Au revoir Paris

It's the last day of November, and outside the apartment window, it says

                                             CHRISTMAS!

I am in a good bye state of mind. Paris, a city of many neighborhoods, each with its own flavour, its own feeling, its own vibe (or lack thereof). I realised rather quickly that the city has more of an east/west divide  than a north/south one (right bank/left bank), based on the way I dressed. If I stayed West, I dressed a little bourgeois plain. However, if I headed East, I went for a funkier look.

Photographing one last time, I looked for men, who are decidedly missing from this blog. However they too are quite present in vintage stores and consignment shops.

Men also like to shop for clothes, although not as much as women do. This trio walked by me in the Halles district, fresh from an expedition at a shop that had intriguing bags clearly. In the street, I searched for a Parisian male whose look seemed ubiquitous no matter the neighbourhood, and tapped into the vintage aesthetic. 

I loved this guy's jacket, man bag, and back pack.


The city has much to love but also much to get used to. The "manif" as they call them were more of a nuisance than anything. This one, protesting killing animals for fur,  went down below the apartment. One of the slogans they were shouting was "les animaux sont pas des manteaux!" (animals aren't coats).

I guess that means no suede coat like this one I coddled at Hippie Market in the Halles neighbourhood...

The other aspect of the city of Paris that requires getting used to is the sheer number of people living in the streets, or begging in the metro and on the sidewalks. Thinking about clothes when so many people are destitute is obviously problematic. But what I find even more difficult to reconcile is the simple act of shopping with the presence of so many people sitting outside the store entrances.

***

Color during these bleak months lifts my spirits. (Does this blog entry resemble "Elle" magazine pages where human interest stories are surrounded with ads for expensive jewelry and perfume?)

I snapped this woman as she walked by me. Her mustard jacket and purple scarf were lovely.

Crossing the Place at Edgar Quinet metro station, this woman's colorful coat and pastel bicycle felt so "urbanofeminine."

I became more discreet in my picture snapping after a guy tried to take my camera away up on the Canal Saint-Martin, which explains why all my subjects are so distant. Unless I know them and they have given me permission to take their picture and post it on the blog. 

So, this is farewell from Paris. I don't know when I'll be back. I hope that my senses have a memory, that will hold on to the distinct neighborhoods, faces, foods (no more dropping into a boulangerie on my many walks and picking up breakfast goodies), orderly exhibits and spontaneous art, shop windows, metro stops, unusual buildings and historic details, discreet alleys and hidden gardens, and many conversations with strangers, and old and new friends.  

"Souvenirs" I picked up along the way: one more Côtélac dress from "Des Habits et vous" in Lyon where I touched down quickly earlier this month, and one from "Le Grenier d'Anaïs" on rue de Fleurus here in Paris. 

 Côtélac dress from Des Habits et Vous, Lyon; belt from Beacon's Closet, Williamsburg, Brooklyn

I also discovered yet another vintage/consignment shop on the rue du Faubourg Montmartre in the 9th, where I picked up a little silk scarf for Clara...A la prochaine as they say...

"Dépot vente épouvante"

A few weeks ago, I headed to the alliterating rue Tiquetonne in the 2ème arrondissement for what turned out to be a duo of cavernous shops brimming with clothes organized by style, texture, and color. The downcycled silk shirts at Episode really tempted me: for 12 to 20 euros, one could acquire a longsleeved or sleeveless silk shirt in any color of the rainbow and its subtle variations. I may return there in search of the perfect one for Rosalie and Clara for next summer.

The mecca of vintage, Kiliwatch, was in fact disappointing because way overpriced. Once your sense of organization is in place, both Episode and Kiliwatch send one down a sensorial maze, in which one encounters rows of Austrian felted wool jackets (if I ever do get cold, these jackets at 40 euros a pop might be the solution), oversized Norwegian wool sweaters, leather boots, bags, coats and jackets (tried on yet another suede coat that made me feel very chic, but where besides Paris would I ever wear such a thing?), polyester print dresses that remind me of how horrible clothes really were in the 1980s. A tweed skirt with a Missoniesque wavelike weave made in London no less (back when labels were that precise) and a metal buckle in the middle of the waist was truly a classic – but not for me now.

Delft!

My travels brought me back to the Dutch city of Delft, which on a Saturday is abuzz with activity. After finding a copy of "Elle" from 1966 (photos to come) at the antiques market, my husband Remko and I had our usual cup of tea at the Beesten Markt. We looked for a shirt for him at a shop that sells major European brands, and found nothing of interest. However, on the Beesten Markt, there is a "recycle" shop that sells furniture, house wears and clothes. And there, for a few Euros each, there were two shirts of the same brand that we had just seen a few streets away. No photos of the shirts in question, but photos of the shop which also had some wonderful chandeliers that I wish I could put up somewhere in my imaginary urban cool house.

Of vintage in the 3 ème and belts in particular

I checked out several vintage and consignment shops in the 3ème, and found them to be very pricey. Gilda's place stands out as the most fairly priced of them. They are bunched along the rue de Poitou, while Gilda is on rue du Temple.

