Earlier today, I was walking back to my apartment when I stopped at a café at the corner of my street to get an overpriced cup of coffee. Having been assigned a Proust novel for one of my classes, I took out my book and started to do a little reading. Two guys sitting at a nearby table yelled at me and asked me where I was in the novel. Embarrassingly, I was only on pg. 8 after an hour of laborious reading. Nonetheless, they were impressed that an American was trying to read Proust in French and invited me over to have a drink.
One of the guys, named Ronan, is a painter who is apparently pretty well known in France and informed me that his last painting sold for 200,000 Euro. I thought that this was probably untrue. But after googling his name, I think he might have been telling the truth. Here is a link to an article about him—and the painting above is his as well.
http://www.telerama.fr/scenes/quinze-toiles-de-ronan-barrot,42831.php
The other guy, Gils, was incredibly nice and spoke perfect English. Apparently, he and Ronan were celebrating because, after four years, he had just finished translating Emily Dickinson's entire body of work.
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