Dinh Van, Pandora bracelets

My Maria: The plane has just landed and straightaway I seek a wi-fi area to reassure her that all went well and that i had a nice flight back home. This is how she hearts me, she is caring and tender; I find shelter in her thoughts and heart… She is eager to grab me and go strolling together, unearthing the newest hype-and-artsy hotspots in Bucharest, this boiling, bohemian, anachronistic and dusty city, which was playground for our youths and sorrows.

In the trendiest places we go out she likes to speak a bit loudly, and even being a badmouth, in order to shake off this little fake high society club. I’m having a real blast seeing her so vibrant and high-spirited, combating against all the ugliness, pettiness, untruthful, mistresses, and easy girls’ fishy reputations. And I play her game, which tastes the flavor of nostalgia, hoping somehow to resurrect our lost 17 years old, those effervescent, tannic and greedy years, enliven such as acidulous Haribos. Once alone, she reverts bashful and exudes elegance.

‘Ma Maria’ has a small Parisian mow, she often pouts and she sulks, she moans. Of times I would like to drag her to the Seine with me, lay down on Pont d’Alexandre III, facing the Rive Droite because there is where she belongs to. She is a Parisian child. She deserves the splendor of summer evenings luster and macarons from Pushkin Café, intense moments on Gainsbourg’s neurotic vibes. I would take her to Café de Flore and dress her up in a Valentino gown, all matched with white sneakers and clusters of fragrant flowers. She would metamorphose into a decadent heroine of Françoise Sagan’s literature. She would whisper ‘Bonjour Tristesse’ and blast off soughing  after new romantic adventures.

I have met her as pretty Lolita at swimming pool; she taught me without pronouncing a single word that Red Cherry nails spellbind, even when they were cut short, appropriate for the high school teens we used to be. Nowadays , she is slipping them with affection , cuddling my baby boy’ s strands of hair… and the emotion is still intense… And I have the faith that those pretty delicate fingers will continue to use their magnetism throughout an unique choreography on paper, seeking to map new stories, even when geographically we will be far and away.

My Lorena: I don’t believe her life has been easy, though she dared to paint her story in a humoristic light, in a pure grande bellezza style. Because that’s what she does, no matter how tough life gets, Lorena has the power to create and maintain a beautiful universe for her and her dear ones. She’s a bit anachronistic and I could perfectly place her in a “debut du siècle” seductive picture: the poet, the muse, the polyglot, the strongly opinionated socialite. But her magnetic personality and surprising creativity are not based exclusively on her noblesse or elegance of being, but also on her extreme spontaneity and recklessness, that make me worry so often.

Getting down on memory lane, in search of lost times, Lorena is my madeleine as our adventures together connect me best to my tumultuous adolescence. Gone are the days when she would take me by the hand and lead the way to the greatest social places, when we’d just lose time, live on cigarettes, coffee and Coke and cry over boys and gossip over girls. Fuck, I’m lying. We still gossip. And talk about what is new and exciting around the world, about love, about our hopes and disappointments, about Chanel and our spending habits. But as we do this, I’m working or studying and she is carrying her baby boy in her arms.

Though the distance between us has never been so vast, never before have I felt so close to her – getting older, but not necessarily wiser, somehow helped us consolidate our relationship. We are countries, continents and civilizations apart. We have lived fragments of our friendship between Bucharest and Paris and Lyon, but our bond is stronger now, like a reaction coming out of the fear of not losing each other. And sketching our developing and rarely colliding life stories in front of people willing to discover our adventures will bring us together in an unpredictable manner… Let’s live the moment and see what comes out of it!

Dear Lorena, Dear Universe,

It’s always a challenge for me to stay in front of a blank Word document and try to find the right words when talking about Paris without sounding too pathetic. I lived the dream of staying in Paris for one year and now, 5 years after leaving it, I still believe it was a fairytale. It’s like I’ve been sucked in a different reality, in a different dimension and world, where everything was fun, and new and exciting, where every encounter was a chance of making new friends, where every day was a surprise (hint: Midnight in Paris).

My relationship with Paris had a timid start, as I discovered it through the novels I’ve read or the art albums I used to admire that helped me discover a love I didn’t even meet. Line after line, image after image and movie after movie, I sketched with the eyes of my mind a picture of what I was about to discover years later. Paris was my dream, it was the target that didn’t let me sleep for years and, as it turns out, hard work really pays off and all the efforts I made finally led to me being able to live there.

