Monday, June 17, 2013

Another oil painting!

I realized recently that it had been quite a long time since I'd posted one of my oil paintings of the Seine. And just yesterday, I was doing some sketches down on the quai and remembering how much fun it is. So hopefully there will be plenty more sketches, drawings, paintings and other Seine-inspired work that I can post here over the next few months. It's nice to finally have this warm sunny spring weather we've been waiting so long for! If any of you other Parisians out there are taking advantage of this lovely spring by spending their days making art on the quai, then feel free to submit what you're up to for inclusion in a future blog post. But for now, I humbly offer this painting of mine. I'd love to see some feedback in the comments section. The summer's coming in just a few days and I wish you all a happy one! Hope to see you all along the banks of the Seine!
 
An oil painting of the Seine along the Ile Saint-Louis
by Leslie McAllister

Friday, May 10, 2013

When waters rise...

 
My fascination with the power of rising rivers began on a family trip when I was a kid. My parents took me camping in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Our campsite was right on the banks of the Ammonoosuc River. When we arrived to set up camp, it had been raining and my father told me that the snow was also melting, causing run-off from up in the mountains. When we got there, we were merely alongside a small stream, in the middle of which I remember noticing a large rock. But that rock, which at first had seemed so large, would quickly disappear from view as the small stream grew into a ferocious river in just a few hours. That night I lay in my tent, wondering if tents could float, and had dreams of waking up seaborne, floating off to faraway lands. Now, as an adult, when I see the banks of the Seine disappearing under waves of brown, it awakens that child within me and starts me playfully dreaming. I can close my eyes and see myself floating down the Seine in a tent, en route for some mysterious distant adventure.
 
Here, I've gathered a handful of photos I shot during the Seine's recent high-water season. I hope that they set you to dreaming as well!

 
 
 
  
 

 

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Charlie Seymour talks about Songs for the Seine

Singer, songwriter, and guitarist Charlie Seymour has fronted and played with numerous bands, including The Burial and, more recently, The Regal Kings. Over the years, he has played in several countries and several styles, but he is currently with us in Paris, France, where he leads the folk-rock band The Downtown Merrylegs. The Merrylegs' new album naturally caught the attention of this blogger with its title: Songs for the Seine.
 
In a recent review of the album, Nick Toczek of Rock'n'Reel called the songs "distinctly Gallic folk-rock 'chansons de la vie Parisienne.'" with "lyrics that are listenable and interesting, seldom slipping into songwriters' cliches." And I'm au Quai, You're au Quai's own resident culture critic, Jason Stoneking, says of Songs for the Seine, "The Downtown Merrylegs' brand of contemporary rock is richly infused with traditional folk elements and delicately layered with a diverse and well-mixed instrumentation. The songs are intimate, emotional, and even romantic, but never naive. This is music for grown-ups who have suffered their heartaches, those who have braved their lot in life and come out the other side looking for intelligent, historically informed musicianship and some strongly seasoned poetry to accompany their memories into the future."
 
Charlie has been on the road a bit recently, but this month we're lucky to have him back in Paris where he's playing some gigs with the Merrylegs and promoting the new release. You can catch them this coming Friday, the 22nd of March at La Cale Seche, and follow their facebook page to keep up with the schedule for upcoming shows.
 
But if you can't wait till Friday to get your fix, you're in luck! Charlie recently took some time to sit down with I'm au Quai, You're au Quai and talk to us about the new album. I asked him about what Paris means to him and how the Seine has inspired his music.
Here's what he had to say! 
 
From left to right: Martin Mayer (drums), Nico Roy (bass), Charlie Seymour (acoustic guitar and vocals), Kevin Kretsch (electric guitar and mandolin), Melissa Cox (violin and backing vocals).
Photo: Stacey Pederson
 
 
How did you first find yourself in Paris?
 



I first came to Paris when i was 18 years old, it being the easiest place to get to "abroad." You could buy a one way ticket on the night train from London Victoria to Paris for 17£50 back then. 1986, I believe. No real reason other than wanting to escape Thatcher's Britain, and to find a bit of adventure.

 
What is it that has attracted you to, and kept you in, the Paris music scene?

