When Paris Reflected Me… January 2022
Paris wasn’t going to save me, and perhaps it never could. What I found, however, was more important than the city I’d hoped existed in my dreams of grandeur.
I wake early these days, before the sun rises. The cool, quiet air feels like a sanctuary, unspoiled by the day’s demands. This morning, I have a mission: to continue photographing Marais. The streets keep whispering something to me in the darkroom that I have not been able to comprehend. I’ve just returned to France after the holiday break, arriving this time with no place to call home.
The last place I stayed was a shared living space—eight of us crammed into what would pass for a one-bedroom apartment back home. The rent I paid for that glorified closet was absurd, a scandal, really, but it had been enough to get me here. For that, I could only feel gratitude. Now, though, that chapter was closed, and I found myself adrift, hunting for a new place to live.
My plan was simple, if not ideal: I’d store my heavier luggage and rent cheap Airbnbs for a week at a time, moving from one arrondissement to the next. The constant motion was a chance to explore, to experience different corners of the city, and perhaps to find my footing. In between, I spent hours scouring the internet, navigating the labyrinth of Parisian apartment listings. In a city of over 2.1 million residents, the rental market feels impossibly tight—less than 6% of housing units are vacant, while countless renters vie for each available space. The competition is fierce, and landlords’ requirements often feel insurmountable for newcomers like me.
Rhythm of the wet streets © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
This particular morning, I was staying in one of those temporary rentals, using photography as a reprieve from the drudgery of my housing search. The weather, as it so often was this time of year, hung heavy—gray, damp, and brooding. It felt like the perfect metaphor for my inner world
Wandering the streets, I stumbled into a small bakery. The scent of fresh bread wrapped around me like a warm embrace. “Bonjour!” the woman behind the counter sang, her voice lilting with unassuming cheer. My French was terrible—barely functional, if I was honest. I scanned the glass case quickly, hoping to spot what I wanted. Pointing at a croissant, I mumbled the only word I could muster: “Ça.”
Croissant in hand, I made my way to a nearby bench. From there, I watched the city come alive—early buses groaning down narrow streets, hurried pedestrians weaving through traffic. I marveled at the rhythm of it all. Back home, no one walked like this. The roads dominated everything. Here, the sidewalks pulsed with life.
As I sat, I couldn’t help but think about where I’d come from and where I might be going. Landing in Paris just weeks ago, I had felt an overwhelming mix of hope and emptiness. This time, though, there was a difference—a sense of purpose, however fragile. I needed to find something, to uncover whatever it was I had come here for. Otherwise, all of this would feel meaningless.
Scooter commuter © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
Paris has always been a city of seekers. It has drawn painters like Monet and Van Gogh, writers like Hemingway and Baldwin, each in pursuit of inspiration, refuge, or redemption. It is a city where the creative heart beats louder, a beacon to those yearning for reinvention. I was one of them now—on my knees before the creative gods, hoping for a revelation to steer me forward.
Cross board canvas © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
Six months ago, my world cracked open. I was laid off, abruptly severing a 14-year career that I had painstakingly built. The long hours, the relentless drive, the achievements—all of it boiled down to a severance package that barely felt like a parting gift. The corporate world, that fickle mistress, had no loyalty to give and no guarantees to offer. “Always pack a bag,” they say. But packing a bag is no salve for the bitter irony of losing both your livelihood and the legacy you thought you were building.
It wasn’t just me. After the pandemic, companies shed jobs with startling swiftness. In the United States alone, millions were left reeling as the economy reshaped itself, trimming the fat that it no longer found useful. What remained were fragments of purpose, dangling in an uncertain wind. The statistics told a story of systemic upheaval, but for me, the loss was intimate, visceral.
Then came the personal aftershock. My girlfriend and I ended our relationship with clinical finality, leaving me untethered, alone with decisions I didn’t want to make. Life had handed me a map, but it was blank. Every choice felt predestined, though none of them had been mine. Had it been up to me, I would have delayed the inevitable, kicking the can of decisions down the road in the name of temporary comfort. But the moment demanded action, not delay. I boarded a plane to Paris, hoping to salvage what remained of myself.
I see me © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
The last bite of my croissant was crisp and buttery, a reminder of Paris’s culinary prowess, even as its streets remained indifferent. For months, I had wandered the Marais, Paris’s 4th arrondissement, its charm unfolding with every turn. This was once the neighborhood of Nicolas Flamel, the famed 14th-century alchemist whose house still stands, cloaked in myth and mystery. The Marais, with its labyrinth of cobblestone streets and historic architecture, seemed to defy time. Yet, it pulsed with the energy of modern life—commuters darting through narrow alleys, their bicycles and motorcycles weaving a chaotic tapestry of movement.
Mornings were the most captivating, the air thick with the rhythm of the working class. Their weary faces mirrored a life I had once known—a relentless chase, no different here than anywhere else. I felt drawn to these moments, my camera becoming both shield and window.
Occasionally, I would pause, the weight of my Hasselblad heavy in my hands. This camera, a relic from another era, had been a serendipitous find, a gift to myself during a time when digital clarity felt too precise, too devoid of soul. The Hasselblad, famed for capturing humanity’s first steps on the moon, was an instrument that demanded patience. There was no instant gratification, no preview of the frame I had just captured. The film, spooled and tucked away, held its secrets until I developed it days or weeks later.
I found myself drawn to what others might overlook—a close-up of graffiti-scrawled wooden boards, the weathered remnants of a torn poster, the delicate interplay of light and shadow in an empty alley. These were not the postcard-perfect images of Paris that so often graced travel magazines. Instead, they were fragments, stripped of grandeur and context, almost abstract in their simplicity.
At the time, these photographs puzzled me. What story were they telling, if any? They were devoid of people, void of vibrant color, and unmoored from a narrative. Yet, they resonated with me in a way I couldn’t articulate then.
It would take years to understand their significance. Those frames, stark and unadorned, reflected the journey I hadn’t known I was on—the search not for Paris, but for myself. In their quietude, they echoed the challenge the city had issued: to create something of my own, unburdened by expectation or the ghosts of artistic greats.
Paris had not saved me, but it had offered me something far more enduring—a mirror.
