she dotes on my sibling, Donald the Great, as I used to call him when we were children. It is I she has an aversion to, whom she tends to avoid most of the time, and whenever she possibly can.
Grandfather and I were always aware of that, and he had often expressed concern about the situation. I had taught myself not to care. I still donât. He has been dead for five years now, and I still miss him. He gave me the only sense of family I ever had; certainly my parents never managed to induce that sentiment in me. Quite the opposite. I wished Grandfather were here with me now, walking these streets; I always found such comfort in his words, his understanding, his kindness, and his wisdom. He was the only person other than Grandma and Tony who had loved me. Now all three of them were gone.
Was that the reason I had chosen to walk around this particular area today? Because he had been so partial to it, and because it made my happy memories of him and of our time spent together here so vivid in my mindâs eye?
âTeaching you Paris,â Grandfather used to say as he took me around the different arrondissements of the city. Gradually, I had come to learn about many of the great buildings, the architects who had brought them into being, the historical significance of each one, not to mention the many different architectural features.
When I reached the top of the Rue de la Huchette, I crossed into the Rue de la Bûcherie, which was more like an open square than a street. It had flower-filled little gardens fronting onto cafés lined up along one side of the square, and overshadowing them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This magnificent edifice outlined against the azure September sky stood on the Ãle de la Cité, one of the islands in the Seine, and on the spur of the moment I decided to go over to the cathedral. I had not visited it in years. In fact, the last time I had been there had been with my grandfather.
Andrew Denning had enjoyed an extremely successful career as an architect in New York, and he had had an extraordinary eye for beautiful buildings, whether modern or ancient. In particular, he had been an admirer of the cathedrals of Europe, forever marveling at their majesty and grandeur, the soaring power inherent in them and in their design and structure.
And so whenever he came to visit me in Paris he made a point of taking me on excursions to see some of his favoritesâRouen and Chartres in France, and, across the English Channel, St. Paulâs and Winchester; and, up in Yorkshire, Ripon Cathedral and York Minster, the latter being my own favorite. It is from my grandfather that I have inherited my eye, which serves me so well as a photographer; thatâs what I think anyway, and as it happens, Iâve also grown to love cathedrals as much as he did.
Within minutes I was across the bridge and standing in front of the three huge portals that lead into Notre Dame. I chose to enter through the one on the right because the door stood ajar, beckoning to me, I thought.
Once inside, I caught my breath and stood perfectly still . . . I was utterly mesmerized. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring this place was, with its beauty and size; its absolute stillness overwhelmed me.
There were hardly any tourists there, the cathedral was practically empty, and as I began to slowly walk down the center aisle, my footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone floor.
Glancing up, I gaped at the apse, that enormous, intricate, domed ceiling, flung so high, it seemed to disappear into infinity. âSoaring up to heaven,â Grandfather used to say of it.
He and I had visited many of the smaller churches in Paris and the surrounding countryside, and we had taken part in the services as best we were able. We both spoke enough French to follow the Catholic service; being Protestant, we were not exactly familiar with the rituals, but somehow we managed. We also made trips to other European countries, as
Grandfather and I were always aware of that, and he had often expressed concern about the situation. I had taught myself not to care. I still donât. He has been dead for five years now, and I still miss him. He gave me the only sense of family I ever had; certainly my parents never managed to induce that sentiment in me. Quite the opposite. I wished Grandfather were here with me now, walking these streets; I always found such comfort in his words, his understanding, his kindness, and his wisdom. He was the only person other than Grandma and Tony who had loved me. Now all three of them were gone.
Was that the reason I had chosen to walk around this particular area today? Because he had been so partial to it, and because it made my happy memories of him and of our time spent together here so vivid in my mindâs eye?
âTeaching you Paris,â Grandfather used to say as he took me around the different arrondissements of the city. Gradually, I had come to learn about many of the great buildings, the architects who had brought them into being, the historical significance of each one, not to mention the many different architectural features.
When I reached the top of the Rue de la Huchette, I crossed into the Rue de la Bûcherie, which was more like an open square than a street. It had flower-filled little gardens fronting onto cafés lined up along one side of the square, and overshadowing them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This magnificent edifice outlined against the azure September sky stood on the Ãle de la Cité, one of the islands in the Seine, and on the spur of the moment I decided to go over to the cathedral. I had not visited it in years. In fact, the last time I had been there had been with my grandfather.
Andrew Denning had enjoyed an extremely successful career as an architect in New York, and he had had an extraordinary eye for beautiful buildings, whether modern or ancient. In particular, he had been an admirer of the cathedrals of Europe, forever marveling at their majesty and grandeur, the soaring power inherent in them and in their design and structure.
And so whenever he came to visit me in Paris he made a point of taking me on excursions to see some of his favoritesâRouen and Chartres in France, and, across the English Channel, St. Paulâs and Winchester; and, up in Yorkshire, Ripon Cathedral and York Minster, the latter being my own favorite. It is from my grandfather that I have inherited my eye, which serves me so well as a photographer; thatâs what I think anyway, and as it happens, Iâve also grown to love cathedrals as much as he did.
Within minutes I was across the bridge and standing in front of the three huge portals that lead into Notre Dame. I chose to enter through the one on the right because the door stood ajar, beckoning to me, I thought.
Once inside, I caught my breath and stood perfectly still . . . I was utterly mesmerized. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring this place was, with its beauty and size; its absolute stillness overwhelmed me.
There were hardly any tourists there, the cathedral was practically empty, and as I began to slowly walk down the center aisle, my footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone floor.
Glancing up, I gaped at the apse, that enormous, intricate, domed ceiling, flung so high, it seemed to disappear into infinity. âSoaring up to heaven,â Grandfather used to say of it.
He and I had visited many of the smaller churches in Paris and the surrounding countryside, and we had taken part in the services as best we were able. We both spoke enough French to follow the Catholic service; being Protestant, we were not exactly familiar with the rituals, but somehow we managed. We also made trips to other European countries, as
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