Seen from beneath the iron footbridge that crosses the Saône at the foot of Fourvière hill, the church of Saint-Georges reads as the oldest thing in the frame. Buttresses, crockets, an openwork spire, lancets stacked in the tower stage — every signal points backward. It is in fact the newest building in the picture. The quay walls, the tall pastel apartment blocks on the far bank, the medieval and Renaissance fabric of Vieux Lyon a few hundred metres upstream: all of it predates the church.

Before lithography, the street was a typographer’s domain. Text-heavy broadsides announced executions, theater openings, and quack remedies in dense, undifferentiated blocks. Color was expensive, illustration was slow, and the idea of an image stopping a pedestrian in their tracks was largely theoretical. Alois Senefelder’s invention of lithography in 1796 changed the physics of what printing could do — but it took most of the nineteenth century for anyone to understand what that meant for public space.