Paris from the very beginning has always been about the bars for me, really, and about all the colourful characters I've met in them. Playing in them, hanging out in them, and eventually working in them too. It's been a fun place to live, and the fact that you could play a few songs in a bar and get a bit of cash and some drinks has meant that life's been relatively easy really most of the time, so I guess that's one of the things that's kept me here so long.

The first song on the CD, "A Thousand Mandolins" is about the excitement you feel walking across the river on one of those hot summer evenings when the sunset in the west just blows your mind, you've got a clean shirt on and a few bob in your pocket, and you're going to meet your mates down the pub.
Can't beat it! :) 

Photo: Patrick Wong
Your new album is called "Songs for the Seine." What is it about the Seine that inspires your music?

I called the album "Songs For The Seine" for several reasons. First of all because the songs on the CD were written (along with many others) here in Paris, but also because I like the "half/play" on words with the English pronunciation of "Seine" being "Sane." Mostly though, because I thought that if no one likes the songs, then I can always chuck 'em in the river! Music is disposable, recyclable, ecological and also eternal. Thats what I like about it. 



You've played with many groups and line-ups. What specifically about the Downtown Merrylegs project connects it to your experience of Paris and the Seine?


I'd say that basically the connection with Paris and The DM's is that all the songs I play in this band, I've written while I've been living here. And so they are, in a way, an expression of my life in Paris.




If anything though, I'm hoping that The Downtown Merrylegs is a project that will liberate me from Paris and will enable me to travel and work in different places and with different people too. It's always been my intention to travel and play music while doing so. I was a busker for a long time and I travelled around Europe for several years before coming back to Paris the last time around 2O years ago.

They say "Life is what happens when your not looking," and for one reason and another I got stuck here longer than I'd expected. I tell a bit of that story in my song "Waiting For The Band" though it's very "tongue-in-cheek" with references to old friends and band mates, etc.
 

Are the other musicians people you met in Paris?

All the musicians who play on the CD are people I've met in Paris, yes. Kevin Kretsch (Electric guitar & amp; Mandolin), for example, I've been playing music with in some form or another for the last 15 years or so.
 

Your new single, "Kallithea Girl," is about a girl you dated when you were playing regularly at the Galway, right? Did the two of you pass any hours on the river together? Was that part of the setting for your love story? 

My song "Kallithea Girl" was written for my ex girlfriend Angeliki, whom I met while tending bar many years ago at "Le Galway" which is right on the Seine.

We spent many a night over the years admiring the beautiful buildings opposite the pub as the "Bateaux Mouches"  sailed by lighting them up, and it's a wonderful sight when you see their spotlights shining on the falling rain!
As I'm sure you know :)

Kallithea is the qaurtier of Athens where she comes from and when I visited her there, it made a lasting impression on me, as did Athens, Greece, and the Greek people in general, and I think it's a crying shame what they're going through at the moment, along with all the other poorer countries of the world.
 
"Power to the people!"


 Photo: Kate Clark
Do you have a particularly happy or sad quai-side memory you'd like to share?

Paris being a city distinctly lacking in greenery and parks has meant I've regularly taken my exercise pounding the Quais of the Seine. I've had to sleep down there from time to time and I've had lots of parties down there too, on many occassions, and it's also one of the best places to go and find some peace and quiet, along with Pere Lachaise I find, if you time it right. I have a song called "The Ghost" which mentions the river too, but you'll have to wait for the real album to come out for that :)                                                                                                      

Thanks for talking to us, Charlie!
Luckily for us, the album is out now and the wait is over!


Check out music from The Downtown Merrylegs on Reverb Nation:

http://www.reverbnation.com/thedowntownmerrylegs

And download the album, Songs for the Seine, on iTunes!

https://itunes.apple.com/fr/album/songs-for-the-seine/id571591440

For more info, or just to send Charlie and the band all your big, wet sloppy kisses :), write to them directly at:

 
 
 

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Valentine's Day on the Seine!

Happy Valentine's Day
from
I'm au Quai, You're au Quai!
 
If you're lucky enough to wake up with your lover in the City of Lights on Valentine's Day, there's no shortage of ways the two of you could celebrate. But for sheer romance, it's always been hard to top a hand-holding stroll along the banks of the Seine.
 
This couple is taking advantage of a quiet moment alone on the river:
 
 

  And in the evening, maybe a twilight dinner cruise passing under la Tour Eiffel?


