The Last Stroke of the Brush
The light in Montmartre in 1912 was a pale, buttery gold that seemed to cling to the cobblestones and the peeling paint of the artist studios. Julian lived in a room that was more of a closet, where the scent of turpentine and linseed oil was so thick it felt like a physical presence. He had once been the prodigy of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, a man whose brush could capture the exact...
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