Moving to Paris, even for a temporary stay, was a big change and I love changes, they help you evolve, BUT… while I said that it’s ok, I’m a Millennial, I’m cool and cosmopolite, it was pretty difficult for a 19 years old girl from an Eastern European country to leave a “head-in-the-clouds” lifestyle to move in a university campus. I had to learn how to cook – mainly pasta and rice (Yeah. That’s not really cooking when you just pour Uncle Ben’s sauces on your meal), wash my dishes (always tried to fool someone else to do it for me) or my clothes (the first two experiences were great, got all my jeans shrank in the drying machine). But what I hated the most of my “independent” life was doing groceries by myself. The first month was terrible: I didn’t know what I needed, nor how much those products cost in Romania to at least make a comparison; so I basically lived on Cherry Coke and pain au lait and gained 3 kilos.

But my Paris experience wasn’t only about “desperate housewives” domestic activities and crappy weather, it was also about discovering and accepting new cultures and traditions, about nurturing my soul, about taking my first steps into becoming a confident woman, about adopting a different lifestyle and mindset. It was a bit of a cultural shock, but it was for the best, as I returned from France as a completely different person. So I’d like to thank you Lorena, for enduring my dramatic night calls, for being my Champollion in deciphering the French slang, for being so caring and thoughtful and buying me sweets we’d share in my dorm. Oh, and thank you for letting me sleep in your Lyonnais bed while I left you on my Parisian floor. I’m a terrible friend. But you gave me terrible advice on men (while I fell in love every month), so I believe we’re even. God, we were young…

And I’d like to thank all the friends I made back then for opening my eyes and supporting my becoming, for teaching me how to not give a damn about others’ opinions, to assess my true value, to give up on everyone and everything that was “ruining my mascara”, to follow my instincts and my heart, to be spontaneous. In fewer words, to be happy.

Sometimes it’s not a bad idea to run away from your friends, your family or your country to go and search for happiness in another place, to get detached and objective towards your life and strive to create the best version of yourself. I found that in Paris.

So, obviously, the question that arises is: “why didn’t you stay for good?”. My Paris was a story, a tale of a particular moment in my life, it was the place I used to call home, the time of creating little habits, of best friendships and long nights spent by the Seine. We were young and carefree, we were eager to fall in love and have experiences we would never forget. But this couldn’t last forever, because life happens, and there comes the time of jobs and deadlines and responsibilities… I maybe just couldn’t live with the idea of transforming my beloved Paris into a mundane place of a 9 to 5 routine, I just wanted to keep its precious memory intact.

Lorena, I sometimes wonder how you truly felt about living in France, how it changed you and whether the friendships you built were strong enough to impact your future life…

And YOU, our readers, were there special places or moments that changed the path of your life? Where/when did you feel the happiest?

My Dear Marie, Dear Readers,

On May 7^th, 1770, on the Île aux Épis, an island on the Rhine, Marie Antoinette arrived at the border of France dressed in the Austrian fashion. The first thing, Comtesse de Noailles -her lady in waiting- did before even allowing her to cross into their land, was to strip her of all things Austrian—undergarments, jewelry, hairpins, etc.—and dress her à la française. This meant that nothing from her homeland was to cross into France with her, even her little pug Mops. All of her former belongings were left on the Austrian side of the border, and Maria Antonia, clothed, made-up, and with her hair dressed according to the customs of Versailles, emerged on the French side of the line of demarcation as Dauphine Marie Antoinette.  Although this process was meant as more symbolism than fashion statement, she now looked the part of first lady of the most stylish court in Europe.

This anecdote was the first note I scribbled during the first Culture Design class I took in my new French school in Lyon… As I was writing down the story of Marie Antoinette I suddenly felt an awkward intimacy with her, a mysterious déjà-vu, a sore I-know-what-it feels-like taste in my mouth.

Obviously I’m not a Princess (even though, ma cherie, we have a really good inside story on this topic…), but this symbolism of embracing an Ettiquette is a strong metaphor of the struck of change when you move in France and it is contemporary even nowadays…

When you carry in your first luggage, all those beautiful high school memories (in fact only those ones when we were skipping classes, having a blast) and the peace of being loved, understood, and cared disappear… it’s a brutal turnover finding yourself staying merely naked and trembling without even a shift to shield, and your every last vestige of your homeland discarded.

Lyon was my hope of cultural elevation, I had some elitist expectations, I aspired to discover in French people some reminiscences of the period of Enlightenment, a thirst for the knowledge and beauty. I don’t know if I was disappointed, but definitely the reality wasn’t for Voltaire’s sake to whom ‘culture, freedom of spirit, the dignity of humanity and justice has become some of the essential elements of our natural everyday life today’…

It is fascinating how a new city distortions your way of acting, the way of being.  Throughout its own colorfully lenses we only perceive smooth gestures, melodic and rhythmic patterns but in the end we discover ourselves completely changed, mature,  fine collectors of experiences and responsibilities. You feel more secure as well, you succeeded to tame the subway stations, the advertising hoardings, and gentle the neighborhood’s greengrocer. Your friendly boulanger even gets to know that you prefer well toasted baguette and ‘éclairs aux cafes’; that is all about new habits, new fashion… and life is a never-ending journey that is filled with frames of  those spots you were in harmony with.

