When You Can Have Anything

She doesn’t have a ring on each finger, or a big diamond on each ring.

She doesn’t wear a gold watch that costs as much as a fancy car.

In fact, she doesn’t own a fancy car.

She doesn’t carry an enormous designer bag.

But she might have a newspaper under her arm.

She might mention Sartre or Foucault in a conversation.

It’s her personality that sparkles and nothing else: the signs of intellectual wealth.

Women in Black

HEADS.

If her wardrobe is made up only of black, it’s not because she’s in mourning. Quite the contrary. Black is the color of celebration, the color of nights that never end, of women who pull the blinds to shut out the dawn. A long, dark silhouette, slender and elegant, walking through a crowd of long, dark silhouettes, slender and elegant. That is the definition of a party here. And it seems that a tacit agreement on this code is shared by all those on the streets past midnight. Even white can appear like a stain on this darkened tableau. But don’t think this image is monotonous: Paris has found a name for this particular style. Words that come from the mouth of the man who, alone, seems to have invented black, Yves Saint Laurent. He used to say, “There’s not one black, but many blacks.” He managed to convince people that this achromatic style is a subtle art. If God made light, it seems that Saint Laurent turned it off just as successfully.

TAILS.

In truth, you must scratch below the surface to find the true meaning of this implacable darkness. Behind her posturing, the Parisienne hides a fear, a frenzied panic: that she is not chic. That she’ll commit a faux pas, because black is practical and convenient. It’s a safe bet—even for a woman with no eye for fashion. Black is comfortable and all-purpose. It sharpens contours and compensates for poor taste. It is your nighttime insurance, the promise of losing yourself among the fashionable masses. When you think about it, this trend epitomizes her herd instinct, the (black) sheep side of her. But don’t count on her to admit that she’s wearing a uniform. And be aware that you’ll gain nothing by pointing out this kind of truth to her. If you do, you’ll only blacken her mood. She’ll stare you up and down, turn on her heels, and disappear into the shadows forever.

OFF THE RADAR

You are drinking your coffee alone at a sidewalk café.

You are watching people around you, families, children playing, a young woman engrossed in a book, a lost tourist trying to find his way, a man in a hurry, running to catch his bus, the leaves of the cherry tree above your head.

You have no real reason to be there: you’re not meeting anyone, and no one is waiting for you elsewhere. You will stay as long as you like, and leave only when you’re ready. On a whim you can decide what to do and how to do it: there is something a bit dangerous and yet delicious about freedom.

You are anonymous in your own city; no one knows your age, who you are, or what you do for a living. In this moment, you can regain control of your life. Feel the beating of your heart, take a deep breath, and listen to yourself. Do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Savor these stolen moments. They help you regroup, and belong to no one else. You alone are responsible for what happens to you.

Nowadays more than ever your life is organized like clockwork, everything’s planned, you go from A to B, yet at this instant your phone is turned off, no one knows what you’re doing or where you are. It’s exciting to break your own habits; you’re cheating on yourself, expanding the scope of your possibilities.

You could just disappear. Jump into a cab and take a plane to Caracas or Ulan Bator, or simply spend all day at the movies. Or you could strike up a conversation with the woman sitting next to you in the café, even though you’d normally be too shy, and you could ask her about her book, say, “Oh, no, I’ve never read Turgenev,” and then talk about how the neighborhood has changed. Resume your wander, stop in a park; answer when a stranger chats you up. Why not? You’ll never see him again. He won’t know your name, where you come from, your brothers’ or your sisters’ names, how much you hate your ears, why you once cheated on an important math exam, or why you prefer making love in the morning. Just share this moment, suspended in time, before slowly heading home.

You turn your phone back on, read your messages, and send word to reassure the people in your life who were worried when you became momentarily silent.

Ennui is your secret garden.

And solitude can be a luxury.

NAVY BLUE

In the eighties, this familiar tune could be heard over and over again on the radio, “I reached rock bottom of the pool, in my little navy sweater, with its rips at the elbows that I chose never to re-sew.”

We grew up on this refrain; we all imagined a stunningly beautiful girl in distress, with a V-neck sweater that matched the color of her eyes. We’ve all wanted to steal that sweater from her, despite its holes, since it’s impossible to borrow her eyes. If we exaggerate a little, we could say that Isabelle Adjani invented navy blue. Or rather, that Serge Gainsbourg, who wrote this cult song, invented it for her. Gainsbourg was a mischievous lover. A painter at heart, he went so far as to corrupt a color for a woman, a color that until then in France was largely associated with firefighters’ uniforms. And, as is often the case, the Parisienne agrees with Serge. This particular blue is the one she’s adopted: it’s the color of her jeans, of the thick scarf she ties around her neck in winter, of the trench that falls just below her knee, or the stripes of her favorite sailor top. This blue is the color of the depth of night, the tint that is closest to black, the black that we cherish so much. To the point of breaking one of fashion’s most absolute commandments: Thou shalt not pair black with blue. A discreet rebellion, feeble at best. But the Parisienne doesn’t care, she prefers mystery to demonstration. At least, that’s how she consoles herself for this certain lack of imagination. And not unlike Adjani, she’s content with adding an accessory to her overly sober style: “wearing smoky shades to show everything I want to hide.”

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 1167