Foreign Parts

À AIMER: les défilés de mode

In this wired world, anyone can see Paris’s défilés de mode (fashion shows) mere hours after the catwalk has been cleared and the last model gone home to rub her stiletto-tortured heels. Numerous newspapers, magazines and blogs feature reviews of the biggest shows, while the web site Style.com also uploads images of each and every outfit from the major collections.

If you peruse these sites for an hour, you’ll certainly get an idea of what’s coming down the fashion pike, but you may also log off with the feeling that your wardrobe is outdated and that everyone, besides you, is relentlessly, effortlessly chic. And there you’d be wrong.

Your foreign correspondent is lucky enough to attend some of these events, and happy to tell you that all is not what it seems. My friends and family often remark that my life must be glamorous, but what, I reply, is so glamorous about waiting an hour to see a couture show in which a few Swarovski crystal-encrusted gowns cost as much as my yearly salary?

Don’t get me wrong, I am always pleased to be there, and I am not the only member of the working class at les défilés. Other journalists, photographers, musicians, DJs, lighting technicians, hairdressers, makeup artists, public relations assistants, ushers and even those men and women who actually sew and embroider each gorgeous piece of clothing make, apart from a few exceptions, modest livings. It may surprise you to know that a “new face” (an unknown model) is paid $1,500 to $5,000 per show, and that her agency will take 20 percent. It’s not a bad living, but it’s not the millions people imagine when they see her coming down the runway.

Another fantasy: the red-carpet entrance. Remember that scene in “The Devil Wears Prada” in which caustic magazine editor Miranda Priestly, played by Meryl Streep, arrives at a show by limousine and is instantly surrounded by paparazzi? The real-life queen of the American fashion world, Vogue editor Anna Wintour, does not draw that much attention. Yes, there are photographers hanging around the venues waiting to capture a known face, but they are not paparazzi. They are there by invitation, and they are much more interested in snapping a film, television or music star than a fashion editor, no matter how powerful she may be.

Occasionally, when everyone shows up at a défilé at the same time, a star gets lost in the crowd, especially if they’re not wearing something that screams, “Look, I’m famous!” like a gold lamé mini-dress at 11 a.m. Of course, celebrities are always accompanied by their “handlers” — public relations professionals who have no problem shoving people aside to get their clients to the front of the line — but sometimes even they are stopped and asked to present invitations because the P.R. people who work the doors are French and don’t always recognize the foreign star du jour.

While all of this is going on, the rest of us — reporters, fashion buyers and the international rich — are standing in line, waving our invitations in front of our overheated faces and checking one another out while pretending not to. I like to observe the crowd and guess where people are from by their outfits. Usually, the Japanese are the most creative dressers, the Germans creak around in black leather, the Americans are clothed head to toe in the latest New York trend and the French are low-key, determined to dress in a nonchalant manner to show that fashion week, to them, is no big deal. There are many fashion victims, especially among the wealthy patrons. I have dubbed them “Botox on heels,” and often wish that they would read Chandler Burr’s excellent The Emperor of Scent, in which the book’s subject, Luca Turin, observes:

“Chic is, first, when you don’t have to prove you have money, either because you have a lot and it doesn’t matter or because you don’t have any and it doesn’t matter. Chic is not aspirational.”

Aspirations abound at les défilés and, if one has too much cash and not enough confidence, it can result in unsightly jumbles of designer logos and surgical blunders. Occasionally, though, I do spy someone who embodies Turin’s definition of chic. It is always a delight to see such a person, and it reminds me of how creative and fun fashion can be. (Note: Scott Shuman, The Sartorialist, makes his living searching for such folk. If you like street fashion, his blog is for you.)