Lyon is also about real French people. With their specific way of being, their complicated bureaucracy and little obsessive manners. It’s about imperiously having a school agenda  and do not forget to rip a small corner of the daily page  just to mark the end of the day…!?! It’s about writing on French paper and do not surpass the row-line. And always underline the titles… And never have snacks , wait for le gouter, choose always a thin slice of yogurt cake and a glass of apple juice instead of  yummy pastries. Yeah, French people are reasonable and sensible…

Even though after almost seven years of pretending to achieve L’Ettiquette Lyonnaise I finally decided to move out… to move on, raising my child nearer to the sea, under the melt like gold Sun, on Moroccan shells, I know that… I will always have Lyon. This lovely City of roses where my prettiest bourgeois-bohemian boyfriends belong from (I bet you Maria, you’ll agree with me one more time) …where magnolias perfume the streets and the prestigious Maison Paul Bocuse brasserie welcomes to enjoy gastronomic dishes and tannic wines.

Je dors dans tes hôtels /J’adore ta tour Eiffel /Au moins elle, elle est fidèle. / Quand j’te quitte un peu loin/ Tu ressembles au chagrin /Ça m’fait un mal de chien /Paris Paris combien /Paris tout c’que tu veux / Boul’vard des bouleversés/ Paris tu m’as renversé /Paris tu m’as laissé’.

These are the words of Marc Lavoine that crossed my mind while re-reading your previous Parisian letters… You said it pinched your heart to disclose those addresses that marked you in your greatest intimacy… and I get you. Because we want Paris only for ourselves, it’s like a good novel where we fall in love with the main character. And we want to be the only ones… Naturally, so many people could have access to read it, but no one gets fascinated in the same way, we do not perceive the same voluptuousness in the same colors. Each letter and word embark us in a swinging tango, we want to feel only on our skin.

And we end up in a mordant jealousy… yes, Paris apporpriates the entire lexical field of love, the psycho-dramas, up to the lightness of a day in May.

Paris is a story of friendship; the first time I went there you slipped a list in my luggage asking for Vogue Paris editions, Dior lip gloss, Pink Elephant cigarettes and a little visit to Oscar Wilde’s Pere Lachaise tomb, to swear on “A Rebours” we’ll metamorphose our lives in artworks…That would be our mission… Art for Art’s sake… I visited you during your Erasmus period and you had to buy a double quantity of Coca Cherry, we indulged to the sweetness of macarons and you trusted me with your decadent Parisian stories. We were so careless, we listened to Stephane Poumpugnac on repeat, to Hotel Costes’ music selection, and we laughed like teenagers over the shop attendants of Galeries Lafayette that had a funny accent when pronouncing Marc Jacobs.

Paris is l’art de vivre… it has always pushed me to do synaesthetic exercises of imagination. At times I dream of being a fine contemporary art connoisseur facing a ready made exhibition at the Centre Pompidou. I’d feel so privileged to find myself in that precise moment surrounded by all those rich expressions of art. At l’Orangerie I escape and literally leave myself transposed to another world among Monet’s water lilies…

Some other times, I’d be the tenant of a magnificent Haussmann apartment where the central motif would be having elegance and the grace of walking in Hogan heels at home, on a perfectly glossy point d’ hongrie wooden floor;  to squeeze through contemporary furniture, accessories discovered at flea vendors, everything oxymoronic, in the temporary modern galleries… A series of elements diverted to create a delicate esthetic equilibrium. This whole atmosphere would unfold under the warm light of a Pipistrello lamp, in a bitter orange smell of Martin Margiela candles and the sound of Ibrahim Maalouf for YSL…

Paris is a love story. I never had the chance to live under its rooftop during my seven French years, but fate had planned the rendez-vous and signed a blank check for SNCF Voyages… The city of lights waited for me in its train station for two years, every two weekends… to find each other.

 ‘J’me réveille dans tes bras/ Sur tes quais y a d’la joie/ Et des loups dans tes bois
J’me glisse dans tes cinés /J’me perds dans ton quartier/Je m’y retrouverai jamais
Je nage au fil de tes gares/Et mon regard s’égare/J’vois passer des cafards sur tes bars’.

