a world of artists

I love living in the Marais. Not simply because of the designer boutiques and trendy bistros on every cobbled corner, or the multitude of galleries exhibiting art from around the world. The ambiance of the Marais is unique. It’s one of the most historic neighborhoods of Paris, encompassing the 3rd and 4th arrondissements of the right bank. I can easily spend many a late afternoon carousing the streets, joining the masses at a random art opening and ending the evening with a glass of red wine upon a cafe terrasse. 

Most of all I love the many hidden courtyards of the Marais, revealing enchanting worlds, such as Village Saint Paul. Today I discovered another one, one which spoke of art. Our afternoon was spent in search of artists part of Nomades 2010, a parcours culturel et artistique du 3eme, taking place all weekend in the Marais. We followed our feelings, with an event map in hand, and there it was, a hideaway of artists and ateliers, la Cité Dupetit Thouars. I was in heaven!

How had I not found this bohemian paradise amidst the land of the bobo’s sooner? We walked in and out of ateliers, meeting artists, learning of their trade, feeling inspired by the these talented few who followed their dreams and ended up sharing them with those who took the time to find them.

What a privileged insight into the lives of artists! We first met a carpenter who designs furniture from all types of wood, creating what I tend to call ‘functional art’. Patricia was hidden behind a mountain of tools and wood, barely could we find her. I’m certain I will return one day to commission a coffee table. 

The next character we met was Yves Prince, a true artist in the traditional sense. He has had many a woman pose in his studio, as is evident by the wall of nudes hanging in his atelier. In his warm and welcoming manner he was proud too, to show us the many film posters he has designed, impressive! 

Fashion is often considered art. Here we found one such fashion artist, Gwen van den Eijnde, sharing his unique and magical world of fabric and form. 

One of the most inspiring artists we met was Michele Adrien, a framer. Not at all the typical framer you would find to simply beautify your artwork, her frames exhibit a work of art in themselves. She uses the endless resources of her conceptual and creative mind (plus, she was once a mathematician so her measurements are exact), to complement the art in question, using materials such as lead, glass, foam, wood, copper, even a milk carton. My engineer is now convinced that he too will become an artist. 

Never again will I pass this little street in the Marais, la Cité Dupetit Thouars, without smiling at the unique world of artists existing behind each unassuming door. 

For the creative souls living in Paris, there are several morning and evening courses in painting/design/sculpture offered within one of these hidden ateliers: www.terre-et-feu.com

a hidden paradise

Before moving to Paris I could not get enough of the Parisian bistros found on nearly every corner. To sit and imagine my life as a French girl. These days, I no longer need to imagine as I sink further into my mostly blissful reality as an expat in France. I still revel in the cafe culture and often find myself sitting at a cozy cafe with every intention of studying French but much too preoccupied with studying faces and street style of the passersby.

Recently, on my way to such a cafe I discovered a doorway leading into a hidden paradise. A place to hide from the world and that could quite honestly be anywhere in the world (apart from the fact that there are floor to ceiling shelves of used French books lining the walls, a minor detail). This is my new haven. A place of tranquility and refuge in my beloved neighborhood of the Marais. A place to study, meet a friend or make a new one, peruse a French comic book (that’s about my level these days), splurge on coffee and cake, or simply dream. And should you need a new designer shirt, a Liberty mug, a dining table to put it on, or a lightbulb, voila! To the creators of this conceptual one-stop wonderland all I can say is Merci!

Passing the Fiat Cinquecento and stepping into the 3-story loft space that creates Merci, you feel like you are entering someone’s dream, if not your own. In fact, Merci is the realized dream of Marie-France and Bernard Cohen, the founders of the famous children’s clothing line Bonpoint. What makes this store so unique and even more highly venerated is that that all of it’s proceeds are donated to a co-op for young women in Madagascar. Thus, it’s impossible to feel any guilt while shopping! Not to mention that much of the unique, fashion-forward men’s, women’s and children’s clothing has been designed exclusively for this space and cause.


