Spider sense

While the French Blonde has taken a break from the supermarket of love, it turns out that simply having gone shopping has opened her eyes to the various other possibilities in the world, i.e., the FB lives in Paris, a city where men look at women and where there are some very intriguing people right under her very nose. These include the rock star chef, the fellow artist, and the handsome health care professional.

The rock star chef is one of those short pants (about 2" above the ankle bone) wearing hipsters. He is indeed, a rock star. Though the FB has not eaten at his restaurant recently, she remembers one very excellent dinner there and another one that was good. The rock star chef often hangs out on the sidewalk late at night, smoking cigarettes with his sous (actually, the FB assumes it is his sous-chef, but does not know for sure, and writing that sentence made her feel like Anthony Bourdain, so it's staying). The FB has taken to greeting him with a hearty (and it must be said, slightly idiotic) "Hello, chef!" when she returns home late in the evening after dinner parties. At first, the rock star chef did not take kindly to the FB boldly booming at him; his withering stare resembled nothing so much as the look her black cat sometimes gives her, a look that blends befuddlement and what looks like an intense desire to rip her face off and possibly eat it.

But over time, the rock star chef, like the cat, was tamed. So much so that the FB and he enjoyed some lovely, if brief, conversations on the sidewalk at late hours.Then, suddenly, the sidewalk conversations evaporated. Perhaps they both felt constrained by their daily proximity to each other and didn't want to fall into the trap of being obliged to converse each time they spotted each other. (The FB has been told that Larry David does a funny riff on this problem.) In any case, the FB took to wearing dark glasses when she ventured out; the rock star chef took to turning the other way or engaging in intense conversations with his staff, thus deactivating his peripheral vision. And that, so far, is that.

The fellow artist is a man the FB has known for a while. He is successful, international, polite, charming, and a mad egotist. However, the FB knows many people who are far less entertaining, so being a mad egotist turns out not to be a complete deal-breaker. However, the fellow artist recently felt impelled to give a blow-by-blow account of why his last relationship failed over what had been, up until then, a rather delightful Indian biryani. Normally, the FB has no objection to hearing the intimate details of people's failed (or otherwise) relationships, but the fellow artist had such a need to paint himself as the innocent victim that the FB soon tired of his tirade. She felt like a mule that someone was trying to corral when what she really wanted was to be free to go where she pleased. Luckily, the FB represses her desire to kick people when this feeling kicks in.

The handsome health care professional, on the other hand, was a mystery at first. Polite, elusive but friendly, with a tendency to give orders that the FB supposes could be interpreted as provocative, though clearly they are not: "uncross your legs," "don't tilt your head back so far," and "bite down." But then, as the FB returned for another visit, the conversation turned to birthdays, and it turned out his was just two weeks later. On her next appointment, the FB gave him a copy of her book. As he had just started studying English again, the gift came as a serendipitous surprise. He was very touched.

On the next visit, the handsome health care professional did not leave the room immediately after the FB's appointment. The FB, who had picked up her bag to leave, saw that he'd created a little space for her, so she put down her bag and walked into it. They chatted a short while, then the FB left, feeling buzzy. Tingly--and thrilled that her next appointment with him was late in the afternoon on a Saturday. Which, she thought, gave him a perfect opportunity to ask her out for coffee.

But then his office called to change the time and day of the appointment, and all the air went out of her balloon. The FB had a total mood shift. She decided that all the flirtation was in her head, that he was simply a very nice HHCP, and that, most importantly, she should know better than to trust her spider sense, even when it tingled with anticipation. She walked into the appointment a defeated woman. The HHCP was just as friendly as ever--friendlier, even--but the FB was being Tragic Heroine (an unfortunate tendency to behave like women in operas), and was therefore a little self-protective and distant, though still clearly happy to see him. When she left this last appointment, she realized her next and last appointment would be in two weeks. This made her feel glum, as she told LMC later that day.

But then the HHCP texted her that night, to tell her once again how touched he was by the gift of her book. The FB was immediately aware of several things: a.) the HHCP had never texted her before and certainly not at 10:30pm; b.) the HHCP had always employed the second person plural ("vous") with her and in his text had used the informal "tu"; and c.) he had already thanked her, so this text message could be construed as an excuse to get in touch with her outside of her office visits.

Giddy, the FB responded right away.

No, of course she didn't. The FB has a committee of beloved advisers, and they must be contacted for counsel depending on time zone and availability. LMC was phoned and the FB poured out an over-excited stream of blather at her, which LMC very sweetly listened to. Then G, supreme strategist #1, was tracked down in a hotel room in Montreal (the FB's ways are wide and her net is deep), and together they brainstormed a fitting response.

The response led to an invitation to a party on Saturday night, which may or may not be covered in another post depending on how forthcoming the FB feels like being. It is perhaps needless repetition to mention it once again, but the FB is nothing if not a reticent Victorian at heart.

And suddenly, she rather feels like being coy.

Leviathan

The French Blonde loves that fact that in Paris, there is always a wonderful exhibit. She and pal LMC recently stopped by the Orsay to see some old friends from the nineteenth century, only to get into the Manet show, which had been touted as being impossible to get tickets for.

Not all of the FB's beloved paintings were on display. "Bar at the Moulin Rouge" wasn't there, and in addition to this being her favorite Manet painting, it inspired the FB to get bangs a few years ago:

Also, the perspective and reflection is so wonky, you can look at it for hours.

But "Olympia" was there, and she's magnificent:

Did you ever notice the awkward little black cat at her feet? The FB had forgotten about it.
There were also several delightful letters with flower watercolors.

LMC and the FB also went to this year's Monumenta show at the Grand Palais, to see Anish Kapoor's "Leviathan." As they waited in line, they heard Spanish, German, Hebrew and American English. A group of young men sat on the balustrade nearby, smoking a joint. One was a handsome blond with long hair and a skateboard, the other a Keanu type, the third the moody, pointy fox-faced poet of the trio, complete with pants about 3 inches too short.

The FB is not sure what this means as a fashion statement, but the rock star chef in the FB's building tends to wear his pants short too. A fad it is hard to get with, and yet, attendrissant (touching). She is also similarly puzzled by the proliferation of smart men wearing shrunken boy suit jackets. If anyone can explain this to the FB, she would be grateful.

See? The FB still doesn't get it. Not everyone looks like Hedi Slimane. Though if the same jacket looks good on women and she can borrow it, she might reconsider.

Meanwhile, back to "Leviathan."
LMC and the FB went through a revolving door and were suddenly sucked inside a red, womb-like fantasy world, as if we were in the belly of the whale, if the whale were made of a visualization of the fabric of the space-time continuum. Sounds echoed weirdly inside. Shadows of the Grand Palais iron structure created patterns in the material, then disappeared when the clouds rolled by.

Inside, it was like this:

From the "outside," that is, the outside of the sculpture, but still inside the Grand Palais, it looks like this:

and this:


It's the closest the FB has ever come to being at a crossroads of art/science fiction/the womb.
It's weirdly unsettling, magnificent, and delightful all at once.