On every trip I've ever made to Paris -- and okay, that's only three -- I've taken photos of this shop window and never written down the name. It's on the left bank, facing the Seine, not far from Place St. Michel. The deepest craving for new art materials is triggered in me each time.
Look at those pastels. Can you see how they are handmade? Can you see their imperfections, their inconsistencies, where the end has been squashed in the process of cutting a length? Don't you just want to pick one up, roll it between your fingers, smell it? (I heard a radio interview once with an artist who made his own pastels. He claimed he could tell the colours apart in the dark by their individual smells.) Don't you just want to try one out? To make a mark?
These things make me happy.