EIGHT WALKING

Conversations in Passages

Trying to not sound like a pretentious prick, walking had always been a part of my creative process. Paris made it a mandatory activity as a mode of transport (which made it a little annoying, I like to do things on my own terms). She became my place of work two years ago. The saturated market for photographers accommodated my lenses. 

I recently read an article about the term expatriate and how it only applies to ‘whites’. Those of other ethnicities who work in a foreign country have a label that is somehow more negative in connotation— ‘immigrants’, even if they have no intention on becoming citizens. I wonder which will my hybrid status as a half Swedish half Vietnamese bestow me. Back in Sweden, I was always mistaken for a tourist. My own people spoke in English to me. Everyone speaks very good English because no one out of the Nordic lands is versed in a Scandinavian language.

Due to my profession, I travel with a good weight of equipment, which also makes walking even more so a chore when I am forced to do so. It wasn’t like this in Stockholm. I cherished walking because the opportunity presented itself only on rare, warm occasions. 

In Paris, walks are mainly in the open, unlike Tokyo where I brisk walked  through underground passes, interlinked malls and enclosed bridges. Come to think of it, my walks in Paris constituted more as strolls in comparison.

On a bustling Saturday, I thought of Tokyo when I walked through the passages in the second and ninth arrondissement, location scouting for a shoot. The atmosphere and flow of human traffic buzzed with life.

Galerie Vivienne. The name reminded me of an ex, Vivian. The area was interlaced with antique stores and art galleries. Nothing that I can really afford without starving for days or that my studio apartment can accommodate (it also hoards a fair amount of photography equipment). 

The space was rather narrow (reminded me of Palais Royal's walkways which I encountered earlier in the morning on my way here), and it had a hue of Verona orange. The passage was like a high end flea market rearranged. Old leather-bound books, handicrafts, vintage porcelain tableware and silverware (I wonder who actually uses those rusty things) were exhibited in shop window after shop window. I stopped to look at the books in boxes on the floor and noticed volumes of “Historia de Lord Byron”, 1-5. 3 was missing. All the beautiful books were in French, so my wallet had no chance to shine (a part of me heaved a sigh of relief). They would make very good props for a shoot though. 

I could feel a curious stare from the girl next to me. Left hander, self-manicured nails. I could tell from her right hand’s painted nails and her naked left ones. It was the only part of her I could observe first, I didn’t want to overstep the boundaries between strangers and make eye contact yet. She mumbled something, and I assumed it was addressed to me. Pardon, je me parler. She uttered in elementary, inaccurate French. I replied in English. Our common foreignness to France established grounds for a conversation. Sorry, I was talking to myself. Is that a DSLR? She asked in a British accent, then breaking into a smile of shyness and sociability. I want to study photography but I have only gotten as far as a interchangeable lens digital camera. Looks like I overestimated my looks, it was my camera that she coveted. Yes, it is a very simple one. I replied. Are you a photographer? I nodded. What is it like? Her questioning was childlike, I figured she must be in her teens. 

I told her rudiments of my profession, but I wanted to know more about the reasons for her ambition. I was praying for an answer that went beyond the influence of fashion bloggers, socialites and Instagram celebrities. Our next generation cannot be that superficial. I want to do it because I like the sound of the shutter. And I think it is the most effortless way to keep a memory. It was a satisfactory answer, honest and concise. I listened to her study plans. She was very generous with her, in her words, passion. I want to study at IED, Isituto Europeo Di Design, hopefully in their Barcelona campus. They have campuses in Italy and Spain. It’s not easy to get in I know, but I just want to study and live in a beautiful place. This school is perfect. Have you heard of that school? I only know what I can from the internet. I nodded, and told her it was one of the reputable ones around and that she should consider Prague if she wanted to seek out a beautiful place. There is a very decent photography school there too. She paused while she listened, I wasn’t sure if she was processing my advice or filtering it out. 

She continued her story when I asked her about her parents’ perspective. I was curious of how British parents might react to an artistic academic pursuit given the volatile career prospects. My parents probably don’t take me seriously. They think I will change my mind once the A Levels are nearer. My subject combination makes me eligible for many university courses in the UK. Her words drove me back to my high school days and I realized how fortunate I was. Despite the usual laments about schoolwork, I had more liberty in Swedish education and parenting. Now I know why so many sing our praises. 

We parted like how strangers part in such scenarios — without any contact information exchanged. I wished her all the best in her studies, and she thanked me for my advice. I walked to the end of the passage, and continued to the next on my digital map. 

I found my way to Passage Verdeau and stumbled upon an artisan jewelry shop at the end of it. A wishbone necklace caught my eye, it would look good on a plain white shirt. I walked in to enquire for a loan. The owner, a middle-aged bearded man, said it should be all right since it is for an editorial shoot. Which magazine is this? He asked. Will my store be credited? Should I charge a fee? No one ever asked me this before. I hid my amusement at his innocence inside, which was accentuated by the proliferated souvenir shops in Passage Jouffroy, which I had passed before this one. Somehow merchants of that sort seemed to be more unscrupulous or calculating. They always had the reputation of swindling tourists by overpricing. I explained to Jean (of course the shop owner had an authentically French name) the rules of the trade, that it was up to him to charge a fee but most stores do not. Since his was a small boutique and the piece was so exquisite, we could pay him a deposit. I assured him that the magazine will acknowledge his store and the designer of the necklace. Jean was very attentive when I explained this to him.

Thank for telling me, he said. I lend you the piece then, when do you need it? We worked out the specifics of the business. I asked him about himself, I was in the mood to listen to people’s life stories that day after the first girl. It seemed to help me learn something about myself. I just find designers, and sometimes designers come to me. Some of them are friends, but I look for interesting, quality pieces to buy. This one [is] famous in the industry. He didn’t tell me the name of the designer immediately, I reckoned because he could not remember what he was famous for, or perhaps he was not famous at all, or maybe he simply could not express what he knew about that designer in English. It didn't matter to me very much, since I would learn more about the designer with the shoot and the acknowledgements. Young man, let me tell you, these designers are very (he was trying to say ‘dedicated’, but expressed it with his fingers instead). They are all handmade. When I first started this shop, I sold designs by friends. That was probably years ago, since the store had a genuine rustic decor. He continued, now I go to trade shows. It’s good when I find something I like. But sometimes when the designers have someone for marketing, it makes it more tricky. More expensive. I like to talk to the designers direct[ly]. 

We chatted for a bit more about the industry. My job made it was easy for me to relate to his field. Paris Fashion Week just ended and the memory of facial-muscle honing networking (there was a lot of smiling and eye contact involved) at trade shows like Paris sur Mode, Americans in Paris, Premier Vision etc. was still vivid. In contrast, this conversation was refreshingly unfiltered (I’m beginning to hate the adjective ‘honest’, although it was one of the qualities of this dialogue) but I am still trying to find out what I learnt about myself from it.