, la Tour Eiffel, stands tall in the mists of evening taking over the streets below her.
Evening in Rennes. A delivery driver leans against the chamfered scorner wall outside a pharmacy, helmet sill on, he flips through his phone. Night is beginning and the shop across from the pharmacy has shut their curtains, but the light inside fills the street with diffused light. The street level awash in white light while in the winding streets in the distance glow golden.
Paris at night, but it's the City of Lights, so everything is illuminated in contrast to the deep shadows of night. A large, imposing double door of carved orange-colored wood stands shut. Ages of water damage have stained the bottom of the doors as it fades into light greys. Lights are on inside but far down a hallway that we can not see. The light fails to give more than a pale shadowy hint to the high round windows. The left door is blocked by cascading orders of stacked bent wood café chairs. Their woven plastics strands of off-white glow in the evening light.
Dressed in my best antique French tuxedo and bowler, I stand on a grassy cliff edge overlooking a lake in the process of drying up. In my hand, I hold a pair of pearled opera glasses. I'm not finding what I'm looking for - civilization is far away.
Night in Paris. The lights behind the entry doors to the number 9 apartment building glow, casting the intricate metal details over the glass into silhouette. Upstairs, the lights are also on, but the sheer curtains have been drawn to obscure the peeking of passersby on the street below - once the Juliette balcony trees fill out some more the privacy will perhaps no longer necessitate the curtains, but for now the diffused light spills out into the street. Hands buried deep in his coat pockets and shoulders hunched in the crisp evening chill, a man hurries up the hill, blurred in his speed to reach his destination.
The yellows and oranges of the buildings in Aix glow from the sunshine of a cloudless day in Aix. Looking up from the narrow valley of buildings, the bright sun is kept at bay for the upper storeys of the south-facing building - who has loosely shut their shutters - and we see only a jagged sliver of blue above.
Sunset in Rennes. The clouds have been ignited in pastel yellows and oranges, while the river below reflects in the colors in deeper vibrant tones. The lights have not yet been illuminated in the city and the buildings stand dark and quiet. Like the leafless trees rounding the riverbank, the city is dormant while the drama of fleeting time passes in the sky above.
Once again, I've found myself in the middle of nowhere, far from civilization, but taking a little break in my search with a bit of tea. Perched on a rock edge and dressed in my best antique French tuxedo and bowler, I sip on tea while watching the falling water of a waterfall before me. The tails of my jacket drape on the rocks behind me and a vintage Samsonite suitcase acts as a small table to hold my teapot. The brisk winds whip down the chasm caused by eons of water slowly eroding away at the landscape and I huddle under my red parasol, resting on my shoulder, to hide from chill of the wind lapping at my face. The warmth of the tea sustains me (and the many layers of antique wool).
Night in Paris. People walk along the dark, cobbled walkways. The shops are shut, but the late-night fast food shops are still open. The restaurant floods the street with bright white light, and the waiter stands illuminated amongst his empty terrace seating tables. He takes a drink from his water bottle as he waits to seat customers. His athletic wear outfit sets the tone for the restaurant. None of the people walking by make eye contact. It's still too early for the drunk crowd in search of something to soak up the alcohol. In the distance, Porte Saint-Martin stands, glowing in yellow light. An old gate to the city constructed in 1674, it's now a decorative arch. The city has grown up around it and the wall it was a part of has disappeared to the passage of time. It's now that palimpsest giving a glimpse into the past - a piece of living history to know where we once were.
Classic styles and forms. The entropy of wood and paint. Time progresses forward but our pasts hold together our present. A reddish orange shopfront façade accents a classic yellow stone building of Aix. The menu is painted onto the panels between doors in a beautiful script and the top lines curve in a decorative arch. Decorative bursts of arranged plants further add beauty to the tops of the panels between the doors. Palms, and sparkling ribbons, and evergreen sprigs breathe life and add sweet smells mixing in with that of the freshly baked bread. Golden lights invite the flâneur in for a snack. The Nespresso machine was a disappointment for a boring robut coffee, but nothing can ever be perfect. The roquefort and walnut sandwich was, on the other hand, delicious.
The blue of night has its grip on the sky as the last stream of light pushes its way through the cloudy skies of Bretagne. Looking out upon the city from high above, the tapestry of lights are turning on in their many shades and colors. A couple of Mid-Century towers nearby have their lights illuminated as though they are spelling out secret messages of positive and negative, of light and shadow.
