STILL HERE

My haven and my hole (read as studio, we have a tricky relationship) is where I have been spending most of my time recently, I am sad to say. This is not due to lack of want of going out and exploring, more due to seriously screwed up sleeping patterns, not falling asleep until 2am then needing twelve to thirteen hours. I have slipped out after lunch for coffees, walks, walking and walking before I have to start work for the evening. A momentary fall out has happened between Paris and I, as I feel cramped, exhausted and alone all at the same time. It is quite something the realisations you go through when you take yourself out of your comfort zone and reflect upon the life you really desire, even amid all of the beauty. Strip me back and there’s an old soul who was put here for long walks, being part of a community, making good wholesome food, creating things and lending a hand to loved ones. 

I really do not have an awful lot to share, I have still filled the hours that I am not sleeping. Wine with friends; solo coffee dates; discovering bookshops crammed so full that with one quick turn a whole wall of books could fall upon you, urging you to tread carefully and gently; late evening walks resembling a slightly trendier michelin man, nose pressed up against the windows of antique stores and galleries; curled up in bed watching film after series after film; sitting in parks watching people live their lives. Paris by no means feels uneventful, it is just I am right now. 

Yesterday I had a brief lunch with my Dad, a welcome visitor, and after laughing maybe too hard at the misfortune of two wheels coming off his suitcase, I idly walked back towards my studio feeling rather thankful and content. Rue des Petits Ecuries, a road I walked down three years ago when going home for Christmas from the beloved mill, was where I ended up and it once again bowled me over. It was somewhat a distant memory trudging across Paris from Montparnasse to Gare du Nord with my leather holdall slung over my shoulder, meandering through the streets avoiding boulevards and the elbows of shoppers, I could not even place where the street was. It was one of those happy accidents, just coming across it again. Full of independent boutiques; a “little India” shop tempting with its luminous fabrics; old textile factories, apparent from the floor to ceiling studio windows; old school Tabacs with regulars chain-smoking post lunch. It really is another corner of Paris that seems to have maintained a little community and it made my heart feel a little lighter to be in it momentarily. 

Safe to say I am on the countdown to friends visiting and going home for a weekend before heading to dear Derbyshire for Christmas and it will have been seven months since my last visit - it really has been too too long. On that note, I am going to continue cradling my cup of chai and people watch a little more before I again put one foot in front of the other.

À bientôt,

Lydia

NO EXPECTATIONS

Last night I felt a surge, a need to move… the sight of a recipe for a tuscan bean stew is what had me leaping to my feet, led my hands to grab at my camera, as I wrapped myself in the warmest of outfits. There were no greens in the fridge, bien sûr I had eaten them all, and I needed haricots blancs. My need and desire to put a good meal in myself, to comfort myself, allowed me to put two feet in front of the other.

Face half covered by a blanket of blue, body hidden beneath a mustard down, wide leg green chords flapping about and my hair perfectly coiffed in it’s Purdey-esque cut… by no means was it my chicest of moments but the child in me was content at the silliness of it. I felt comfort when I needed it and was awarded with warm smiles from strangers as I gawped up at the changing sky, my mouth giving way to a smile; stopped in my tracks as out the corner of my eye a nondescript shadowed room was lit by the grandest of chandeliers. An elderly lady stopped me, her bright fuschia lips mumbled something, her face aglow with kindness, I came to my senses and realised she had asked me the way to the metro. I hadn’t spoken to another soul all day and this simple exchange made me move further, with a humbled spring to my step when I had wanted to stop.

Though as I crossed the river I did stop, overcome with the grandeur of this place, of the glow of the sky, the golden hue settling on the water and the sight of my breath in the air. I felt nothing and everything. Like time stood still and I was allowed a moment to realise where I was, to take it in without the noise, the rush, the crowds, the need and want to do, all of the time. I was completely blinded by the beauty of it, it numbed every one of my senses. That is what gratitude can do I suppose.

There was a sense of calm in my ambling, what comes of no plans and the only need being to feed myself. I was aware of bleary eyed parents strolling past, their children having already nearly bowled me over on their scooters seconds before. Booksellers busy among themselves chatting and laughing, even sharing a glass. All of this going on beneath this fiery sky, amid all this history. It's life though, it goes on and you forget, I forget, where I am, what's happened here, that none of this is forever. That warm exchange, my breath in the air, the laughter of children, they're such small things but they're life, things that are happening here in this melting pot. The best thing is, I wasn't expecting any of it when I set out for a tin of haricots blancs and some greens, no expectations whatsoever. 

