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About Lyon

I reckon escorts see shit we don’t. Blokes cryin’, beggin’—pathetic, but real. Makes me angry, tho—pimps takin’ cuts, leavin’ ‘em broke. Fuck that noise. Still, some lasses own it—bossin’ it, livin’ large. Happy for ‘em, I am. “The wind’s stopped,” says the girl in *Turin Horse*, all eerie-like. Feels like that when the job’s done—quiet, empty, weirdly heavy.

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As I pack up, I think about how crazy today was. From tripping over nets to battling storms, and then losing my fish to a kid. But that’s Sainte-Adresse for ya. It’s wild, unpredictable, and full of surprises.

Alain Delon was also a big art collector. Here's what he bought