The lake is drying up. It's not gone, but I have found myself walking along the dried lake bed. Dressed in my best antique French tuxedo and bowler, I'm taking a pause to regard my surroundings. I'm far from civilization. I'm far from where I want to be. A bright red and orange parasol on my shoulder rests on my shoulder. The grey swirling skies above indicate that it isn't exactly needed, but when out for a stroll in almost all black it's nice to keep away a bit of the sunlight.
A decorative doorway and passage to an interior building at 134 in Paris. Beautifully carved in the decorations rounding the top of the doorway arch, there's a mascaron nestled into a fleur-de-lis form that's surrounded by a collection of carved flowers. Lion's heads flank either side at the base of corbels holding up a balcony above the doorway. Minimalism is not something known to the French and thankfully it makes the world a more beautiful place because of it. Through the passage we see another arched doorway with a barred door shut, but a pale yellow light glows through.
An elaborate balcony in Aix where the stone buildings have a beautiful golden glow. The light grey blue shutter is partially closed, letting light into the darkened room. Above the balcony opening, supported by a series of rectangular pilasters, the sculpted frieze shows decorated cow skulls and the remnants of what appear to be a Roman battle ; with strewn breastplates, helmets, and weapons and the remnants of carts and instruments. A budding potted shrub sits alone on the balcony.
Night has descended upon Ménilmonant. The streets are eerily clear of people and the shops are no longer illuminated, but a little corner resto is serving that bar scene. The awning over that chamfered corner entryway is still extended while all others have been retracted.
I'm pausing for a solitary tea party while in the middle of nowhere. Everything is dry and the sky is awash in grey. Sitting on a rock in my best French tuxedo and bowler I look out over the dried lake bed I have found myself in. A vintage Samsonite suitcase rests on the ground next to me functioning as a makeshift table to hold my teapot and teacup. I rest my red and orange parasol on my shoulder which creates a glowing halo effect behind me.
A moody grey sky swirls over the architectural valleys of Paris. A lone traveler emerges from the dark. She is weighed down by heavy bags in each hand of collected treasures and their long shadow partially eclipses the zebra as they rebelliously walk down the street in defiance of the automotive menace.
Looking across the train tracks of the raised metro of Paris we see commuters descending the stairs into pale florescent yellow light while the sky above them ignites in bright yellows, pastel oranges, and the last grips of light blues before the darkness descends. A big pink visage has been scrawled on the metro station wall above the staircase and it gives a goofy grin and side-eye to oncoming trains.
The façade of a building in Aix. The stone it's constructed of glows yellow, which contrasts with the dark stained reddish-brown door to enter the building. Two brass doorknobs are placed at the center of each of the doors and a transom above is dark with wrought iron bars. Flanking either side of the door are pilaster columns with a shelf capital to support carved stone planters (although only for stone plants). Centered above the low rounded arch of the doorway is the number 40, carved out of stone and surrounded by stone drapery and flowers. Upstairs is a small balcony with its light blue shutters wide open, letting daylight stream in, but it's dark from the street as the lights are off.
In my best antique French tuxedo and bowler hat, I sit on a rock having afternoon tea. My red and cream parasol sits on above me, while next to me is a vintage Samsonite suitcase where a teapot and teacup rest. A makeshift table when civilization is far away. I'm sitting on a dried lake bed and I gaze out at the rocks and the dirt. I dream of picnics and fêtes with friends, but it's a solitary existence when far from civilization, and breaks for tea are only a momentary reprieve.
The lights are coming on in the upper storeys of some Marseille apartments. The sky is bright and blue behind the buildings in contrast to the lights illuminating their spaces, but old habits die hard when it's time to open the shutters.
A mural by QMRK titled La dernière barricade shows Parisians posing for a photo while they hold their guns and a flag behind them waves with Vive la Commune written on it. The location of this mural is where the last combat happened in the 20th where government forces violently ended the Commune. This mural was completed in 2021 to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Commune.
On the corner of a building in Aix there is a little shop with a burnt orange façade declaring itself «L'Atelier des Madeleines» in a painted Art Déco typeface. A garland wraps around the façade with golden bobbles and aAn array of seashell-shaped Madeleine cookies fill the display that's the length of the width of the whole shop. Standing in front of the shop a woman waits patiently in a queue of one as her selection of treats are prepared. Above the shop the spartment has opened one of their exterior balcony shutters and cracked open the balcony door to let the smells of the freshly baked Madeleines waft into the apartment.
