It was...hideous.
Crown molding, once grand and regal crumbled to near ash. Different textures and patterns of wallpaper overlapped and peeled down the surface of the four walls. The floorboards moaned under any kind of pressure, and looked nearly rotted through. A furnace hissed from a shadowy corner. The only upside of the entire apartment was a giant yellowed window, covered in pollen and soot, and occupying half of the wall, overlooking the heap of the sinful and decrepit city that was Paris.
"It's perfect." Clary whispered, eyes sparkling with truth.
The hunchbacked landlord stared at her incredulously and let out a phlegmy choke that Clary assumed was an attempted laugh.
True, the place looked as if it was infested with bedbugs, termites, and the possible rat or two. But to Clary, it was beautiful.
It represented the face of the her personal revolution.
It was classic.
It was a metaphor.
And to Clary, it was exactly the kind of place that a struggling young artist should be living in.
"You're not from Earth, are you?" She spoke, startling Clary out of her wonderment.
"Moon base." She responded. Earth dwellers could always tell who wasn't part of the planet. Although she wasn't sure why.
"And you're one of those romantics, aren't you?" The crouched woman asked, jowls trembling.
"By romantics, you mean starving artists? Than yes."
"Ugh. I've had just enough of you poor poets and painters. Everyday it's a new one, thinking this is some kind of Mecca for art and truth. They all starve in the end. And I always have to clean up the bodies." She growled, and promptly turned through the doorway.
She has to be kidding, Clary gulped.
But there was some solidity in the old woman's words. Clary was one of those fools who had embarked to Paris in the quest to discover truth, and humanity, and craft her art. And hey, if she happened to become the most famous artist in Paris, and the voice of her generation...so be it.
She walked over to the grimy window, and peered out at the ashy city below. In the distance she could see what was left of the slowly crumbling Eiffel tower. Everything was cramped and close together, and speckled with people. A brown ribbon of water ran through the city, on which steam boats floated close together.
Normally, Clary would agree with her landlord about the grim appearance of her apartment and city. But it was the idea of the city that captured her without reserve, and Clary was an idealist.
There was no art on the moon. There was no life. There was no struggle, and therefore no honesty. Humans were always more honest when their mortality was threatened. And any good artist needs to suffer. Or if not suffer, at least be surrounded by inspiring people.
Hence the reason she needed to be in Paris, as it was the beginning of a new era of art and beauty and philosophy, right in this very city.
And she intended to experience it all with eyes wide open.