Irene came from a woman I saw begging in the Streets of Paris. Amidst the bustling crowds on a wet, dark December afternoon, this woman knelt quietly bundled in her coat and muffler, a cup for change in her hands. She was striking in her calm and serenity, the quietest figure I have ever seen. I sketched her quickly in my book, gave her a Euro and was off. The image haunted me for weeks afterwards. Finally, back in Florence I couldn’t shake her, and I knew I’d have to approach her again in sculpture. Instead of her, I found Irene.
Irene