In my best antique French tuxedo and bowler hat, I sit on a rock having afternoon tea. My red and cream parasol rests on my shoulder giving me a halo akin to a poppy flower. Next to me is a vintage Samsonite suitcase where a teapot and teacup rest. A makeshift table when civilization is far away. I'm sitting on a dried lake bed where the old shore edge, covered in dried brush, can be seen behind me. Gazing up at the sky, I dream of picnics and fêtes with friends, but it's a solitary existence when far from civilization and breaks for tea are only a momentary reprieve.
Cockburn Street (pronounced co-bern according to the lovely ladies working at a vintage shop a street over). It's grey and cloudy in Edinburgh (as all the best Scottish days are) and the street wraps around a corner up a hill. A few people are out walking, and shops have their lights on, but it's otherwise relatively quiet. Little colorful triangle flags crisscross above the street as though celebrating some missed parade, although it could just be the celebration of the happiness of knowing that beautiful places like this street exist.
Cityscape of Rennes France, looking out from a balcony. Everything is wet from rain, but the clouds have broken to reveal the golden light of the sun and a pale blue sky. A lone bicyclist rides by along the cobbled streets as everyone else seems to be tentative in testing the weather's ability to hold back the rain.
Here we are at number 9 on the rue du 4 septembre : Hôtel de Villeneuve d'Ansouis, which was constructed in 1740. A carved wooden door stained to a reddish brown functions as the entrance to a building of glowing golden stone. Above this doorway, a mascaron gazes upwards with her mouth slightly agape (as though she may be in ecstasy and giving her best «oh face» as her eyes roll back).
Wearing my best antique French tuxedo and bowler hat I sit down to tea on a drying up lake bed. A vintage Samsonite suitcase works as a makeshift table for my teapot and teacup as I sip my tea and gaze out at the sand and dirt and loneliness. Civilization is far from here, and these brief moments give me only a slight reprieve as I dream of once again finding myself among society. But the search must continue, so I get up, dust myself off, put away the tea, and walk off into the Void hoping that around the corner I might find civilization again.
Evening on the streets of Aix in the old part of town. A streetlight out of frame battles with the encroaching darkness for control of a bistro table set up on a narrow sidewalk next to the front door for an apartment building (that is clearly not a bistro). The white tablecloth of the table glows in the diminishing light of evening. It dances in a gentle wind snaking through the narrow passages of the city.
BLACK LIVES MATTER is being laid out in a white undercoat on the pavement of the street during the blue hour of the evening. A makeshift barricade consisting of cones, tape, and a pipe barrier is positioned around the wet paint, keeping the onlookers from stepping upon the letters. Soon, individual artists will take to filling in each letter with art.
An old solarium with intricate white latticework. Everything is painted white and has a peculiar glow in the light of long shadows that stretch across the room. The ceiling is covered by the delicate latticework, which is almost like a web of lace that still lets through hints of a pale blue sky. The room seems to consist only of a y-shaped staircase that is covered in evergreen trees.
A picture of my face while I'm in a white void. I'm a scruffy man wearing a white shirt with an opened collar under a black v-neck sweater. I have a slight smirk, but I let my waxed mustache do the real cheek to cheek smile. In a glimpse to my punk rock youth past, my ears are pierced and stretched, but in a way that might date me to a teenage rebellion in the noughties. Making eye contact with the camera, my eyes peer through the Void of the internets to look at those whom I may never meet. Hello.
Street scene of Aix with its beautiful old golden stone buildings. The ground level is still in need of a bit of cleaning with the greying pollution tinge to the whole. It's just starting to rain. The raindrops are making a tapestry of darkened spots upon the pavement. They bring out colors hidden by the dry sunshine. In front of a very large door, a woman in all white has set down her shopping to open the door with a key. Her outfit of choice of a large white coat (hood dropped now that she is nder the small overhang of the doorway) and ground-length white dress contrasts the grime and age of the scene.
It's early in Aix. Looking out from a balcony in the old town center, the valley of buildings is still filled with the golden glow of streetlights while the early morning sky, in its cloudy status, is a light grey blue as the illumination of day begins its chasing away of the night.