Twenty minutes after le défilé is scheduled to begin, the doors open and we are at last directed to our seats, which may be gold-painted rental chairs or the plush velvet cushions of a historic theater, but more often than not are hard benches: bleacher seats. Depending on where you rank on the fashion totem pole, you are directed to the first, second, third or fourth row. Or you’re asked to stand. The first row is inevitably made up of celebrities, royalty, noted socialites, the editors in chief of top newspapers and fashion magazines and head buyers from luxury department stores. Behind them are the rest of us.

The scene is chaotic as people greet colleagues, find their places and ask those around them to scoot down (the more crowded the show is, the more scooting is required) and it is during this period that I marvel at the photographers, who are given a small space at the foot of the runway and must arrange themselves into a human pyramid in order to fit into it.

Another 15 minutes pass, during which news teams and photographers troll the front rows, looking for famous faces. Some of the famous faces are unrecognizable to most foreigners — they belong to a French socialite or a Saudi princess — but if a photographer has stopped to take someone’s picture, you can be assured that, somewhere in the world, people care who they are and what they’re wearing.

After everyone has been seated and the gaps filled (producers of fashion shows do not like to see holes in the audience; this is how I twice scored a coveted front-row seat), the show begins.

Normally, it is fast-paced: twenty minutes of music and fashion and, sometimes, true artistry. When it’s bad, the show is boring, with too many repetitions, wooden models and ill-chosen music, and when it’s good it’s a terrific theatrical performance, with costumes that dazzle.

First-time attendees often remark that the models are odd-looking up close: unnaturally tall and skinny, with prominent noses and hammerhead eyes. From the sidelines these girls — for many of them are still girls — resemble giraffe-sized storks, their spindly legs leading the way while their torsos hang back. Yet once you get home and see the pictures the photographers have taken of them from the foot of the catwalk, you understand why they were hired. Head on, they are ravishing, and their lanky proportions showcase the clothes perfectly.

Most of the major défilés end with a final parade of all of the models, so viewers can observe the entire collection at once. The designer comes out for a bow, and then everybody dashes for the exit. I have seen top editors sprint, in three-inch heels, for the door, bent on getting to the next show, which is often across town. Fortunately, they have cars waiting for them out front, as do the models, who have already changed into jeans and T-shirts and look significantly lovelier than they did from the bleachers. Me, I’m going to another show too, but I’m taking le métro.

À AIMER: l’heure bleue

There is one benefit to la grisaille (see previous post): each day it ends with l’heure bleue.

“The blue hour” is the time between sunset and nightfall when the Parisien sky turns the most incredible shade of blue. Ah, but which blue? That depends. Sometimes it’s lapis, sometimes it’s violet, sometimes it’s turquoise with a trace of lavender, but always the hour finishes with the color’s inkiest, deepest grade.

To me, l’heure blue is more pronounced in winter, though I have no proof of this. Maybe it’s just that after hours of slate gray sky, the color and light show seems even more fantastic. As the sun sinks, the clouds part, allowing slivers of orange light to hit coveted fifth-floor apartments before turning the sky all sorts of swoon-worthy blues.

Unlike other cities, Paris’s streets come alive during l’heure bleue, not with people heading home, but going out — for a coffee, to meet someone for a drink, or just to stroll. It is by far the city’s finest hour, so fine that in 1912 it inspired a moody, murky perfume by Guerlain and in 1970, a catchy, upbeat song by the gorgeous singer Françoise Hardy.

In January, l’heure bleue occurs about five o’clock, but by June it will happen around ten. When visiting, don’t dally at a museum or try to catch up on your jet lag during this period. To miss l’heure blue is to miss Paris.

À DÉTESTER: la grisaille

Although I detest la grisaille, I love the word. La grisaille is a noun that means grayness; it can be applied to both the sky and to life. Parisiens use it a lot, because life in the city is often harsh, and also because in winter la grisaille hovers over the 20 arrondissements, making every street, building and lamp post look as though it were drawn by Edward Gorey.

The effect is gloom in the most stylish way, but after a while you forget about how cool everything looks and just sink into shallow depression.

