Cover Story: Paris Versus New York

Courtesy of Charles Berberian for The New Yorker.

The New Yorker's cover story for the May 5th, 2014 issue raised what I found to be a fascinating question : to what extent are the cultures of Paris and New York (and perhaps the cultures of France and the United States as well) fusing, melding, and even standardizing?

Illustrator Charles Berberian, making the point that these cities are in fact merging their trends, lifestyles and energies, deliberately imparts a feeling of uncertainty in his drawings and causes the viewer to wonder which city is really depicted. Take this cover illustration - are we looking at a Williamsburg coffee shop designed in the style of a French café, or is this couple actually reading Le Monde on their iPads overlooking a parisian boulevard?

Thinking back to the taco truck I've seen on Boulevard Raspail and the macaron craze that has swept New York City, it's easy to see Berberian's point. It remains to consider, however, whether this is the start of thriving cultural symbiosis, or rather a dulling and degrading homogenization.

You can find some background on The New Yorker's cover story as well as a slideshow of Berberian's cartoons here. Below is my favorite from the slideshow, as it really illustrates the bleakness of any metropolitan city under the rain. Though despite the uniformity brought by bad weather, the shadows of both New York's water towers and Paris' Haussmannian facades appear distinctly.

Courtesy of Charles Berberian.

No Love Locks campaign wants to ban bridge locks

Did you know that the bridges in Paris are heaving under the weight of locks left on their fences by passing lovers? Neither did I. I also didn't realize that what I thought of as nothing more than a sweet and innocent symbol of young love, sadly rendered quite ironic by the fact that these promises of forever are routinely chopped and discarded, would represent to others (note: they're American) a pressing threat to the city's integrity.

Only a few years ago, I was one of those couples who put a silly lock on the Pont des Arts. In typical teenage-couple-stumbles-through-Paris fashion, my then boyfriend and I had bought an overpriced lock at a neighboring hardware store, forgot to bring a carving utensil and ended up sitting at a nearby café, scraping enough ink out of a pen to mark our initials. To be honest, the emotions most salient to me now are those of hunger, fatigue and cold. But on that winter day a few years ago, we checked something off our silly bucket list and left a temporary mark the Parisian scenery.

I hope couples will have this opportunity for decades to come and that the No Love Locks campaign won't succeed in banning this tradition, thereby making illegal one of the last innocent gestures of young love that I can think of. These locks obviously should not be protected at the expense of Paris' infrastructure, and it would break my heart to see bridges crumble after hundreds of years of history. But why can't the locks be cut more often so that fewer hang on bridges at any given time, for example? It won't really matter to the couples if their lock is gone a few days later, and to be honest it's impossible to find yours in the sea of locks if you only just briefly look away. What matters is that at some point in their lives a couple was together in Paris, and put a lock on a bridge. And I never want to see those memories banned.

For the full article on the No Love Locks campaign, visit The Guardian website.

J'ai un cadeau à faire de chez Zadig & Voltaire

A few summers ago, in France, a song hit the charts hard. I mostly ignored the lyrics the first few times I heard it, but upon paying closer attention I discovered a humorous song aiming a pointedly mocking finger at the young, trendy, elitist Parisian crowd. Basically, the song was Helmut Fritz' (turns out his name was also a joke) list of all the things these kids do that upset him, called "Ca m'énerve."
 
Besides being pissed off by rosé champagne and denied access to clubs, the singer also hates shopping at the incredibly hip Zadig & Voltaire (see post title) because their items always seem to be on permanent backorder.

When I saw their new S/S14 collection, the first thing I thought (ok, second after singing what I remember of the song) was that this backorder reputation is here to stay.

 

Photos via Because I'm Addicted.

The importance of manners

A little guide kindly offered by my grandparents.

The importance of manners and etiquette came up in a recent conversation with my friend Emily. We realized that they certainly matter to both our families and as a direct consequence they now matter to us, whether our past five-year-old selves like it or not. But recently I've noticed that a lot of other people have also been discussing manners, in this Serious Eats column or on the America's Test Kitchen podcast I listen to for example. It makes me wonder whether this is part of a general slow-movement trend, where doing things properly and thoroughly and consciously is given precedent over rushing through things in a haphazard and informal way.

But back to my conversation with Emily, I told her that I thought I was taught manners to make me a more pleasant person. My mother, in the three-page list of rules she once drafted for me after a particularly vicious fit, explained that saying bonjour monsieur or merci madame was just the nice thing to do and made my company enjoyable. In fact, no one wants to be in the company of a stupid brat like the one I had been a few hours before.