 
If you aren't in Paris this February, the Seine sends her loving regards. But if you are, then have a look at the river today, smile, sigh, take a two-second break from the fashionable Parisian cynicism, and give in to the joy of living in the world capital of romance. Happy Valentine's Day everyone!
 
Photos by Leslie McAllister:
 
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Fitzpatrick Excerpts: The Last Installment!

Hello, folks. How quickly 2012 has gotten away from us! The last couple of weeks went by so fast that I never had the time to post the last blog entry of the year. So without further ado, I present to you the final installment of quai-side excerpts from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris novel, Very Few to Love. And also, an end-of-the-year photo of the setting by yours truly. Thanks again to Mark, for taking the time to specially select these passages for the blog. If you missed any of the episodes, you can always check back through the previous entries to get caught up! As usual, at the bottom of the page, you will find links to connect with Mark and more info about his work. Stay tuned in 2013 for more artists, writers, filmmakers, and musicians sharing their visions of the Parisian riverbanks with us. I wish you all a warm, happy, and healthy new year!
 
    photo of the quai de Montebello by Leslie McAllister


IX

Down on the quai de Montebello, we decided to splash out and buy coffee and croissants, and ten Gauloises. I went up to the café to get them. When I returned, Ludwig had appeared, as if he had smelled breakfast from his dark hiding place under one of the bridges. I had bought enough for him, somehow suspecting that he might turn up, or that someone might. We’d bring enough to share, so that the next time we were without, we would not be lacking in favours owed to us.

The morning passed with rushing clouds alternating light and shadow over us. A skinny Australian girl with blond dreadlocks and a ring through her lower lip bought three of the small paintings. We didn’t even lie to her. She looked through the paintings with a dreamy, serious look on her face, paid me for them, then turned and said ‘Thank you’ quietly to Viktor. She left holding them to her belly in their paper bag, head bowed as if she had just received a sacrament. Viktor pushed his hat back and smoothed his hair under it.

“You see? There are some people and these paintings make sense, for them. With her, I do not need to persuade her to buy them. I want to give them. But you, my good business manager, you will not let me, eh? Now go and get more coffees!”

A little later, a Frenchman in a white jacket stopped to look at the paintings. He talked a little to Viktor, asking where he was from, where his work had been exhibited. He chose one of the larger paintings, one with a riverside bouquiniste lurking beside a stall that, instead of books, was filled with hourglasses of different sizes. Browsing through them was a pale, plump naked woman all in sepia, like one of the nineteenth century pornographic postcards come to life. The man paid Viktor, nodding to himself, and strode off to important matters. Delighted with the sale, Viktor decided to leave me to it for a while, and play some games of dice in one of the cafés above. Ludwig loped past and saluted me, and I was left to my thoughts.

I managed to sell two more of the small paintings, to some young English girls that stopped to look. They spoke to me in halting French, and I said little in reply, letting them go on thinking I couldn’t speak English. When they asked where I was from, I said Romania. On the next bench along, Gilles sketched a little girl with blond curls while her parents looked on. He held his sketchboard on his lap, wavering his charcoal over the paper, adjusting his position before each touch, working it into smudges with his thumb. I wandered over and took a brief glance over his shoulder, but quickly moved off as he hesitated and flicked his eyes sideways at me. The woman selling the beads smiled at me, and called “Ça va?” as I passed. The young Italian couple offered me some cherries from a box, and then went back to sketching the two fat Germans who were sitting back-to-back on their bench. I thought about nothing at all, just looked at everything, wondering how I could describe it. Words tumbled through my head. For everything I saw, there were perfect words, if only they could be found. I thought of my empty book, and of words spilling across its pages. Each breath I took seemed to fill my chest further, and quicken my heart for a moment.

X

Jill took a breath, and stepped forward quickly and kissed me on the cheek. She moved away and looked at me a moment longer, then slowly went round the other side of the taxi and got into the back with Lucy. The engine started. Lucy turned slightly, touched her fingers to the window, and as she saw me, her eyes widened in faint alarm. I could see her lips move as the taxi pulled away. It turned the corner and was gone.

I stood alone in the square, the fountain trickling behind me.