And like any other love, it weaves its web like a spider in secret chambers, in dusty backstages where we make promises, where we swear on our sorrow and beseech fate. And our loves were in Paris, in its litterary cafes behind Sciences Po, le Bizuth et Café de Flore, this district of intellectualism and elitism trembles. The long Boulevard Montaigne… where we’d admire our reflections in the Dior windows, the bistrots where I had hot chocolate, the mystical metro stops, Saint Sulpice, Rue du Bac, La Madeleine…

I had my little Parisian habits, in those out of time moments when I lived my young love… It was imperative to go at Le Bon Marché’s 365C hair bar, to get out in exactly 15 minutes with a romantic updo and bohemian crowns. And as the slavic atmosphere was nicely braided in my hairs, we continued to taste with relish at Café Pouchkine (mythical Moscow ambience place), numerous golden pastries with noble titles such as Diadema, Saint Honoré Tvorog or Prince Vladimir.

Then, long walks in Place des Vosges where my amoureux vibrated when seeing intellectuals and politicians he culturally followed ; on the boulevards where my heart would implode at the sight of accumulated beauty : Saint Honoré, Place Vendome, the cradle of jewelers that is a work of art in itself, Les Tuileries with its green chairs, the witnesses of the narcotic emotion that Paris inflicts to its pedestrians.

There are these esoteric anecdotes that Paris whispers in your years…the secrets of a private Dior perfume collection…for Him, his intoxicating bottle of Bois D’Argent, nicely engraved with his name… and I, in the heritage of Mitzah’s aura, Dior’s muse, which translates in a heavy blend of patchoulis and roses…The smell of goodbyes on the train station’s platforms.

Paris is a life story, because I have given life in Paris. It’s where I was born as a mother. Becoming a parent is difficult to talk and write about, not because the words are hard to find (though they are), but because when you find them, they feel too intimate to share. The smells and sounds and stirrings of the heart are individual and holy. There’s a sense in which the universal experience is yours alone when the opposite is actually true. You hesitate to say anything at all, as if staying quiet better preserves the miracle.

Discovering motherhood in Paris also made me question about these mothers and their philosophy on bringing up adorable and polite little French kids. But this is another unprobable fairytale I’ll storyletter about; meanwhile you must patiently await, my little Shéhérazade…

And coming back to one of your previous letters, what a stroke of insight this could be to how we live our lives, finding ourselves only in far from home realms, letting us ‘ burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.’ Jack Korouack in On the Road

Lorena, My dearest all,

As seen on social media, a couple of weeks ago I attended a wedding in Cluj, which turned out to be the perfect occassion to get to know the city better and indulge in it’s summer laziness and relaxed atmosphere. Being determined to have a taste of everything new and hype  (just to compensate me missing the two great festival taking place this summer), I decided to stay in an apartment at the lovely Camino Home, which is situated in the heart of the city.

The place left me stunned and I spent minutes in fascination, discovering every detail of this delicious vintage design, walking bare footed on a marvelous a hundred years old parquet that creaked under each step. Such a chic ambient, which literally glowed during the golden hour, had something very sensual, yet elegant in it. That special something that makes you spend the day in sexy black lingerie and Chanel make up. And read a fun book dismantling some myths over Les Parisiennes, while unveiling precious secrets in achieving their charming allure.

Chanel make up: Ligne Graphique eyeliner , Le Volume de Chanel mascara and Levres Scintillantes lipgloss in Rose Paradis 447 (that’s only Gilles‘ fault…)

I found the book witty and interesting and felt like I needed to write down some ideas…