MUSEE BOURDELLE

Son of a weaver and carpenter, Antoine Bourdelle's work is bred from intricate talents. From humble beginnings, he left the Ecoles des Beaux-Arts in Paris (which he entered after eight years of tuition in Toulouse) after two years, neither interested nor understanding of the need of prizes and competitions. Creation of beautiful things was in his blood. It is the work of this sculpture that brought me to 16 impasse du Maine today, once his studio. Hidden behind the ever chaotic Boulevard du Montparnasse, it's a surprisingly quiet haven, showcasing his generous, brilliant, honest, distinctive work and space. Feeling somewhat blinded by the array on display, the thought of noting down the pieces that stopped me in my tracks passed me by (shame, I'll have to visit again).

Visiting early afternoon on a Wednesday was bliss, I saw maybe five other people wandering round, often being just the sculptures and I in the room. I was able to listen to the quiet and imagine the peace being infiltrated by the hammering of stone, sighs of a frustrated artist and the blaze of the cast iron stove. The studio is particularly astounding, having been left in its original state, down to the position of the table created by his father and the turntables showing off the works, allowing you to wind and weave yourself through this grandly lit place that feels so intimate.

It is equally inspiring to step outside to the courtyard garden. Though north facing and surrounded by high walls on all but one side, the light remains dappled and free moving, rather perfect for the bronze sculptures situated here, which are somewhat hidden amid the sprawling ivy and foliage. It's a sensual and mysterious area in the heart of the labyrinth of studios, nature's best plays in to the space so beautifully, gives the work a platform, a stage. The theatre of art, the calmest kind - for the observer.

I should have really taken a seat and lost myself a little but that nausea was in my throat that I feel when I am itching to write and document something, my eyes moving too quickly trying to frame photographs that I often miss capturing anyhow. My stride is purposefully slow and long, that common gallery viewing amble, and I calmly stroll towards the vibrant white modern extension of the museum that houses a plethora of work - some showing the influence of Rodin, having been a student of his, and others give way to Bourdelle's desire to escape from that certain style. White walls upon the harsh green grey of the concrete allow bronze sculptures to stand bold, and as the light pores in from above prominent scores, marks, features are alight in stone.

Each and every thing is beautifully made and placed and with the opportunity to literally put your hands on some of the pieces is quite magical. Running fingers across hatched markings, the muscle of a horses neck in bronze and the ragged hair of a worker - all cast, moulded and fabricated by a set of hands - the labour of this kind of work hit me and it allowed me to have a whole new level of appreciation for it.

Musée Bourdelle is another treasure, in fact a place I have lusted over for some time, and being there gave me a content feeling, that satisfaction of doing something that I wanted to do, for me. But I was also humble, to be surrounded by such craft and fine tuned aesthetics.

MORNING IN PARIS

I woke up this morning, the view of the sky and those famous Parisian rooftops barely visible past the thick condensation settled upon the window. A heavy sleep scattered with odd dreams of crashing waves and strangers meant for a restless waking at the sound of the alarm. In need of caffeine and comfort I swung my legs out of bed, stretched, made porridge and coffee and climbed back in to bed to idly watch the news. After an hour I felt I should move so set out my mat to do some yoga, meditate, I ate a mid morning snack and read. Nothing too ground breaking, but comforting.

Once the clouds finally gave way to a hint of blue, I dressed and headed down the road for more coffee and in true French fashion, a bit of people watching. I am now sat upstairs in a cafe, above the street, windows giving site to the typical looming Haussman buildings with views of tourists, workers, going about their business. Again, the clouds have hidden that dear blue I love as I look out the windows. People seem to scurry below, their legs never able to move them quick enough and their eyes down, unaware of the possibility of a warm smile. There’s the homeless, grandmothers, fathers, sisters, orphans, sons, daughters all walking up and down the same street. It’s easy to start imagining a life story for them. Why are they here? Where have they come from? How did they feel when they got out of bed this morning? Humans are so funny when you take a moment to observe. There are people smiling, talking on the phone, there are people crying down the phone. Hand holding, stolen kisses, running commentary of lives, a sombre looking man who looks like he doesn’t quite know where he’s going. There’s a high possibility that each and every one of these observations are wrong but it is interesting nonetheless and I should count myself lucky that I have time to observe, see and learn. 