I walked slowly then, drifting along, drained and light and thinking of nothing. I went down the narrow streets, past closed restaurants and dark shop windows. The sky was low and heavy, and when I reached the river, mist still hung between the islands, beyond the bridges. Notre Dame’s blackened, jagged mass loomed ahead of me. Viktor would already be gone when I got back. Jill was gone, Lucy was gone. I would go to the narrow, dusty room in the crumbling hotel, and sleep, and then I would have nothing left to do but wait. They might come looking for me, someday, but who would know where to look, or who to look for? It wouldn’t matter; I was already gone. I could feel myself fading, into silence, into nothing. I went down the steps, one more time, to sit and feel the cold seep up through me from the stone bench, to sit as yellow leaves dropped wet down from the trees, to sit and try to hear the dark green water lapping below, on the quai de Montebello.
 



Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.
For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:
 

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:
  

Photo of Mark Fitzpatrick by Leslie McAllister:







Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Photography from Peter Ferenczi,
and ongoing fiction from Mark Fitzpatrick!

 
 
Hello, folks! This week we have a new contributor to the blog in photographer/writer Peter Ferenczi. Peter is the artist behind the Partial Sight blog, and the book of the same name, in which he pairs his street photography with thought-provoking, humorous and sometimes mind-bending captions. He was nice enough to send us one of his recent snaps of life on the Seine (below) and we hope it's just a small taste of much more to come from Peter on the blog. If you can't wait for more, you can find more info about Peter at the bottom of the page. But on your way down the page, please also enjoy the most recent installments in our serialization of the quai-side scenes from Mark Fitzpatrick's novel, Very Few to Love. And more about Mark's writing can also be found below. Until next time, we wish you warmth and holiday cheer from the banks of the Seine!
 
 
    photo by Peter Ferenczi
 
 

VI
The late afternoon sun burned gold through low clouds, shining on the wet stone of the quai, everything filled with the quiet and clean absence of the rain. The drips rustling in the leaves above, the footsteps of the few people wandering down alongside the river now, the saxophone’s husky note from far off under the bridges: all were made distinct and strange in the calm after the storm. Jill arrived, with bread and cheese, and a thick floury sausage, and we ate chunks of them cut with the blackened blade of Viktor’s old wooden Opinel clasp knife. We didn’t speak much, just ate. A tall, bearded Frenchman, who I had seen painting portraits alongside the Russians, joined us, and handed round plastic cups of hot, weak coffee from a flask in exchange for some of Jill’s food. She just passed him the bread and the knife with a smile, as if it was all the most natural thing in the world. It felt almost like it was. It was quite normal for me to sit here and break this bread, passed from hand to ink-stained hand, with the artists and madmen, down on the quai. I was one of them now.
VII
I took my case and made my way by the narrow streets down towards the river. Stopping at a café blooming smells of coffee into the street, hissing hot-water sounds, clinking and rattling of cups and saucers, I bought a double espresso à emporter and a baguette with ham and butter, and took this breakfast down onto the Quai de Montebello.
I sat on one of the benches and watched the day begin. Stuffed bins were littered around with papers and bottles from the night before, joggers huffed past me, a small speedboat full of pompiers sped up the river, spreading a wide white wake, leaving the water rocking. I sat and ate and drank with my suitcase beside me, feeling like I’d just arrived off a night train, or from a different time zone through echoing departure lounges and starry skies above the clouds that faded as we sped into the dawn. What did I know of these things? The boy with the battered suitcase, sitting smoking in the sun: he seemed like they were what he was used to. He seemed to have come a long and mysterious way to get to this bench by the river across from Notre Dame. He was anyone, from anywhere. And today he would sell paintings for a surly Romanian artist, and tomorrow he might disappear, on other strange journeys. I felt like a character from the stories Lucy and I would tell ourselves, as we fancied our future adventures. For this moment, until someone broke the quiet around me and forced me to speak, to betray myself and reveal that I was only me, I was anyone, from anywhere.
VIII
We walked along the Left Bank to Pont Neuf, along the quais, past lounging groups of young people strumming guitars, drinking cheap wine, or kissing and fondling each other. Under bridges where it stank of urine and alcohol, we passed people with weathered faces and sturdy boots, their hair and clothes matted and ragged, strangely ornamented, drinking from tall cans and paper bags. I thought I saw Ludwig, but we passed quickly, and he made no sign, if it was him, that he recognised us. Beside Pont Neuf, on the deck of a boat pulled up to the bank, handsome young pompiers lounged around a table drinking wine. After crossing the bridge, under which passed Bateaux Mouches full of cheering tourists and camera flashes, we turned on to rue de Rivoli at the grand Samaritaine department stores. High up on one of the buildings was an enormous billboard of a sultry woman in sheer underwear. Viktor blew her a kiss, and his mood seemed to brighten.
“For this thing, at least, I love France. You never go far without seeing pictures of beautiful women without their clothes. It is good for the heart. Come, we’re nearly there. L’Hôtel de la Perdition. The Last Resort.”



Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.
For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:

You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:
 
 
 
Peter Ferenczi is an American photographer and writer based in Paris, France.
 
Follow Peter's photo blog, Partial Sight, at
 
And keep up with Peter's writing by liking his facebook page at
 
 
Photos of Mark Fitzpatrick and Peter Ferenczi by Leslie McAllister:

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Music, Video and Fiction!

Hello again! After a few weeks' pause, the I'm au Quai, You're au Quai blog is back this week with a new video and some more winter reading to enjoy by the fire. The video is a snippet of live saxophone performance, captured for us on the quai by filmmaker Richard Dailey. Below, you'll also find the fifth installment in our series of quai-related scenes from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris novel Very Few to Love. At the bottom, you'll find info for contacting both Richard and Mark to check out more of their work. As the musician in this video reminds us, even the cold weather can't take the romance away from the Seine!





V

As I walked down Boulevard Saint Michel, the sky rapidly darkened and a cold wind swept in. Moments after the first drops of rain burst on the pavement, it was a downpour, hissing on the streets and chuckling in the gutters, setting people to dashing, newspapers held above their heads. I kept walking steadily, enjoying the feeling of it running down my face, soaking straight through my clothes. By the time I made it to the steps down to Quai de Montebello, the footpaths were almost clear of the milling tourists that had filled them a little earlier. Solid sheets of rain filled the air. Across the river, Notre Dame loomed through the mist and sudden dark. I walked down the steps, onto the almost abandoned quai. The surface of the river sizzled as the rain endlessly rippled it. Further along, beneath the trees, I saw a couple of artists desperately covering their portfolios with their jackets and making a run for it. A couple of the Russians were sitting stoically under the bridge to my left, their easels set up, ready to work if a customer should stumble in out of the rain. They were both on folding stools, talking quietly and passing a hipflask back and forth. Unwilling to intrude upon their peaceful moment, I walked the other way.

The downpour continued, and I paid no attention, letting it soak me. Under one of the trees, relatively untouched by the rain, Ludwig sat cross-legged, working on one of his little white sculptures. He looked up as I approached, gave me what I took to be a smile, and went back to his work, scraping at a groove in the crumbling stone, blowing it gently free of dust. I sat on the corner of one of the concrete benches near him, just about under the shelter of the tree. He paid me no attention at first, but then began to sing, softly, tunelessly.

Little Irish boy, oh little Irish boy, oh my little Irish boy.” He sang it over and over, in a strange crooning monotone. Occasionally, he shot a sidelong glance my way, but always quickly averted his eyes again if mine met them. He smelled of paint, of mysterious herbs, of wet dog. Eventually, he put down the sculpture he had been working on and sighed. He looked up at me, then held up one finger while he rummaged in his many pockets. After many diverse, glimpsed items were pulled out and tucked back into other pockets, he found an unshaped chunk of his white, porous stone. His gold teeth flashed towards the back of a wide smile.

He pointed at the patch of relatively dry ground in front of him, beckoning me over to look at it. I leaned against the tree trunk and peered over his shoulder as he began to draw on the ground. It took me a moment, but I quickly identified his first rough chalky outlines as the shapes of Ireland and Britain. Then he placed his chunk of stone to the ground, and in one long, angular line, he went from the top of Norway, in around the Baltic Sea, down along the Low Countries to France, the Bay of Biscay, the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and all along North Africa until the Straits of Gibraltar had all but closed off the Mediterranean, and the line trailed off towards the bench, in a vague, here-be-dragons sweep. The European coastline was perfectly in proportion, and his initial drawing of the islands fitted in exactly the right position. He looked up at me, pleased with himself.