1. Find your perfume before you turn thirty. Wear it for the next thirty years. Will I wear my Chance forever and ever? I’m afraid to swear loyalty on the long-term…
2. Some fashion essentials: jeans, men’s shoes, the little black blazer, ballet flats, the white shirt, a long trench, a thick scarf, a cashmere sweater… You know, there are girls that really have this resolution of only buying “5 items” (quality, expensive ones) each year, that will bring them closer to the Parisienne‘s minimal style. I didn’t manage to do it, but you could try…
3. The signature item is a gift that a woman gives herself (…). It is a symbol of independence and freedom which states: “I bought this for myself. I earned it and it makes me happy.” So never be ashamed of your guilty pleasures, spoil yourself with that precious thing you’ll wear forever and own it.
4. Wear a black bra under your white blouse. A lace bralette under a white shirt is the definition of sophistication/sensuality (for me), but apparently in Romania is as faux pas as wearing red lipstick in the morning. I’ve been ignoring these preconceptions since my first bloody red Rouge Coco.
5. Oh, and another one: Wear navy blue with black. (And red with pink, a la Yves Saint Laurent). Guilty as charged, but how could this be a fashion crime when there are girls walking around dressed from Barbie’s wardrobe? Oh, that’s a statement!?
6. Faux pas, but now for Parisians: Asking someone at a party what they do for a living. Even worse, asking them how much money they make. Do I even have to underline how distasteful this habit is? How inelegant, how indiscreet…
7.  Trying to hard with your appearance. I’ve always been a misfit at parties. No matter how hard I tried, never managed to look as bimbo as the others (oups!). How was that…? Simplicity is the ultimate form of sophistication? Mmyeah.
8. Embrace your inner snob. (Because let’s face it, that’s who you are.) I’m terribly self-aware, so no, I don’t care when you call me a snob.
9. Does she really have to go to the gym? I keep paying for gym subscriptions that are more and more expensive (as snob as I am, thinking that if I paid more I’d really go. Wishful thinking.) and find excuses to never attend the classes. Oh, the trainer is lecherous, the others look so good, they frustrate me, I can’t stand the sweat blah blah blah…
10. She might mention Sartre or Foucault in a conversation (apparently, that’s also snobbery in my country). It’s her personality that sparkles and nothing else: the signs of intellectual wealth. No, money can’t buy class nor a personality. No, that Chanel 2.55 won’t make you a lady. Education does that, and hard work.

 I loved that the authors were pretty franc about the ups and downs of being Parisian and talked the reality of it in open terms. Specially when it comes to relationships, motherhood, love, dating or cheating… It’s a good lesson for all of us, French or not. Did you read this book? I’m curious what’s your opinion on it.

Bought it at Colette (ofc), but it’s also available online here or here. 

Marie chérie, Mes chers,

Our French dream-stories chapter, this  fascinating, on-going narrative has almost reached its end. We can only say ‘A tantôt…’ and strive for other crumbs of chic and bourgeois auras through Paris… But, as an overwhelming salty-tears farewell moving out from France, I felt the aesthetic duty to pay a last tribute in the name of its luxury..

Playing La Parisienne and enjoying the French flavour of the quest for enchantment will never be earned without the little sparkle of a beautifully crafted jewel…

So, as to cherish once more the harmony, the emotion and grace of this French delightful tradition, I had the unique opportunity to attend the glamorous Clé de Cartier Private Party in Casablanca.

The stunning overall effect bears eloquent testimony to the exceptional jewellery-making know-how  of  the Maison Cartier. The ephemeral setting of the boutique is  a haven of elegance, discretion  and tranquillity to discover exceptional timepieces  and the broad collection.

The social gathering was the showcase for ‘haut de gamme’ watches of the latest collection and a jewellery runway show with pieces which value from 350 euros to millions of euros. The heights of quality, a real expression of an artistic treasure, unique masterpieces designs exposed in exclusive preview, saftely preserved against any hint of misappropriation or dishonesty… Because anti-counterfeiting is one of major preoccupation for the prestigious franchise. The genuine craze for Cartier in Morocco unfolds the path through Africa, with this ‘boutique’ in Casablanca – and the challenges are extensive…

 Manifesting a unique skill and style, Cartier’s fate is forever intertwined with royal courts in the four corners of the globe. For me, on becoming Marie Antoinette was not enough to get that precious desired diamond L.O.V.E bracelet at my wrist nor the Ronde Solo classy watch… but maybe the mystery will operate so as to ‘La Clé de Cartier’ unsealed closed doors and brought up other great adventures in our lives…

There is an Italian dream just as much there is an American one. The Tuscany mild sun caressing the vast vineyards and sipping a cup of red blooded Chianti in the sumptuous garden of a villa. The Venetian gondolas passing by the Renaissance Palazzos, getting lost on the canals, trying to revive the image of the decadent city of Casanova or Peggy Guggenheim.

Carefully stepping Rome’s cobblestones in delicate espadrilles, wandering on its narrow streets, between colourful old buildings, adorned with the magic ivy. Feel your blood freezing before the greatness of the Pantheon, and having it melt again when you wake up in the impressive Piazza Navona.

The places that still guard the shadows of the illustrious personalities that forged the history of our European Civilization. Spaghetti, Gina Lollobrigida, cannoli, Fiat 500, tartufi, black lace, noisy laughters, Sophia Loren, The Roman Holiday, Fontana di Trevi… These are the images that pass through my closed eyes when you whisper the sweet word: …Italy. Then again, the movie on my mind pauses at the sight of a word that encompasses the Italian essence: dolce. La Dolce Vita, Dolce far niente and, of course, Dolce&Gabanna (sic!).