This emphasis on manners for the sake of social cohesion and positive interactions was also brought up in the ATK podcast I mentioned earlier. First, the guest speaker differentiated manners from etiquette. The first relates to underlying principles guiding social interactions, whereas the latter refers to cosmetic details like when to use a fish knife or even how long to mourn somebody's passing. But then the speakers got into precisely why it is that manners are defended, and the resounding explanation was that they are a way of keeping our primal urges at bay. Without proper education there would be little stopping us from sticking our fork into the centerpiece leg of lamb, plowing into a crowded subway car, constantly interrupting conversation or doing whatever else we might impulsively want to do, all of which would make for rather barbaric experiences.

Maybe that's your preference, and I'm sure you won't be alone. But for the sake of social cohesion it is undeniable that we should all behave with the least bit of civility. If only for that, manners are worth remembering, discussing and adapting to current circumstances. Looking at you, chatty lady on your cellphone...

Cowgirl Creamery's Red Hawk cheese

Cowgirl Creamery's Red Hawk

I was reading Serious Eats' post "A Brief Guide to Great Stinky Cheeses" when I thought to myself that stinky cheeses have really come a long way in this country. Sure, certain cheeses like mimolette are still being treated with severe skepticism, but I simply can't ignore that pungent taleggio now defends a role as legitimate pizza topping and that cheese plates capable of making their presence known from across the room are featured on nearly every trendy menu.

My love affair with strong cheese, as with anyone of French blood, started in the womb. Surely you didn't think my mother would stop eating cheese just because of a little pregnancy situation... As a child, a big block of parmesan set out on a plate with a hand grater was a staple of every home-cooked pasta dinner. In my teenage years, a summer job at a snack shop in Normandie was fueled largely by Pont l'Evêque on baguette. In college, what I most anticipated when spending a weekend home was Friday night's dinner, if only because the final touch was always Roquefort and red wine. And I still remember the first time my dad treated me to a fancy tasting menu, and how when it came to ordering dessert we both made a point of requesting the cheese course and stating, with a wink in each other's direction, "the stronger the better."

Admittedly, I have taken my love of cheese a little far sometimes. Like that time I showed my college friends around my hometown of San Francisco and decided to stop by the Cowgirl Creamery shop in the Ferry Building and splurge on their Red Hawk cheese, a washed rind cheese that rivals even the most "floral" of French cheeses. All the while forgetting that we still had an afternoon of sightseeing planned. And would not be back to my parent's home to lock the cheese away in the fridge until the next day because we were spending the night in Berkeley. Which ultimately led to a very smelly car and a few bitter remarks. But that Sunday lunch my mom made, topped off with that Red Hawk cheese? To me that was justification enough.

I never liked those little tree car freshener things anyway.

Robert Doisneau photographs Palm Springs

In my mind, Palm Springs will always be a getaway for lucky Angelenos, an oasis of luxury in a barren landscape, a spot of color in the desert. A place where the air is dry, the pools are plenty and the sun sets pink. A town so close to where I went to college that I could hop over after Friday class to set up camp at Coachella, but far enough away in what it represents that I would never feel like I was on the inside.

This same feeling, of looking in as a mere outsider, is echoed in Robert Doisneau's series on Palm Springs shot back in 1960. You may know Doisneau from his photographs "Le remorqueur du Champs de Mars, Paris" or "Le baiser de l'Hôtel de Ville." But he also shot in foreign countries, bringing in this series upon the wealthy American West the gaze of a less than affluent photojournalist.

The open road, American muscle cars, the desert : a new world for a Parisian photographer.

Photo courtesy of Atelier Robert Doisneau.

 The extravagance of Palm Springs. The title of this photo translates as "Fur Party."

Photo courtesy of Atelier Robert Doisneau.

 

Photo courtesy of Atelier Robert Doisneau.

 My favorite photo : the title reads "The painter's curlers."

Photo courtesy of Atelier Robert Doisneau.

And yet, the loneliness of consumerism sinks in.

Photo courtesy of Atelier Robert Doisneau.

For the full slideshow, visit the Atelier Robert Doisneau website.


Thanks, Claire :)

"Paris, Line by Line" by Robinson

Photo courtesy of Design*Sponge

Design*Sponge recently introduced me to the work of Robinson, a German illustrator first known for the success of the travel book New York, Line by Line, which he then followed with a sequel, Paris, Line by Line. Robinson uses line drawing, a style where monochromatic lines are drawn upon a plain background, foregoing principles of shading and color. The result may seem stark and basic, but I find that it actually lends itself to the intricacies of Parisian architecture with its vast boulevards, Haussmannian buildings and Belle Epoque details.

Photo courtesy of Design*Sponge

Photo courtesy of Design*Sponge

Full Design*Sponge post this way.