I’m wondering if they would mind if I moved in…

Merci, 111 Boulevard Beaumarchais, Paris 75003 http://www.merci-merci.com

how to dream in French

The days are growing longer. On rare occasion a hint of spring passes through the still frigid air. I remain warm within my expansive thoughts. I am in the midst of redefining myself in the context of a French life. Did I think it would be this difficult to leave behind the comforts and familiarities of a city which had become my home for over a decade? To bid farewell to my old self who knew so much and so many and made such an intimidating city feel so intimate? I recall so well the first few years of NYC, the growing pains involved in assembling the many pieces that create a life. And here in Paris, the puzzle appears much more difficult to piece together. Mostly due to the fact that the instructions are illegible. I remain perplexed as to how exactly things and people function here. The extreme formality and sense of order do not always appeal to me. Even the vagabonds seem well-mannered. Perhaps I am accustomed to a greater diversity that cannot be defined. A place where possibilities are endless and nothing is impossible. Once upon a time I was taught to dream. And now? As I attempt to redefine myself, an American girl raised with European sensibilities, I feel more American than I ever did in the USA, and even more so a dreamer. Simply, I must now learn to dream in French.

SOLDES!

The word on the streets is SOLDES. All of Paris is on sale. Apparently this is quite an event, happening only twice a year, as regulated by the government. The sales continue for five weeks, a Winter cleansing of sorts, in preparation for the new Spring styles. Finally I can shop in this fashion capital! Prior to these seemingly never-ending sales, I merely stared glossy-eyed into the windows of the many boutiques lining the streets of the Marais and Saint-Germain. The price tags in the windows often prevented me from entering, considering the less than ideal exchange rate. Why tease myself? I would look, but dared not to touch. And now, prices are almost equivalent to those in my favorite Nolita or Soho boutiques in NYC. Somehow the ‘Made in France’ label makes shopping in Paris more of a cultural experience. Might I even consider the additions to my wardrobe an investment?

a blanket of white

This morning I awoke to discover my first Parisian snowfall. As if Paris needed any additional beauty, the city is enchanting beneath it’s blanket of white. The streets are empty aside from vagrant shoppers and children ducking behind cars with snowballs in hand. A perfect afternoon to find refuge behind the large picture windows of cafe Les Philosophes, indulge in a chocolat chaud and collect my thoughts, as varied as the snowflakes.

Sunday stillness

I have quickly come to cherish Sundays in Paris. For one simple reason, love. Sundays in NYC, following the sacred ritual of brunching with friends, were most often spent solo amidst the masses, shopping in Soho or sitting in Central Park reading or dreaming. I think too, of the countless Sundays during my travels. Regardless of the continent I inhabited, endless hours were spent in observation (often considered sight-seeing) as the world became suddenly still. Sundays, as I well recall in my childhood, are a day to spend with family (or friends who in the case of my previous life in NYC had become family). Now here in Paris, I feel the warmth of family. It is only he and I, but that is enough to provide the feeling of home.

Today, in our sacred Sunday tradition we woke up to the late morning sun, radiating light from an inviting sky. Most often clear and bright in it’s winter chill. A savory brunch in the Marais, which has become quite a trend in Paris. A late edition of the ‘International Herald Tribune’, much more manageable a read than my esteemed ‘Sunday NY Times’ (though indeed I do miss the Travel and Styles sections to name a few). Upon walking to the Seine to admire the serenity and the awe-inspiring views, we stopped for a moment of reflection at Church Saint Gervais. As though invited through divine intervention, we entered the setting of a performance combining poetry, painting and music. Within this scene illuminated only by candles, I could understand words not phrases, emotions not meanings. Yet, in all it’s abstract obscurity, the experience was deeply enchanting. The flutist sounding the melodies of birds as images of clouds and sea projected above the altar. It is upon such an impromptu path that life most naturally reveals itself.

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