Not exactly La Fontana di Trevi, nor Anita Eckbert, but we’re struggling…

My Proustian madeleine that nurtured this reverie is the new Lemnia collection, that celebrates the Italian summer spirit, its audacity and sparkliness through a lovely range of Vespa-like colours that contrast the toughness of the bags’ wooden body. Atelier Lemnia bags are the fruit of this improbable love story between high quality leather and unique pieces of wood, brought together through originality, creativity and hard work. And Lemnia has an incredible talent in telling this fascinating story that overcomes the barriers of time (their bags are #everlasting) and space (they are worn by girls throughout the entire world) in order to become a sweet and permanent presence in our lives, just as our beloved Italian memories.

My dearest,

The heat, the long roads, the gloomy beach days, the quiver of the national vacation month, the siesta, the mosquito bites, the impossible humid nights, the overrated Marbella and Gibraltar and an air conditioning allergy later, we are more than happy to head back home. We enter our house beat tired, swearing against the entire Romanian nation and its airlines and the airport formalities, the traffic, the allergy and our own air conditioning system. Us Romanians… we are difficult and complicated, we are very hard to please… we leave the country and become patriots, we come back and curse our fate… (am I wrong, darling Lorena?). Having such complex mental structures (?!?) we can only/truly appreciate beauty and our luck, when we’re running out of them.

Scrolling through thousands of pics taken in the South of Spain, I just take the time to close my eyes and cast myself in my own movie of this amazing adventure and realize that the traveller role fits me perfectly, despite being picky and spoiled like a lil’ child. Our brain has this incredible function that allows us to live (pretty happy), function through which it blurs the ugliness of each experience and brings out to light only the good parts (no, I’m not talking about relationships here, lol).

Therefore now, I can only dream of those amazing places where cultures collided in order to give birth to magnificent spectacles for our minds and souls and just ignore the fact that we were basically melting. No picture can do justice to the beauty of this region, no camera can capture its warm and cheerful atmosphere, nothing can replace the image imprinted on the human eye. But I’ll leave you today with a humble, yet curated visual collection that will give you hints over this fascinating Europe meets Morocco space, while I prepare a guide of what to do while in Andalucia. Enjoy!

Alhambra

Cadiz

Puerto de Santa Maria

Sevilla

Tarifa

Look my dear Lorena, I’m addicted to the hammam towel you gave me…

Shrugging the head at my “beach body”… While the mirror always says I’m the fairest of them all, truth be told… life’s not a fairytale and I’m not Snow White (go figure!). No matter how self confident we are or how our boyfriends keep telling us we’re perfect, we still get dark thoughts in our heads and become victims to frustrating Instagrams and beauty brands’ campaigns that sell us the dream.

So we keep on buying expensive cellulite creams we’ll forget about in about one week, annual gym subscriptions that cost us entire salaries, though we won’t honour the classes, pay a masseuse to torture us with a bamboo stick, save money for extravagant procedures… And we’ll keep on eating fast food because we don’t have enough time to cook, drink Coke because we don’t have time to sleep, waste 3 hours a day in traffic because we’re to tired to walk and so on… And just end up in hospital, anaemic, with our livers destroyed, victims to the pressure of being perfect in all ways (sorry I made you worry so much…).

We live in a vicious circle where we just lie to ourselves that tomorrow, next Monday, next month we’ll change our lifestyles, while we secretly hate ourselves for our complacency. In fact, this is the point where I was heading. How thin is the border between self love, the respect for our (inner) beauty and complacency and indolence?

I mean, I’m a #skinnybitch and that means nothing, cause when I’m too skinny I hate myself for my prominent ribs and nose and health issues and when I gain 2 kilos I start worrying for being too fat. BUT… but, at the same time I keep telling myself, oh dear, you are so thin, you can drink as much Coke as you wish, eat pastries at midnight and pasta at each noon. Really? Is that love for our body or self destruction? Isn’t self respect all about taking care of ourselves and conducting a healthy life? What exactly are imperfections (as sources of differentiation) and what are proofs of our ignorance?

Us women, we walk on thin ropes like acrobats, always in danger to fall to the extremes, tormenting ourselves with overestimated flaws, but finding stupid excuses to do nothing. We’re not as strong and emancipated as we were used to believe, though we can be better, healthier, happier… not for others, but for ourselves.

