Some places carry more than beauty; they carry memory. Le Marais is one of those rare quarters in Paris where history, culture, and human energy exist side by side, layered over centuries. Long before I ever set foot there with a paintbrush in my hand, Le Marais had already earned its place on my bucket list — not only as an artist, but as a descendant of French Huguenots whose journey began here before departing for South Africa in 1688.
 On this particular morning, my wife Ilse and I left our hotel fairly early. Experience has taught me that plein air painting requires time — time to observe, to feel, and to settle into a place before the crowds and the day fully unfold. We took the Metro toward Le Marais, and from the moment we stepped out onto the street, something shifted. I felt it immediately: a quiet but unmistakable spiritual connection. Le Marais was alive.The air was filled with sound — people talking animatedly, music drifting from open doors, the clinking of coffee cups, footsteps echoing along cobbled streets.  Cafés were already busy, art galleries preparing to open, museums welcoming visitors.
 It was vibrant without being overwhelming, energetic without losing its intimacy. Ilse and I instantly loved the atmosphere. It felt welcoming, layered, and deeply human. As we walked through one of the side streets, away from the broader avenues, I saw it. An old, weathered doorway stood quietly against a textured façade, its surface marked by time. Above it, a small balcony overflowed with red flowers, framed by shutters that hinted at countless stories lived behind those walls. A streetlamp stood nearby, and a bicycle rested casually against the wall — details so ordinary, yet so distinctly Parisian. I stopped in my tracks. I knew immediately that this was what I had been looking for.What made it even more perfect was the wide sidewalk. 
For a plein air artist, practical considerations matter, and this space allowed me to set up my easel without obstructing the flow of people. It felt as though the street itself had invited me to paint. Once my equipment was in place, Ilse stepped away to fetch us coffee from one of the many cafés just around the corner. In Le Marais, coffee is never far away. As I began sketching the initial outlines, the feeling of connection deepened. There was something profoundly moving about standing there, brush in hand, painting in a neighbourhood tied so closely to my ancestry. It felt less like observation and more like dialogue — between past and present, place and painter. 
As the composition took shape, people began to stop. Some were tourists, curious and enthusiastic, cameras in hand. Others were locals, strolling by with an easy familiarity. They watched quietly, offered comments, asked questions. I welcomed the interaction. Painting in public is an exchange; it brings art out of isolation and places it back into the rhythm of daily life. Ilse returned and stood beside me, holding an umbrella to give us some shade from the strengthening sun. The day had become warm — unusually warm for painting — and the light was strong, almost unforgiving at times. Still, I worked steadily, responding to the textures of the wall, the contrasts between shadow and sunlight, and the rich colours that defined the scene.
The weathered surface of the building fascinated me. It told its own story — layers of paint, wear, and time, all of which I tried to honour in my brushwork. I was not interested in perfection or polish. What mattered was character. Le Marais is not pristine; it is authentic, lived-in, and deeply expressive. That was what I wanted the painting to convey. As the afternoon progressed, the sunlight became more direct, and the heat intensified. Eventually, I knew it was time to stop. Plein air painting teaches you to listen — not just to the environment, but to the painting itself. There is a moment when continuing would mean losing the freshness that gives the work its life. We packed up, tired but satisfied, knowing the essential spirit of the piece had been captured. Back in my studio in Meerensee, Richards Bay, I completed the final finishing touches. 
Studio work allows for reflection and refinement, but the heart of the painting was already there — embedded in the experience of that day in Le Marais. Every brushstroke carried the memory of sound, warmth, conversation, and connection. Bringing that painting home felt like bringing something tangible back from Le Marais — a fragment of history, atmosphere, and personal meaning. There was a sense of relief, even gratitude, in knowing that I had honoured both the place and my own journey as an artist. This painting is more than an image of a Parisian street. It is a tribute to ancestry, to the enduring power of place, and to the quiet moments when art allows us to feel rooted across centuries and continents. Le Marais gave me that gift, and through this painting, I am able to share it.