my grandmother's brother

i never really knew my uncle jim. he was already living in a small town outside of san francisco by the time i came onto the scene. i think i saw him once, maybe twice, before he died due to throat cancer (the hole in his neck wasn't going to stop him from smoking every day). but i always heard stories about him and his fantastic life he lead before "retiring" to carmel.

you see, he was An. Artist.

he lived this fabulous life in France (splitting his time between Paris and the country), where he meet, loved, and married. after his wife's death he eventually came back to the U.S.


even though i never knew my uncle jim, i always felt connected to him. it could be the fact that i was surrounded by his artwork every time i stepped into my grandmother's house. or the fact that my grandmother would talk about him as much as possible. but i like to think it's because he, like me, needed to get out. needed to see other places. needed to not be trapped in the lives that had been planned out for us.




my grandmother called me before i left for Paris. i asked her if she still had the address that my uncle lived out. she knew it from memory.

on my last night there, i went to see the place that my uncle called home during his creative years.