“A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others”
L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

To be born as a mother is even more harrowing than the real child delivery. It is not only about letting down ‘the Dream’ of struggling to body perfection for at least 9 months… and further on (the trivial cliché of the losing weight roller coaster after pregnancy). Not even the wave of emotional disharmony shrink and auxiliary midwife caution you to beware of. It’s not about Baby blues, fatigue, pressure, depression, guilt trips, dizziness, nausea. Neither the barrage of questions and pieces of advice you simply don’t want to get from your mother in law. Nor dealing with the latest parenting trends, the American hysteria of applying psychiatric methodologies’ in rising up kids. From To be the authoritarian parent or the permissive one? How to set up Toddler’s discipline…  to Is Dirt Good for kids… Is your Family running Out of Control ??? There is a media boom that leads to a sensitive blow in the motherhood life and it’s really worse than the flood of Summer Shape up Plans in lousy beauty magazines… But once more this is not the hardest part of the journey.

The real thing is about #responsibility. The string of awestruck, fear, bliss blindness, which wraps up the tinny fragile creature completely dependent, hooked to your flesh. The clear-sightedness you ought to acquire, the ramification of all your insignificant gestures and thoughts about the world would become mirror field glasses for his perception of life.  The way of taking more care for yourself, not in the way of pampering or embellishing your look but in deepening your conscience, accepting being needed in the frame of your setting life film-strip. Surrender to the statement that you cannot take risks as much anymore. Revisiting your sense of freedom and drawing frontiers… Taming the truth you are no longer alone in the world. Because you wilfully have created a world for two…

<The jolt of giving life is so delicate and so miraculous that the air around me is still shaken … what a wonderful love a baby creates in us, a love that does not live in the forehead nor chest nor burning other tenderness but that attaches to the womb in an acute and incisive way. The body that carried them, so hasty, remains forever sensitive, anxious and disconsolate for them; we do not really defeated the link that united us, their life is a tension in ours, it hurts for them an have Joy through them for the rest of their age… they are now our fate>.  Anna de Noailles

… A world for two souls where your task is drilling holes so as the Sun squirts beauty, kindness, and fairy tales realms. Doing simple things together and being present in every of his discoveries, embracing the candid love your child overwhelms you with.

Apparently it’s autumn again, the realm of unexplainable nostalgia, of golden hues and cinnamon flavored days, of pumpkin pies and hot chocolate served in Starbucks leaves themed cups; and it’s Fashion Month, everybody is mastering layering talents and showing off winterish trends painted in burgundy and camel in rainy London. The images I receive in my feed are so powerful, so inspiring, that I’m perpetually sketching my autumnal wish-list, adding more and more objets de desir.

But here we are, prisoners of an #indiansummer, still enjoying the salty sea smell, letting our shoulders be caressed by the last warm rays of sun, keeping our beach waves and tangled hair as an ode to summer beauty. We are blessed and anachronistic, almost losing touch with reality… And we still stroll along the sea shore, laughing, dreaming, planning and admiring the monumental elegance of a dying beauty, the Gatsby-esque Casino in Constanta. The age of refinement seems to be disappearing… while I keep on reading biographies, diaries and novels on the Belle Epoque and the interwar period, trying to conserve sparks of this fascinating universe in my mind and soul, while living in such a degraded world…

Will you excuse the infinite ramblings, darling? It’s the autumn spirit that torments me with its melancholia, it’s the vision of the sea that makes me lose myself in puzzling thoughts.

And I miss you, Lorena – September was the time we went back to highschool together, when we celebrated your birthday, when we both were leaving for France…

Chloe blouse and bag, Sonia Rykiel skirt, Senso boots

Autumn golden haze, chilly mist, shades of grey… today it’s my birthday.

And I am overwhelmed by memories, I miss my 6th years old party when my sister totally smashed my lovely cake, but lastly managed to prettify the leftovers… I miss enjoying that last slice of it, the biggest one, when nobody was there anymore, when the rush fell down and the blossoming and the calmness have taken place.  I feel sorrow not remembering every party in itself, but I miss those times, the savour, the specific and unique perfume and musical background for each particular year. And those sensible, loveable, recurrent visages that painted the beautiful fresco puzzle of my heart, over the years.

Each birthday comes with its own scenography. The actors dance and switch different role plays,  the stage expands through the world map, the script is embodied from my diary and the stage costumes follow the fashionable line… Today I’m overtaking the frontier, I seal my 26th with a lustrous padlock hoping that their ambience remain reasonably stable over time. And I boldly scuffle the happens of my Destiny praying for Beauty and Aesthetic halo crumbs for each day.

I crave for natural beauty, a Souffle d’eclat, the radiant murmur of YSL glowing powder, tenderly kissing the skin which was previously splashed with Beauty Elixir from Caudalie, organic treats from  the vineyards of Bordeaux, Champagne and Burgundy.

