Perhaps I was spoiled in NYC with the extravagance of Halloween. A parade followed by days and nights of costumed celebrations in every corner of the city. There is no such display in Paris. Several bars took pride in the festivities, mainly those trusted Irish ex-pat locales, and a random bar or two in the Marais. Though I’m not certain the clientele was dressed in costume or preparing for a regular night of revelry. Needless to say I was not inspired to wear anything other than the garb of a Parisian girl, for me, a costume in itself.
Sundays in the Marais are enchanting. While the rest of Paris sleeps, the Marais is filled with the flow of life. Following an impromptu path led only by the sun, we float like a pair of doves amidst the harmonious mélange of voyagers and inhabitants. No sounds of engines are heard as the streets are entitled only to pedestrians. Time ceases to exist. We find our way into a world of secret gardens and not-so-secret cafés. Our most favored treasure is the Village Saint Paul. This clandestine paradise is accessible only via arched passageways, to those who are lucky enough to find it. Within these walls lies a self-contained world of antique shops and one particular café which has captured our hearts, or more fittingly, our appetites. Seldom does a Sunday pass without a taste of the homemade quiche or creative confections.
Days like these help me to remember why I am in Paris: love. A ‘raison d’être’ in itself. I temporarily forget that the other key elements composing a life are so far away: family, friends, work, etc. Is it possible to create a life combining all of that which brings one a sense of fulfillment? Or are we meant to perpetually lack in order to feed the mind and body with desire? Perhaps, for the sake of feeling alive. Regardless of the whims and desires that reside in my mind, I feel deeply content.
My preferred mode of transport amidst these cobbled streets is the Vélib’, a public bicycle system which was successfully launched on July 15th 2007, currently the largest of its kind in the world, consisting of 20,000 bikes. Every 300 meters throughout the city center lies a station, appearing much like an oasis to those weary of walking (no doubt the stiletto laden fashionistas are great fans of the Vélib’). For merely 1 euro I pick up a bike, navigate my way through the maze of the Marais, return the bike to one of the 1,450 stations, and continue my adventures via foot. Countless hours are spent circling Paris in this manner. Perhaps the greatest sensation is flying over one of the enchanting bridges via Vélib’ at sunset, following only the direction of the stars.
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
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.
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.