Some time has passed and life opens like a beautiful flower. When the people speak of La Grande Poste, my heart flutters with each syllabe as I hang on to every word my father had told of an époque filled with art and creativity. My father spent the best of his youth in an apartment adjacent and arm in arm with the big old architectural beauty that people frequent for their daily mail, and isn’t it a wonder that art runs deeply, ferociously, passionately in my family. A love that began in the backstreets of this building, as it stood loudly, a central figure in the lives of them all. And now I turn my attention to my uncle, an artist. There is much to learn no doubt. But I’ll be driving by this building again with them all on my mind. This one is for the Bendjoudis.