I found my belt, navy blue and cream, apparently dating back to the 1970s. So, in other words, it might be an old belt from my teenage years for all I know. I resigned myself to the reality that belts are going to cost twenty euros at the bottom of the price scale if bought used. There was another belt made out of crocodile skin that was really beautiful, but I passed it up because I knew that I didn't really need it. There was also a lovely warm tweed blazer with a fur collar. It might have been seal skin fur, which is quite upsetting -- and so is crocodile skin for that matter. Both are rare now because hunting those animals for their skin has been outlawed. I've hit upon the morality of buying objects that are no longer allowed to be made, hence their rarity, hence their value but also their unique beauty. The morality in beauty. The morality in being unique.

Paris consignment shops, Montparnasse

Last night, it rained hard after I came out of the movie theater where I saw, for those retro, nostalgia enthusiasts, yet another movie that minutely reconstitutes the 1980s, "Camille redouble."

I stumbled upon a small consignment shop located on rue Delambre called Juliette Chic with a nice selection of upscale clothes at reasonable prices. A very chic older woman walked in with a pair of wedge ballerina style shoes that, according to her, she was pressured into buying by her daughters who were encouraging her to look more "tendance." She could not wear them, time to consign a brand new pair of shoes.

If you're looking for an Hermès Birkin bag, this store is for you. Otherwise, there are two other consignment shops that I stumbled upon. "Le Grenier d'Anaïs" on rue de Fleurus (a popular name for a consignment shop, there was one in Toulouse as I recall; rue de Fleurus btw is where Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas held court) had all their clothes wired together, to prevent theft, which made it difficult to really have a look. "Misantroc" on rue Notre-Dame des Champs was more my kind of place. Lots of coats, pants, dresses,skirts ranging from fifty to one hundred euros. The owner claims that 1. she is seventy years old (I hope to look that good when I get to be her age) and 2. to be the first consignment shop in Paris. Today, I head to the 3ème arrondissement for a fashion students' show of their designs. I will make time for a little wandering around in search of that district's abundance of consignment shops.

From New York to Paris

Here I am again in France, poor poor me. Seriously, it’s for work (I teach French at an American university that runs its own off-campus programs.) Before heading to Paris, I stopped in New York City to check in on my parents and daughter Clara who is a freshman at the New School. She has decided to wear lipstick, and incarnate a 1920s persona. Wearing an old hat of mine and a pair of shoes that were custom made for me in Lyon back in the 1990s, she greeted me with her usual thrifted assemblage.

We met up with her friend Ada who also wears funky thrifted things. I don’t have a photo of her from NY, but I do have one from Edinburgh where Clara and she became friends, at the Fringe Festival. In New York, she was carrying a beautiful leather briefcaselike bag that she had found in Italy. I wish I had a photo of it.

After a couple of days in New York City, I flew to Paris where I met up with my friend Elsa who had herself just flown back from Los Angeles where she had been doing research on a Fullbright grant. And done plenty of thrifting herself. Yesterday in Paris, she was wearing clothes she had found in LA thrift stores.

We met at the store Antoine et Lili Déco, which sells home decoration items made from recycled materials and fair trade. Her friend Sonia was there too, furnishing her apartment. She too likes thrifting, and she was wearing an Hermès scarf that was given to her by her mom who had herself found it in a thrift store.

All these young women who are shopping at second hand stores. They go there because it’s fun, you can find something unique to wear, it’s environmentally correct … and it’s cheap. It’s really odd the contrast between those obsessive new store shoppers, crowding the sidewalks of Soho in New York and rue de Rennes in Paris, and the more trendy ones who tend to migrate to more working class districts to shop, which results in gentrifying the neighborhood really. Because they not only shop for clothes, they also stop at a café for a drink or a meal. The all male working class bars are fast becoming trendy as well. Having a waiter rudely tell you that they only have croque monsieur and a couple of beers on tap (not artisanal, please) makes the experience even more authentic.

What I found today as I headed to the department store Le Bon Marché to look at the windows that Persepolis author and illustrator Marjane Satrapi had designed was a street taken over by little TJ Maxxes. A very chic and bourgeois street was turning into a bargain place to shop. The irony is that Emile Zola, in The Ladies’ Paradise, a novel based on the founding of Le Bon Marché, had predicted the demise of the small shops. Instead, department stores are now closing their doors and being replaced by multi floored Zaras and H and Ms, or the FNAC, the record and electronics store that also happens to sell books (for how much longer, lord only knows). And small shops are thriving, getting rid of last year's unwanted models. *** The streets of Paris are filled with androgynous looking males and females, nannies and young student aged women pushing strollers and entertaining the children of the bourgeoisie, bourgeois women fighting boredom.

I was on a halfhearted quest. To go with my new mustard corduroy Gap pants, my only purchase so far this trip, I needed a belt. I was looking for a cheap leather belt that was in good condition. I didn’t find one, but I did have a nice chat with a woman who runs a vintage store on rue Sainte Placide.

This trip, I feel like I have all the clothes I need. It’s about time I reached the feeling of saturation.

Bill Cunningham's NY

Just watched the movie, yes, I'm probably a bit late seeing THE film about snapping street fashion and the love of clothes. The film also brought me back to my New York days, when I worked in a very grueling world of film and photography, so grueling that I couldn't imagine staying in it all of my adult life. Cunningham loved his work so much that he made is his life. I admire that in people who are so driven and so passionate, that they do that and only that. His family became the people he photographed and worked with. A big family indeed.