Learning about people, getting to know people is fascinating, figuring out likes and dislikes, what makes them tick and what pains them. Being in new places and seeing new things, observing every detail it’s too easy to hold back from the discussions, the new faces and to just sit and look and listen. Paris is so intense and alive and it’s too easy to feel a little lost but the moment I use my eyes I see so many others who also look a little lost, trying to find a space of their own to walk within along these streets, a space to live in and feel in. It’s not just the twenty somethings who look this way, there are people from all walks of lives still figuring out what they’re doing as they carry their emotions and baggage from place to place. 

LET'S SEE

I have decided that I will carve out thirty minutes each day for writing, I say carve out, thirty minutes is no hardship really but at least I am making myself accountable. It may end up here, on this blog, stay in my scrawly journal or it could even be part of a sacrificial burning of pages of negative thoughts, washed down with a bottle of red (that one’s for you Mum). This means that I won’t just be writing about what I’m doing and where I’m going in Paris but more about life here, day to day feelings. The laughter, the tears, the surprises, all of it -  like moments I gasp "holy shit" at a decorative art nouveau building, not expecting the elderly gentleman beside me to understand, but his face says otherwise. This is my diary, it all comes from me, it's a self-indulgent project and that feels rather nice.

From my latest posts you may have clocked on to the fact that I have not been so chirpy. I struggle with winter, I jest about going in to hibernation mode but it really is a dark time for me. This year I am trying to prepare myself better, find the comforts that will help me through, make me smile more and make the difficult days feel a little lighter. With such a small space of my own with a measly little window, I am already dreading it, but now being better equipped with my SAD light and setting little tasks for myself such as this, I’m hoping it’s not going to be as bad as my anxiety is telling me, making me fear.

Yesterday, I took thirty minutes to write about fear, my fears. It’s not a piece of writing I want to share here but I did send it to a couple of my closest confidantes. I was left open mouthed, emotional, at a response. I had quite the realisation about some of my behaviours, especially so around past experiences that I need to start letting go of, things that play in to my daily anxiety. I then realised that right now, I am in the perfect position to start working on these things, to take myself out of this greyscale box I’ve put myself in to, and be a bit louder about the way I dress, the thoughts in my head, the way I want to live my life and who I want to live it with. 

I have never put myself on a set path, I have worked hard and bounced, crashed in to and stumbled from pillar to post, not entirely sure what direction I was going in, but always having the strength and confidence to know that on the path so far I continue to grow with each post I hit. Now I am here in Paris, another place I’ve arrived at looking for growth, some independence, love, self worth. It’s a lot to look for, to ask, but I barely recognise the person I was a mere two years ago so I know it’s possible, it’s just called self development.

Let's see where this path takes me... 

GENTLY DOES IT

I have been dropped back in to the giant pond and it seems I have forgotten how to swim. In layman's terms, I am back in Paris and my heartbeat can be felt in my throat. With that, yesterday morning I slept in, watched a film and made a huge pot of vegetarian chilli before heading out the door. I may be missing the belly laughs of home but I will put one foot in front of the other, camera in hand and explore.

I have told everyone how much I love Paris, how I am loving my time here and I am, but it's hard. Mainly so because once again it's something I'm doing solo (like so many others!), and that gets rather lonely. Yet, I get up and push myself out the door, even on heavier days. Yesterday I took myself for a walk to Montparnasse, taking streets I don't know, to find new haunts, I took streets I have walked down time and again, to notice details on buildings I may not have given a second glance before. I needed to appreciate things even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

The days are seemingly shorter, my hibernation mode is on the horizon and with it comes a desire to do little, be little and say little but I am going to fight that because Paris is still alive. There's a set of Christmas lights being erected on every corner, cafes remain lively and buzzing and the patisserie windows seem as tempting as ever. The elderly are wrapped up, their best winter coats taken from the back of their wardrobes, sit beautifully on their shoulders and silk scares draped round necks, a nod to the not yet so cold weather. Along with the leaves on the trees, the colours on the street and damp pavements from a morning of rain, all does seem a little subdued, though I am certain this won't last long, soon the streets will be aglow with lights much like that late summer sunshine.

