Incense, Architecture, Etchings, Sculpture, Memories, Tears - Sunday, 7 October

Incense hung in the air of l'Église Saint-Séverin as I stepped inside on Sunday afternoon. This just might be my favorite church in Paris. I’ve been here many times, but I’ve never experienced the incense so present - sandalwood and floral - there was something very purifying and holy about it. There has been a church on this site since the 11th century; it is named after a 6th century hermit who lived in the area. It sits in the midst of the insanely bustling Latin Quarter, a welcome refuge from the madness of the world, a quiet and sacred space. I shuffled around the double ambulatory (stepping cautiously on the very worn-down paving stones), stopped at the side chapels, sat and breathed deeply in the nave.

Then I proceeded to the small elliptical Mansart Chapel in the southeast corner of the building. This simple chapel, with its etchings by Georges Rouault, and beautifully cast bronze Madonna and child by Georges Schneider, and crucifix, altar and lectern by I-wish-I-knew-who is a beautiful spot for quiet reflection.

And reflect I did. And cry. Many many years ago, I told my friend and college-freshman-year-accompanist Leah Harding about this place, and about the etchings. As an artist herself, she knew of them, and told me that they were by Georges Rouault. Then, in April 2008, Leah came to Paris with me and we visited Saint-Séverin, where she was also enthralled by the three organs in the church. We ate lunch across the street (where I had my confit de canard today). The incense in the church reminded me of the perfume she always wore.

Leah died almost a year ago of cancer. So all the memories came rushing together as I sat in the Mansart Chapel, and tears ran down my face, and my sniffling was quite loud in that elliptical stone space. Happily, there was only one other person in the chapel whose prayers I disturbed. He smiled at me kindly when he left.