Series 2| Le weekend d'esprit
Narritive and photography
Jeune Robe
You know lately I've been thinking about all of these random people I see everyday, people with those blank expressions like there is nothing standing between them and insanity. And I always try to catch a glimpse of breath or vague speech just to feel like I've met someone who has impacted me by chance. The hardest thing about being a Parisian is you see the same types of strangers, the same monuments, the same houses, the same reflection in your coffee everyday.
I grew up here. And all I want is something new to see, to touch, to smell, to kiss, to hear, to be, but to me all these facades have the same blank expressions that I see everyday.
I decided to take a different way home then I usually do just to change up the scenery and with the slight hope that I would meet someone new that didn't reek of "French" culture: cigarette hanging out of yellow teeth, a myriad of scents between café, perfume, smoke, and body odor, you know...those people. I walked past a few flower shops, patisseries, the occasional brasserie, and women holding her child by the collar. And I soon came upon a women sitting outside a Frog Burger and as someone who knows that burgers in France aren't anything special, I was intrigued. I sat down at an empty café table across the street. I told the waiter I wanted a croissant (I hate croissants) and watched. She had a typical look about her, her knees crossed, her facial features almost drawn on, a perfectly crisp yellow jumper with a red écharpe around her neck...like a dog color. She seemed unbothered by the world and for the first time I was almost tempted to shout at her and embarrass her.
"The fool," I thought "wearing that around here like some posh business women, the jerk".
I could feel my self getting angry at the sight of her. She was so perfect: perfect body, perfect skin, perfect hair and not a care in the world. I didn't realize she had been looking back at me the whole time and while I sat in incurious awe, she had been looking at me with the same expression that I loathed: her gentle lips pursed under a softly angular nose. Her glance almost as if her eyelashes-like feathers- swept my appearance up and down. And I began to feel stupid . I didn't like feeling stupid.
I never took that way home again and I never did dare complain about the sameness of Paris again.
