A Buddhist monk crosses the parvis of Notre-Dame in full ochre robes, a phone in his right hand, sandals slapping the flagstones, laughing at something just out of frame. To his right a woman in a headscarf walks the other way. Behind both of them, eight hundred years of Gothic limestone and the restoration cranes still standing. Nobody in this photograph finds any of it remarkable, which is the entire point. This square has been a place of arrival for the better part of a millennium — pilgrims, tourists, traders, refugees, and now a monk checking his messages in the sun. The stone doesn't mind. The ochre against that grey is the loudest thing in Paris today and he isn't even trying. Colour like that walks past once and doesn't come back.