In his book Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik describes this phenomenon perfectly:

"After a first winter in Paris, when the lure of the chimney and cigar smell holds you in thrall, you become accustomed to them, and then all you notice is the dark. From November to April, hardly a single day when you see the sun. The light itself is beautiful, violet and gray, but it always looks as if it were planning to snow, and then it never does."

Foreign Exchange: Q&A, Q&R

Dear Frenchie, where do the French stand, Obama or Hillary? And why are the French so amenable to anti-Semitism? What’s with this Dieudonné? And what’s with their rock music? — Garth

(Les français sont pour qui, Obama ou Hillary? Et pourquoi les français ont une tendance antisémite? C’est quoi cette histoire avec Dieudonné? Et c’est quoi l’histoire avec leur musique rock?)

Dear Garth,

Your questions could keep me busy for the rest of 2008. I will try to answer them briefly (and perhaps I can get some real “Frenchies” to chime in).

Where do the Americans stand, Obama or Hillary?

This is the question Parisiens are asking me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a concrete answer for them, or for you. I can say, however, that people are interested — the American election is in the news here every day — and everyone wants to know more, particularly about Barack Obama. They already know a lot about Hillary Clinton, and they like and respect former president Bill Clinton. As far as the Republican candidates are concerned, well, let’s just say that nobody here is hoping for a Republican victory.

Next subject: Dieudonné and anti-Semitism in France. For those of you who have never heard of Dieudonné M’Bala M’Bala, he is a French comedian and avowed anti-Semite. I would like to dismiss him the way a French friend did last Saturday night — as “an idiot” — but that would be too easy.

Dieudonné is a crafty guy who uses the very real problem of racism in France and public opposition to the politics of the United States and Israel to attack Jews. The world according to Dieudonné goes like this: You live in a terrible housing project in a depressing banlieue (suburb) of Paris and you can’t find a job because you’re black or Arab? It’s the fault of the Jews, who are all rich and on television and live in the posh 16th arrondissement of Paris. You are against the war in Iraq? Well again, it’s the Jews who started it. Everyone knows Israel and the United States are in cahoots . . .

This is classic scapegoating, and there is just enough truth in Dieudonné’s rants (the U.S. and Israel are allies; the Jewish community in France generally does pretty well for itself, and many of the nation’s entertainment stars are Jews) to fool those who are looking for someone to blame.

As to your question, why are the French so amenable to anti-Semitism? I’m not sure that they, as a society, are, anymore than, say, the British or Americans. If you read French, check out this 2003 article in Le Monde Diplomatique; it revealed that 89% of French consider French Jews to be no different from any other French person, and 80% believe the country does not talk enough about the Holocaust. Also, Tom Reiss of the The New Yorker wrote a hefty article on Dieudonné last fall.

Now, about French rock. After years of being ignored and ridiculed, even by French people, it has found its way into the limelight, and for good reason: there are some great bands out there. For those who have never listened to any French rock (or pop), here are a few artists to sample:

Air
Benjamin Biolay
Daisybox*
M
Manu Chao
Nouvelle Vague
Phoenix
Tahiti 80

* Your foreign correspondent must confess that she knows the members of this band personally.

Foreign Exchange: Q&A/Q&R

I’d love to hear about your favorite places to hear music in Paris. Does Champagne flow like water in France? — Cynthia

(J’aimerais entendre vos endroits préférés à Paris pour écouter de la musique. Est-ce que le champagne coule comme l’eau en France?)

Oh, how I wish champagne poured from the taps! But the only place I’ve ever seen it flow so freely (in both senses of the word) is at the Salon des Vins des Vignerons Indépendents (that’s a mouthful) in Paris, a biannual expo where small producers sell their wines and champagnes to the public. It’s a fantastic event, totally unpretentious, and cheap to boot. Entry is 3€ and it includes a wine glass and all of the bubbly you can sample without falling over.

