I crossed this place almost everyday when I was still in Paris. There was this old guy who would hang his art works on the fences of the church and then smoke and see how many people would stop and look at them. Most were ink paintings of Paris sprinkled with dead poets’ poetry. He never tried hard to sell his works or anything, just stood there and smoked. And if you stop and ask him how he is, he would talk to you like you’re his best friend.