Le Sentiment
I.
In 1965, the 16th arrondissement reaffirmed itself in cinema as the district of affluence and power when a traffic warden retracts his order to Emilio Largo’s illegal parking when the Bond villain steps out of the car in Thunderball. The notion that the atmosphere of a neighborhood varies with its average household income is compelling. However, I made an conscious effort to not hold any expectations of the neighborhood before my walk in it. It was out of my past experience of reality falling short, or being simply different, from my imagination.
The weather had the poise of a goddess — beautiful outlook and piercing coldness. Perhaps I had grown accustomed to the aesthetic of Paris, the monotonous Haussmann residential buildings of the 16th did not sweep my feet off the ground. I did notice the steady lines of vacant taxis in the curves of the roads as I ascended from the metro station. The metro is for servants. Someone said that somewhere to account for the taxis. I giggled to myself at the thought of that.
The low temperatures and caustic breezes of wind made me choose to walk on the sides where the sun shone. It, along with sunscreen, was becoming a habit since I started walking in Paris. I never liked being in sun. Shying away from it was as intuitive as a mimosa touched. Legs shrugging back into the blanket when the window light hit the bed. Detours taken in place of sunlit routes. Yet the sunlight in cool weather was much appreciated. Whatever amount of warmth it provided, sometimes corresponding with its brightness, sometimes not, was a rare commodity.
This walk is remembered in a faint golden hue, as the literary flair of Balzac had speckled the 16th with fairy dust. Parisian Green served as the detail accent of Maison de Balzac and its neighbors. This shade of green is particular to Paris, reminiscent of the many bronze statues that scattered around the city.
The residence of Honoré de Balzac had a panoramic view of Paris with the Eiffel Tower. To have been situated in a scenery with such wealth of inspiration it would have been inhuman to not be a creative. The environment always had a hold on me that it determines what I choose to do in order to get where I want to be. I remain curious about the surroundings of the Maison’s two other peers, museums dedicated to literature, Maison de Victor Hugo and one with the most distinctive name, Maison de la Vie Romantique of George Sand.
Perhaps de Balzac shared my sentiments, seeing he arranged outdoor furniture in his garden of flora. Their remarkable pristine condition is indubitably intentional. In fact, their existence possibly even staged by later guardians of this house museum, in an attempt to preserve the world-observing image of the literary genius.The table is a severed French oak sessile tree, Quercus petraea, of the white oak genus. It is mainly used in construction, shipbuilding and in France, it is most appreciated for making the oak barrels for wine. The oak for this special function is measured against its own set of standards.
The wood grain is assessed to identify the environmental conditions where the tree is grown — in particular, water and climate. Sessile oak has fine grain. Its ring spacing is examined to determine the presence of wood characteristics that affects the spirit it contains such as whiskey lactones and ellagitannins.
Wood, like the French aristocracy, reflects its history in itself. The conditions it grows in, soil, macro climate, micro climate, ecological cohabitants and underground aquifer specifics, present themselves in the physical attributes of the wood. Furthermore, since the temperament of nature is ever so fickle, conditions are never consistent throughout the region. Hence, each tree is unique.
De Balzac, on the other hand, has a family history that deviates from the regular household of the 16th. The Balzac family did not descend from generations of wealth. Balzac’s father, born Bernard-Francois Balssa, came from a poor family in the south of France. His ambition to elevate his social status was achieved in after 16 years of struggle in Paris when he finally became Secretary tot he King’s Council and a Freemason. In the French tradition where appearances are everything, he changed ‘Balssa' to a more noble-sounding ‘de Balzac’.
The nosy hearsay I picked up in Paris inform me that even today, households whose wealth decayed with the basic principle of imperialism, capitalism, globalization etc — greed — try their best to keep their estate, utilizing three to four rooms of the the thirty-odd in the mansion. In my walk, I looked out for lifeless windows, suspicious of the financial situation of the family behind it. It brought back memories of walks in the Upper East side, and Cate Blanchett in Blue Jasmine. Manhattan, with her menacing bankruptcy laws and coercing property prices, is much more unforgiving towards those who had fallen out of grace and tumbled down from riches.
In the August of the year before this walk, I strolled the rows of vineyards in Bordeaux. There, I encountered many other French-speaking visitors, whom hailed from Paris. I deduced that they were familiar with the 16th, but not as residents. Instead, of the nine or ten encounters, six worked or owned businesses there while I never was able to figure out the historiography of the other three. Later, I was told that the stores of this gentle neighborhood suspend operations for the month of August. The residents vacation elsewhere to escape the waves of tourists and the members of its industry see summer holidays as a necessity too. C’est la vie.
I completed this walk in the Champs des Mars beneath the Tour Eiffel. All of Paris had came out for the sun and I was seeking out for cherry blossom trees. Wuhan, Hangzhou, Tokyo, Kyoto, Washington D.C., Seattle, were overgrown with cherry blossoms at the time and I wanted to be part of the epidemic very badly. To my disappointment, Parisian urban landscape planners only saved not more than five plots for the parks I had visited thus far. It was like eating cheese-pairing, blander European Anjou pears in France while craving sweeter, juicier Korean Shingo pears, a mediocre substitute to a gastronomical fantasy. This kind of disappointment from the distance between reality and expectation is a symptom of nostalgia, wanderlust and homesickness. I believe I am diagnosed with all three.
II.
The walks of glamour continued in the passages of Paris. For my concealed pastime as a writer, 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.
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.
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