DAY 10: Lisa Larsen, 1953.

She looked at him with magnetism. Her gaze drew everyone in the room, but him. It was a partnership that weighed in his favour.

Her eyes dragged with each movement he took. There were too many pleasures in life for him to ever be fixed in one state. He was never meant for marriage, never meant for children, never meant for stability.

He was always in circumstances that aligned deviance with morality. His corruption spurred attraction in his character. People longed for his charm, they wanted his drama.

She wanted it the most, but she never got it. She just picked up the pieces when it all went wrong. If she had known what would have happened on that day some day that she would never have married him. But that’s not true, she knew. All along. From the start.

But she loved him, she loved him, loved him, loved him.

DAY 9: John Loengard, 1981.

The glaze spreads over them as he looks out. His face is weathered from years of longing. There’s something inside him that wants more.

He tells himself that it’s too late now. That his life is almost over, so what’s the point. He knows what he knows and that’s that.

What he longs for he doesn’t know. He just knows that he’s not quite complete yet. It hasn’t spurred from unfulfilled opportunities or even regret. It’s something new. A new kind of pain.

After all his years he thought he had experienced every kind of pain, but he hadn’t. Love. Loss. Heartbreak. Physicality.

He doesn’t know what this one is called. It just lingers above him.

DAY 8: Joe Scherschel, 1952.

Joe Scherschel, 1952. – Ohio

The open road is wide. It is long and free. Explore it with wonder. But don’t forget the fear.

As I travel the winding road, the wind thrusting back my hair, I begin to wonder about you. Where are you? Which path are you travelling on? I hope it’s one you like.

I remember the last time we were on the road together. You were sat in the front seat of my car. And the road was so wide, so open and desolate that I could stare at you and not crash. I could look over at you in the passenger seat and let contentment swell.

Whoever you are with now, I hope they do the same. I hope they watch you sing and screw their face up when you screech to Billy Joel.

Our journey on that open road was wonder. But now you’re gone by road is filled with fear. Fear that I’ll never do it again. I’ll never be there to watch your hair whip into your eyes through the wind.

I hope you think of me. I know some times that you do. The tarmac tells me.

DAY 7: Allan Grant, 1958.

Allen Grant, 1958. – Shirley MacLaine and daughter Sachi Parker.

I found the light in you. I found the missing in you. I found my life in you.

The dreams you have, I’ll treasure. The dreams you long for, I’ll help with. The dreams that scare you, I’ll fight away.

It’s all for you my daughter. Even when it’s all gone, all the lights and cameras, I have you to hold. You shine brighter than any stage light.

I hope you look to me for strength. I hope you look to me for vulnerability. I hope you look to me for guidance. Because I’ll be there to give you it all. Take from me what you want. Do it unapologetically.

I wish I could bottle your youth. Don’t grow up. Stay this little and love me forever. I know that we have to drift apart, you’ll hate me for a while. But just like I did with my mother – you’ll come back.

I’ll be your bestfriend. No matter what you do, when you break my heart, I’ll be there.

If I do my job of motherhood right, like my mother did. I hope that you will treat your children the same.

Love them, like I will love you, unconditionally.

DAY 6: Dmitri Kessel, 1959.

There’s strength in solidarity. Being the only house on the block. It stood there waiting for its destruction. Each day that passed was a triumph.

People walked by it daily, just to see that it was there. A standing structure amongst the rubble. It stood proud. It stood strong. Waiting, just waiting for it’s demise.

The foundations didn’t crumble. They were built upon years of memories, of laughter, tears and trauma. It would be a shame when it came down. Passers-by would purse there lips together and sigh heavily.

But as things die we begin to value the potency of their presence. We question what it would be like without them. And when it’s gone and it’s only a distant memory we start to forget.

Letting the past roll further into the past. As it turns and tumbles away the sprouts of new beginnings form. Under the rubble roots spread. Then new memories are made and the cycle continues.