“Why did you start with Ireland?” I asked. “Surely that makes it harder?”

He nodded happily.

I said, “Were you just showing off?” He nodded again, and clapped his hands, laughing silently. He held up his finger again, and dug into a pocket, pulling out a small metal Eiffel Tower key-ring, with the ring part broken off. He placed it on the map, where Paris would be, always further East than I think it should be. Then he took one of his little vaguely human-shaped figurines, and held it up, pointing to his own chest.

“That’s you, Ludwig?”

“Ja, ja. Ludwig. Von Hamburg.” He placed the rough manshape on the map in the Germany area. Then he took another of the sculptures out of a pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked at it for a while. It was featureless, had only a smooth white head, and thick but graceful limbs, rounded off at the ends, no real hands or feet. It stood, legs together, its head inclined. One arm was down by its side, and the other was held up beside its face, either listening or whispering a secret, it was hard to tell. Ludwig tapped it gently, and then tapped my chest. “Irish.” He nodded and flashed his back teeth again.

I carefully placed the figure on the South-East corner of Ireland. “Cork,” I said. “James. Cork.” Ludwig nodded. Then he picked up his playing piece, and, very deliberately, changed its location. Berlin. He stopped and looked at me, his expression perhaps a comment on what went on while he was in Berlin. Then he moved it again, tapping it as if counting squares on a chessboard for a knight’s move. Prague. He sat back again for a moment, looked at me for acknowledgement, then made another move. Milan. Each time, he stopped and sat back, looked at me, before moving again and naming the new city. Perhaps he was waiting for me to make my own moves. I did nothing, just nodded each time he looked. Barcelona. Marrakech. Frankfurt. Back to Berlin. There he stopped, and put his head in his hands. He stayed like that for some time, just rocking slightly, almost imperceptibly, maybe even whimpering right at the edge of hearing. Finally, he shivered and stretched, like a dog come in from the rain. He moved his piece to Paris, and sat back, arms crossed. I leaned over and picked mine up. I placed it beside his, beside the broken Eiffel Tower souvenir. “Paris,” I said.

We sat and looked out at the rain, still roaring down around the shelter of the tree with seemingly inexhaustible energy. Large drops made their way through the thick canopy of leaves above us as well. One fell on the English Channel, slightly blurring the coastlines at Dover and Calais. Ludwig leaned forward and gathered up the Eiffel Tower and the two figurines. He held them in his hands, cupped them close to his face as if whispering to them, conferring urgently with his little chalkmen. I looked fixedly out into the rain, but from the corner of my eye saw him nodding and smiling. He leaned over and nudged me. Taking my hand, he opened it, put the figure that represented me into it, and closed my fingers tightly around it, holding my hand in both of his.

“Irish boy,” he said, singsong. “You take him home, the Irish boy.”

I nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Ludwig.”

He sat back against the tree and paid me no more attention for some time, concentrating rather on the pouch of tobacco and rolling papers that he fished out of his sock. He meticulously made five or six cigarettes, holding them up to compare them, making sure they were as near identical as possible. Then he selected one, and, after tucking the rest into one of the upper breast pockets of his vest, he lit it, and smoked meditatively. I sat on the damp bench, my face in my hands, elbows on knees, staring at the river and the rain.

I looked up to see a spluttering and dripping Viktor arriving under the relative shelter of the tree, and shaking out his umbrella. He stood his little trolley beside the bench, and took his battered hat off to beat the rain from it. He grinned at me, gestured at the smeared chalk map on the ground in front of us.

“So. We take the opportunity to have a little geography lesson, eh? Very good, very good. Europa ist unser Spielplatz, eh Ludwig? Nicht wahr?”

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.
For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at:
You can also follow his new fantasy adventure novel as it unfolds on his blog at:
 
Richard Dailey is an artist and filmmaker, and the Editor in Chief of Afterart News.
More information about Richard's projects can be found on his website:
And be sure to check out the facebook page for Richard's new hip-hop documentary, Nos States,
where you can find info on upcoming screenings in Paris and New York:
 
Photos of Mark Fitzpatrick and Richard Dailey by Leslie McAllister: