Winter in Paris

Ah, Vincent Van Gogh said “winter is snow with black silhouettes.” Isn’t that lovely, do winter days make you weep? Of course, it is not winter, it’s the beginning of summer, birds can be heard on the breeze. Oh, maybe you are very clever and say but Yves, in some parts of the world it isn’t summer. Yes, il n’y pas de quoi, Yves doesn’t care about these places.

Today I walked from Passy, dans le 16eme, to L’isle Saint Louis, along the river. It took me hours, and it was lovely. Paris en silhouette is lovely. Lift your brain well above your shoulders, and see around you only in sihouette.

See the blocks, the individual buildings, the towers, the trees, can you see the patterns the landscape designer was dreaming of when he plotted out planters and boulevards? So much in bloom, look at the trees in silhouette, then approach the tree and gently examine its details, its fabric, and zippers.

Beautiful people look great in silhouette. Symmetry is what nature loves, and that is what makes beauty. That is why a well cut skirt and t-shirt, a linen blouse over not much at all, can look lovely on the right person. You poor people, next time you walk past a plate glass window, don’t look at the cell phones on sale in the window, or at your oversized vulgar handbag, look at your silhouette.

If your silhouette doesn’t please you, create space between your shoulders and your ears, between your ribs and your hips. Remember, the rest of the world must look at you, so you have an obligation to try to look nice, or at least not dégôutant. Shoulders over hips, and pull in your stomach. You are much too young to look like you just had a baby. For lunch.

Moi, for lunch on Ile St. Louis I had bib lettuce with walnut oil, pommes frites, and an omelette, aux fines herbes. In heaven, you learn God is in the details. To make a perfect omelette, beat the yellow of the eggs, separate from the egg whites, then put the two together. Tell your mother to learn to cook, and to throw away her microwave oven. If she argues, fire her. You can replace her with a Balkan immigrant from a local church who can cook better.

There was a lovely couple in the bistrot, and she was very au courante, but still she had lovely posture, and crossed her feet at the ankles. Not sprawling around like you do in front of your television. Really, you must get rid of your television, it is not chic, it makes Yves cry, it is so lonely, so tawdry.

Soooooo, I am looking forward to le week-end. I am going to Menton, in the south of France. Eleanor of Aquitaine was from Menton, and she had a 90-carat diamond, that made its way to Diana Vreeland. This weekend, you must read her book Allure, and learn about this diamond. Eleanor of Aquitaine was Empress of the south of France, married Louis I, the King of the north of France. She cheated on him with Geoffrey D’Anjou, and then married his son, Henry I.

She was very chic, and lived in the 12^th century.

You will never be chic reading blogs, you need books. I want you mes enfants to chant, ensemble, books not blogs. Yves weeps for you. You must read a book this weekend, not blogs. Then write to Yves, and I will weep with joy. …oh, I can hear you, encore! books not blogs...books not blogs…. Oh, mon dieu, où ce trouve mes tissues..