Paris has a way of presenting juxtapositions that are almost too perfectly absurd to be staged. Here, in the grand setting of Place de la Concorde, fountains spray elegantly into the autumn air, the French flag waves over the distant dome of the Grand Palais—and in the foreground, an oddly truncated ladder leans against a massive plinth, clearly destined to reach nowhere. When I framed the shot, I was immediately drawn to the humour of scale. The ornate column, richly decorated in green and gold, stands in confident verticality, while the ladder—plain, utilitarian, and utterly inadequate—sits at a hopeless angle. It’s a visual joke, but one the city offered up…

… Hey, where the hell is d’Artagnan?

When I came across this scene on a Parisian bridge, it struck me not for the Eiffel Tower itself — an endlessly photographed subject — but for the two observers standing before it. They weren’t together, at least not in the way people usually are when they share a view. Both wore similar beige trench coats, almost like accidental uniforms, but their postures told two separate stories. The man leaned over the balustrade, intent on whatever he was photographing or inspecting; the woman stood back, upright, her gaze lifted towards the tower, seemingly taking it in whole. The weather conspired to help the mood: an overcast Paris sky, mottled clouds…