DAY 5: Ralph Morse, 1954.

We are an age who are resilient. We are an age who are tenacious. We are an age who are strong.

Days go by, and the rejections come thick and fast. We are told to be tougher, but we already are. We are fighting, fighting for jobs, fighting one another, fighting the system.

Our generation is one of smart workers. Our parents generation is one of hard workers.

That’s where the resentment comes in. They are envious of our intelligence. They are envious of our ability. They are envious because they weren’t smart enough to think of it.

As the thoughts swirl around my brain, I wonder what I will resent my children’s generation for. What will they have that we don’t.

I promise not to be bitter. I will applaud you, my children. I know how resentment feels and it is harsh. I vow to not be harsh, I will support you. I will be there. I will adopt your thinking.

DAY 4: Lisa Larsen, 1948.

Lisa Larsen, 1948. Marlon Brando and his sister, Jocelyn.

They were promised the world. They were sold a dream. One of happiness and fortune.

In reality they received a grimy New York flat, the pleasure of being over worked and a dwindling love.

It was what they needed. To be thrown from their ivory tower into the pits of hell. In hell there are no luxuries to mask the facade of love. It’s either there or it’s not.

So every day they would come home to face one another. Upturned smiles and wrinkling eyes. She hated him. He hated her. But they never gave up, because they once had it.

Slowly over years, they learned to love one another again. She would let him touch her hand. He would buy her flowers. They started to remember what they had at the start.

So they climbed an ivory tower in the pits of hell and called it home.

DAY 3: Thomas McAvoy, 1939.

Thomas McAvoy, 1939. – Lincoln Memorial, Washington.

My voice will be heard. I am powerful. I am strong. I am now.

The history stands behind me. The future, our future, in front of me. And here I am, speaking to you – the present.

My words will not be silenced anymore. I will not stand for it. I am here to be heard by all. Listen to my words. Repeat them. Spread their message. Filter it to those you love. They deserve to hear it.

So what do I have to say? You ask me? After being silenced for so long, I have a lot to say. But I will say the thing that is the most important.

Love. Love endlessly. Give strangers your love. Pass it to your postman and those you don’t know. Accept it when buying groceries, spread it to the cashier. Because it will come back. It will feel good. So good.

DAY 2: Robert Capa, 1939

I’ll stay another hour and then I’ll have to go. She’ll be waiting for me at home. I wonder what torments have filled her head today. There’ll be a multitude but I’ll be there to hear them all soon. Don’t pine, darling.

The image of her smoking from the balcony is one that warms my heart, I wish the warmth would spread to my fingers. They’re cold from painting. Last week a small boy asked me why I painted and it spurred my mind into a spiral of questions.

It’s the only thing I’m good at. What else would I do? I like Paris. What else would I paint? I sell them to provide for her. How else would I give myself? It’s always for her. All of it. I paint a better world in the hope that we could one day step into it and all her problems will be gone.

That’s the dream. Stepping into the canvas with the woman I love. Then her demons couldn’t follow us. They’d be here. Here forever, in Paris. And we’d be in Paris. Our Paris.

DAY 1: Harry Benson, 1994

Harry Benson, Christy Turlington – backstage at the Paris collections, 1994.

They say that this is the life. Walking in Paris. But it’s not. It’s hell. I haven’t had carbs in 21 days, my hair is like straw and instead of oxygen every breathe I inhale is cigarette smoke. It’s the only way to get through.

But at least I look beautiful. I do, don’t I? Tell me I do.

Vogue said I did anyway. And Valentino.

The final show is tonight and then it’s over. Collectively we are exhausted. Milked, squeezed and ran dry of everything we have. The creatives, the organisers, the models we are all balancing on a thin line. Self-imploding. It’s the life of the industry so they say. We can all relax tonight. But we won’t.

The void will begin tonight. I’ll be empty. I’ll be longing, starving to do it all again. Instead I’ll cry into these four cold walls. Until next time, Paris.