BACK AT IT

It has been a bit of an accidental hiatus in terms of updating the blog. I’ve been fighting off colds and trying to look after myself a little better, as well as having some fun too… such is life. I still feel very much in this hiatus mode, life is enjoyable and I want to be present in it, especially as I am now relishing in some time at home with the parents, and dear friends who warm my heart with their smiles. The onset of winter weather, grey looming days and a bitter wind has made me fall in to hibernation mode. I too easily become a bit of a recluse, paving out time in poems and sketches, short stories I only wish I could turn in to a novel. Being home has brought me back out my shell as we while away evenings in the bar, eating dinner with friends who now feel more like family. 

Before I came home, Mum visited for a long weekend and I had been saving the Musee de Montmartre for us visit together - only hoping Mum would be equally as excited as I was once we stepped inside. The museum itself was founded in the 60s, however the house and surrounding buildings date back to the 17th century. It’s seeping with history, stories of artists in all forms pore out the stonework. The studio perched at the back, is a giveaway to the buildings past, where artists such as Auguste Renoir, Suzanne Valadon and Émile Bernard worked all hours. I tiptoed up each set of stairs, not quite ready for what I was about to see, soon I would gasp and Mum would usher me in each room saying, “just go on Lydia”. One thing I could not be prepared for was the studio, it smacked me straight in the heart... I daydream about these places maybe far too regularly, along with beautiful kitchens, cafes and restaurants. Moments like this are all too precious, places that excite you yet also comfort you, places you step in to and think I could set up home here. The light poured in to each and every room beautifully, particularly on a bright autumn day with the sun sitting low and heavy in the sky. Mum and I meandered from room to room, taking in the imagery, art, tales and history... it was the perfect way to while away a few hours.

Now, I am feeling content and relaxed, glad of the time away from the big city. I have rebooted and want to dive back in to unearthing more hidden gems in Paris - but by no means does that imply I am wishing my time away at home, because I'm most certainly not. There are three days left of this break and I plan on just simply enjoying this time. I shall be lunching with friends, topping up my red wine levels at the bar, hopefully brunching and spending Sunday afternoon listening to a swing jazz band. For now, I'll leave this blog until next week when cafe hopping and winter coat hunting will be my main priorities... 

LIGHT

It’s as easy to fall out of love with Paris as it is to fall in love with Paris. With that, I knew I needed to put one foot in front of the other and explore, open my eyes and look for small beautiful details — less of the big picture and the overwhelming enormity of this place. Yesterday felt so grey and today, within an hour or so of waking it was so much lighter, I felt so much lighter. 

Autumn is here in Paris, there is more grey than blue and winter feels like it is already looming over the city as I find my hand flicking on the light as soon as I wake, the lack of sun is evident, overtaken by cloud and smog. The thought of getting cosy during the cold months can be a blissful thought when there’s an open fire to light in the evening and shelves laden with books. Reality is in fact, a single glazed studio, and I am beginning to wander how many blankets I can afford and store, and how powerful this heater is - or at least how hot I can get it before setting fire to the place. What can I say, I have become increasingly nest in the past two years and my ‘blanket scarf’ is classed as one of my nearest and dearest.

That being said, yes, today was lighter and it’s exactly what I need, what I needed; light, bright, golden days where you can feel the sun on your face and see your breath in the air. Wandering up the hill to Pigalle, coffee my goal, I saw living, breathing Paris. The grocers stocking their shelves, now laden with squashes and gourds. Style is now boots and tights, socks and brogues, down jackets and long wool coats, not a tea dress or t-shirt in sight without the latter. 

Cafes are full of espresso drinkers and brunch eaters; there are two men looking as though they are truly putting the world to rights, their cigarettes rarely parting ways with their mouthes and they don’t look away from their world, not allowing attentions to waver. It’s the simplest of moments, but they look content and at ease. I reach the cafe and for a few moments, watch a woman who I assume is local coo over a newborn and chat to every other person passes her buy. The waitress brings out her drink, the woman is animated and intriguing, looking like she beats to her own drum. Pigalle is seemingly awash with interesting characters, the place to people watch in Paris - for me, at least.

Tucked away in Pigalle, a calm cafe with people working and studying, chatting with friends. The coffee was good though the decor may be better. After stretching one coffee to an hour or so it was time to meander back down the hill, camera still firmly in hand, sun on my face, not quite a skip in my step (it's Paris after all, must try to remain cool)… Popping in and out of shops, keeping my eyes open and observing all.