Paris off the map.

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Paris has wonderful museums, they are all so very famous, the Louvre, the d’Orsay, the Centre Pompidou, and they’re all situated in such famous buildings with outstanding architecture, all these well known façades, they’re all sights for themselves, you get them depicted on postcards, in colour or black and white, just pick your favourite angle, even when you’ve left their art collection to the others there should be enough to write home about, although it’s a lost art somehow, I haven’t written one in years, I hate looking for post offices for the stamps, it takes you years and always in the opposite direction, but I digress, anyway, the Musée Bourdelle is no such museum, no pillars, no fame, no splendour, it’s situated off the tracks, I have never been in the area before, it’s somewhere in Montparnasse, in the 15th arrondissement, there’s a métro-station nearby, Falguière, quite unimpressive a street takes you to a building that looks like, well, a building, but definitely not like a museum, tiny entrance, no visitors, you enter and find yourself in a courtyard that looks like the industrial leftovers from a time when the socialist party had just been founded and this was a place where they might look for new members, it’s nothing but rust and bricks and dusty windows, the plants and flowers seem to have spread by themselves, and if it weren’t for Bourdelle’s works of art that you see everywhere, you might ask for directions in case there was a complete misunderstanding about it all. And then, once your brain rearranges its set of expectations forever, you cannot help but feel happy. It’s a wonderful place. I sat there in the drizzling rain, smoked a cigarette or two, and declared it my favourite museum ever.

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Balenciaga Black.

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80 % of my mother’s wardrobe is and always used to be black, so I am quite familiar with the sensation of being attracted by black (seize the Oedipus connotation), but when I went to see the Balenciaga exhibition in Paris at the Musée Bourdelle this week, I was stunned as if I had never seen a black dress before. “L’œuvre au noir” showed nothing but his black masterpieces, but whether it was a daytime suit, apparently inspired by the military, or an evening dress, the way the cloth was draped, stitched, sewn and adorned, the way the fabric floated as if it didn’t weigh a thing, yet perfectly in shape, a shape only Balenciaga could ever have come up with, lace and mink, wool and crêpe de chine, embroidered or pure and simple, all of it looked out of this world, this world of quickly put together pieces, from China or Malaysia or where ever work is cheap, made for fashion victims, nouveaux riches or just plain stupid people, who only care about the label but not about quality, those who do know what I mean, you feel completely duped when a 500 dollar shirt loses buttons after the first wash, and I’m talking handwash. Anyway, now I get why Mona von Bismarck refused to leave her bed for three whole days when Balenciaga decided to retire in 1968. A dark day, though not black at all.

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