in vogue

It’s fashion week in Paris. The surrounding galleries are transformed into showrooms, previewing new collections that hang much like works of art. Occasionally this art will come to life upon the form of a walking and breathing mannequin. This is all very exciting I must admit, finding such an eclectic fashion show outside my doorstep.

Though it appears to me that fashion week is an ongoing event in Paris, the only rule being don’t follow any rules. Is this a trend I am not aware of? The look on the streets belongs to the ‘bourgeois-bohème’, commonly known as the ‘bobos’. These locals of the Marais exhibit a strategic melange of ‘high-end designer meets starving artist’. A look that appears thrown on in an apartment lacking lights or a mirror, yet in reality much time was involved in the final composition. I am constantly inspired as I carouse the streets, my designing mind longing to create, to take apart and put back together in a most casual elegant manner, playing with shapes and forms. Amidst the bobos there exists a freedom to express which suits me.

Whether or not I am accepted as a member of this seeming elite is another matter, not one that I preoccupy myself with.

Shirt: ‘my Italians’ closet; Belt: collection of Kim Cattrall; Bracelet: flea market in Jaffa; Beret: hat shop in Bogota; Leggings: American Apparel; Bag: gift from Evelyn Espinal; French Scarf: missing

nuit blanche 2009

Paris’ Nuit Blanche has, since it’s induction in 2002, become a highly anticipated celebration of art and culture. From dusk to dawn the doors to galleries, museums and churches stay open, welcoming those brave and eager enough to enter them. For one night a year ‘the city of lights’ becomes ‘the city that never sleeps’. Almost.

Led by a full moon, we began our journey into the white night at 10pm, following a path of art and music beginning in the Marais with video art projected upon the Centre Pompidou and Hôtel de Ville, ending at 3am with a melody of voices at Church Saint-Séverin in the Latin Quarter.

 

eyes on the Seine

Walking along the Seine I noticed the most intense set of eyes staring at me. These eyes were large and profound, plastered along Ile Saint-Louis and Pont Louis Philippe. I could only imagine this was an artistic statement, not merely a talented graffiti artist. Indeed, this impressive exhibition, part of Nuit Blanche, is the vision of famed French photographer JR, titled ‘Women Are Heros’. The faces of women from impoverished nations around the world, most notably those in the favelas in Rio de Janeiro and in Kibera, Kenya, are projected larger than life, leaving the viewer moved and mesmerized. With eyes wide open.

the sky…

There is something uniquely spectacular about the Parisian sky. It can hold my gaze for hours with its dynamic ever-changing composition. This sky is magnificently temperamental, and when not caught under it’s sudden rain, I am in utter admiration of its kaleidoscopic palette. I wonder if the locals share my awe for the space above. Do they walk around gazing skywards, stopping to smile at the passing clouds revealing indescribable hues of blues and pinks? Do they notice the perfect light as the sun sets to welcome the night? (I believe that is the time for an aperitif in this culture). No, the French are too composed for such behavior, it is their sky after all and they expect it to be extraordinary. Perhaps after so many years of searching for slivers of sky amidst imposing skyscrapers I find even greater pleasure in the light of day.

foreign flavors

The beginning of my Parisian life has proven a proper foreign adventure. The first few weeks have tasted of many flavors other than French, the sweet and savored tastes of family. We traveled to the South of Poland where my roots are firmly planted. Deep in the woods of Bykowce, the place of my youth and still now, my place.

A brief return to Paris and away we flew to taste of Northern Italy. More family and feasting, the setting of this dream in Monterosso on the Mediterranean, his place. The experiences defining dreams and reality are becoming more vague, and I willfully allow myself to be taken. The adventures seem endless as our respective cultures meet and mingle, creating an even more resplendent reality.

voices from afar

Each morning I wake with a smile, eager to explore and engage in this new and privileged life. I feel very much at home, even more so as I can now navigate my way through the tangle of streets, aware of the treasures which lie behind the surrounding corners, in the form of bistros and boutiques, bookstores and boulangeries.

Several friends have joined me in this adventure, appearing for merely a moment, yet providing a lasting comfort that comes only with those we call our long-time confidants. It is my people I miss the most, a select few I have collected through the years, whose faces will always elicit in me the most genuine of smiles. In all of my many travels, and especially now having found a new home in a distant land, I understand well that a city speaks to ones soul through the voices of ones life. The most relevant one being our own. (And of course that of our mother). Forever will my esteemed voices be heard from afar. My current and most favored voice is deep and melodic with the most charming Italian accent.

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