Now, about those music clubs. The good news is, most Parisian clubs are very atmospheric, especially if you’re a foreigner. The bad news is, many of them are pay-to-play, meaning musicians must rent out the spaces themselves and charge hefty admission prices to cover their costs. This makes it difficult to catch performances on the fly, as each act charges separate admission.

That said, there are some terrific clubs that are not pay-to-play:

La Flèche d'Or is located in an old railway station in the 20th arrondissement. It hosts three or four rock, pop and electro bands a night. Admission is usually free (but you must pay for coat check), the drinks are cheap and the crowd is always in the mood for fun.

Point Éphémère sits on the banks of the über-trendy Canal Saint-Martin. It’s a cool, low-key space for all genres of live music, art expositions and theater performances.

Batofar is a legend on the Seine. The club is located on an old fireboat that is moored on the river in the 13th arrondissement, and its program varies from jazz trios to Djs.

Next to Batofar is La Cabaret Pirate, an old wooden ship that looks like it was swiped from the set of “Pirates of the Caribbean.” The last time I was there, the entire ship was rocking to both the waves on the river and the old-time Manouche (gypsy music, as in the style of Django Reinhardt) band.

Showcase is the latest club to pop up on the Seine. It’s located in the 8th arrondissement, under Pont Alexandre III and is owned by the city government. It is not open every night, just when there’s an event.

For big-name acts, no place beats the Olympia, the city’s longest-running concert hall, where everyone from Edith Piaf to Babyshambles have performed. The place is gorgeous, historic and sized perfectly for live performance.

Finally, a great French site for nightlife listings is Parissi.com.

À AIMER: les soldes

Yesterday was the first day of les soldes — France’s biannual sales period — and it is something to hate as well as to love.

Why hate? Because when you live here, you have to wait six months for things in the stores to become remotely affordable. If you think by “things” I mean Gaultier T-shirts and Louboutin shoes, I only wish. Those “things” are prohibitively expensive and will remain so, even after a 70% discount. Unfortunately, I’m talking about boring, quotidian items like umbrellas and underwear, pencils and copier paper.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, le pouvoir d’achat (purchasing power) in France is dwindling. Consider this: a nurse brings home, on average, 1,900€ a month, according to INSEE, the country’s statistics institute. A typical 400-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment in Paris will cost that nurse about 1,100€ a month, utilities and mandatory apartment insurance not included. Salaries are low here — even a banking executive makes just 2,730€ a month — and prices are high and rising.

Last December, Le Figaro reported that consumer goods are more expensive in France than in practically every other country. The article was based on a study by the web site Pricerunner.fr, which compares prices on everything from milk to cars. It found that, while a liter of milk costs 1.26€ in France, in Portugal it sells for .60 centimes. The same Nokia cell phone runs 669€ in France, 579€ in Italy and 508€ in New York City. A DVD of the latest Bond film, Casino Royal, is 25.32€ in France, 19.32€ in Germany.

With discrepancies like that, you can understand why everybody waits until les soldes to do their shopping. And this has become a problem for the already stagnant economy. Such a problem that economy minister Christine Lagarde has proposed allowing stores to have year-round sales sections where they can unload items at lower prices. The country’s boutique owners, who the mandated sales periods are meant to protect, are against this plan, as they fear they will be unable to compete against big retailers. The head of their union, Charles Melcer, told Le Monde recently that Lagarde’s proposal is “the first pseudo-good idea of the year.”

The fight, as they say, is on. And in the meantime, we cash-strapped consumers will have to battle it out in the department stores, risking bruised toes and kidneys* just so we can buy a nice pair of shoes at 50% off for exactly the same price we could have bought them for in New York last September, when they were still new and trendy.

Les Soldes, for those of you who will be in Paris, run until February 16, 2008.

*This is not an exaggeration. I have been pushed and shoved all over Paris in the name of a discount. And at the chic department store le Bon Marché, I once saw two tiny, silver-haired grannies having a tug of war over the last pair of black lace panties with matching garters at 60% off.