You can't see the children but you see their joyful traces on the walls all around you: young children, old children, artist children, they marked their paths to guide you through their light-headed games. Playful signs, colorful faces and scribbled thoughts, that's their game and some came from far away to play it here. They came just for a chance to play it in the middle of Paris, in the best place to play, Montmartre - place tatooed in the history of arts, place breathing the pain of many revolutions in arts, place paved with souls of failed artists. Not every one of the invisible children was an artist but they did have the heart of one. Maybe you'd think it's not much but they're children remember and without their art you wouldn't notice them at all, invisible children in a busy, busy world. The people of Montmartre become visible only when they grow older. Pouring cheap beer in street cafes, guiding lost travelers on cobblestone paths, pushing carts of radiant flowers, not completely visible but filling their assigned place in a neighborhood living only for tourists, they look around from under their sweat, lower their wrinkled foreheads and remember the times when they enjoyed the freedom of invisibility, the freedom of play, the freedom of colors. Those were the times, their times. Now it's real life calling for real results, you know, checking the daily tasks and sorting the garbage in the evening. The aroma of Rhub'IPA says wild flowers crushed running from fairytale dragons, sour fruits stolen at night before ripening, rising clouds of dust from playing on the streets of your childhood, a liquid wash of memories in a bottle from Page24 and Nogne. Your childhood wasn't in Montmartre, right, but these walls do bring it again in front of your eyes, memories always more colorful than reality really was...
