Here she once lay. In a graveyard next to Boulevard Haussmann in Paris, next to her husband, Louis XVI, King of France. Quite nice a spot for someone who had a death sentence to endure. I think most of the others who made it to the guillotine on Place de la Concorde during the French revolution weren’t exhumed as soon as the winds had changed, just to spend their eternity a little nicer, rather in a peaceful little graveyard in Paris’ eighth arrondissement than in a mass grave. But as soon as she had been exhumed and was buried on this little spot, they made her move again – “they”, she never ever had a say in this, “they” made her leave Austria and marry the King of France, “they” decided she was spending too much money on frivolous things, “they” declared her unworthy and chopped off her head, “they” didn’t even stop after her death, “they” made her rotting corpse run from pillar to post and brought her to the basilica of St.Denis, she was to meet her relatives, French side of the family only of course, and here, on square Louis XVI, “they”, namely Louis XVIII, had a little chapel erected, the chapelle expiatoire, to remember her by. Which I did. Her and her flamboyant extravagances.
I came across this selfie when I was looking for photos of Marie Antoinette’s tomb in Paris, and as I found that I have equally important things to say about this outfit of mine, I shall postpone my article about Marie Antoinette’s last resort. So, instead of learning that Proust lived quite nearby, on the opposite side of the street actually, you learn about what I wore the day I went to see the tomb of France’s notorious queen. I actually never take selfies, but on this day, in the restroom of a bistrot next to Galerie Maeght and Deyrolle in St.Germain, I had to (although, is it a selfie if you leave your head out? Well, I had just visited the tomb of Marie Antoinette and let’s not forget she was beheaded, too), as I was wearing my favourite jacket, I’ve been wearing it day in, day out ever since the day I bought it at Hamburg’s Jil Sander flagship store, it’s from an autumn/winter collection when Raf Simons was still in charge. It’s been in the washing machine dozens of times, its zipper is mostly out of order, and if it works it gets stuck in the tiny pleat that frames the zipper, nice detail, nicely sewn, but not very intelligently placed, its only fault actually, but I wonder if Madame Bertin would have lost her head sooner than Marie Antoinette if she had ever confronted Sa Majesté with such thoughtlessness in tailoring, anyway, then there’s my favourite pair of jeans ever, the only one that I will really miss, from that frightful day on when they dissolve into thin air, Ralph Lauren will be invited to attend its funeral, and one of my many black crew neck cashmere pullovers, a cheap one, no logo, but their quality is actually the same, a white shirt, you only see its cuffs, I think it’s from Charvet, and my beloved Hermès scarf, 140 x 140 cm, silk and cotton, imprimeur fou, Les Clefs and some other iconic design printed on top of it (or the other way round). That’s it. Basic me. Tomorrow, I might wear the very same, so you won’t have any difficulties recognizing me in the streets.