French literature seems to carry its own distinct color palette. Proust is violet — the fading tw...French literature seems to carry its own distinct color palette. Proust is violet — the fading tw...
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Marina Antonova
• Dec 8
French literature seems to carry its own distinct color palette. Proust is violet — the fading twilight of memory. Camus is the white-hot sun of Algeria. Colette is bathed in gold, filled with the late-afternoon light of the Palais-Royal.
And then there’s Georges Simenon: pure, unwavering grey.
These drawings are an attempt to paint his Paris — not the one of postcards, but the Paris of mist and melancholy, of windows glowing like half-forgotten stories.
A city where figures drift through fog, cafés turn into aquariums of light, and conversations dissolve into the hum of rain.
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