As Objets de desir, art statements, powerful custom-made pieces, the Infinity Bracelet from Malvensky expresses how you feel about love: gratitude, happiness, pride, fulfilment, joy, passion… and it is deepening down inside our beautiful Romanian roots… The immaculate soberness of a Valentino emerald dress cape, the delicate frivolity of Noor Fares pistachio Wings earrings, and the studied carelessness of dragging the Faye bag from Maison Chloe would incarnate the perfect allure for taming my unforgettable September, intimate new chapter of my life. Strolling under the marvellous rhythms of Ibrahim Maalouf Alice in wonderland, ponder about hopes and expectations for the 24^th September…

I would like to embrace the Patience and that warmer beans of Kindness touch my heart.  And consciously be guided by mind Pureness, ending with the tittle-tattle, returning to Innocence…. Being sensible and sensitive to the balm of real love, a faithful friend for my baby boy, a milder women, a thirstier apprentice of knowledge…

H&M Victorian blouse, Zara denim skirt (similar), Mango blazer (similar), Furla Metropolis bag, Christian Louboutin lace up flats

Press Play! – We Are Your Friends – Justice vs. Simian

Out of the blue, our delicious Indian summer fell into a dark autumn, so it seems appropriate to abandon my almost daily Starbucks Frappuccino in favour of classier options with Italian reverberations, while trying to scribble some lines over the feelings that wrap around my head in a dizzily dance. The end of September is the most difficult and confusing time for me, it’s basically drenched in nostalgia… because as I write, I briefly check the calendar and it says that exactly 6 years (!!!) ago, my Parisian adventure had started. My dear Lorena, I understand perfectly your anxiety over the time that slips through our fingers. Where did it go? How could it fly so fast?

I barely recognize the scared, young girl that smiles at me through the screen of my computer, but, luckily enough, my statement cliché look never left me (the cat-eye, the short red nails… even my broken nose), except for my beloved bob hair (that I sometimes try to fake, by tucking it in my shirt). But despite my infinite fears, Paris always found a way to give me what I was longing for: love, attention, affection, the stories. Friendship stories, love stories, fashion stories, dramas and all. I had rapidly found myself surrounded by numerous persons from all over the world that held my hand and sang “we are your friends!”. We didn’t even know each other, but we knew. We’d be friends.

So we became friends – hanging out friends, crying on each other’s shoulder friends, museum lovers friends, going to watch El Clasico friends… and fashion addict friends (it was a structure similar to a very efficient division of labor applied to friends).

The latter category was the one that understood and supported my obsessions… like the fact that I ate salami sandwiches for 2 weeks to afford don’t know which coat. Those were the friends that held my hand while nonchalantly walking in the Chanel store on Rue Cambon, just to try on some shoes. Weekly. The friends that would politely respond to the “Bonjour madame, Bonjour monsieur!” when entering Dior. The friends that also asked themselves what would Blair Waldorf do? The ones that would patiently wait for me to get a Lancôme make up, that would walk kilometres from Lafayette to Marc by Marc Jacobs to Rue de Rivoli, that would cry over some Balenciaga bags, that would recognize Catherine Baba riding her bike. The ones with whom, on a particular Sunday night (the night before our first classes) I’d plan, in our tiny dorm room, to wake up early just to check the atmosphere at Carrousel du Louvre before the Vuitton show.

Six years later, it’s #ParisFashionWeek again, so this is the most appropriate time to celebrate the French spirit (in the most French atmosphere Little Paris could provide) and what it taught us about class, about style laws, and, most important, about ourselves. Oh… and I allowed myself to get inspired by Lorena’s wishlist and pulled together this outfit that reminds me so much of the belles de Paris.

*And stay tuned, as Lorena has prepared a surprise for us all, involving a special someone involved in the luxurious backstage of the French fashion industry.

RO: 

Pe neasteptate, delicioasa noastra vara indiana s-a transformat intr-o toamna intunecata si rece. Drept pentru care pare a fi absolut natural sa abandonez omniprezenta Caramel Frappuccino din bunele obiceiuri zilnice, si sa ma indrept spre variante mai elegante cu reverberatii italienesti ale caror arome sa ma acompanieze in timp ce schitez o harta a gandurilor ce ma invaluie intr-un dans ametitor. Sfarsitul lui septembrie este cea mai complicata perioada pentru mine, fiind practic sufocata de o nostalgie perpetua…. caci in timp ce scriu, imi aluneca ochii peste calendar si imi dau seama ca acum exact 6 ani (!!!) debutam pe scena pariziana. Draga mea Lorena, iti inteleg angoasa legata de timpul ce ni se scurge printre degete. Unde a disparut? Cum a putut zbura atat de repede?

Recunosc cu dificultate tanara fata speriata ce-mi zambeste din spatele ecranului laptopului, dar, din fericire, nu mi-am schimbat obiceiul de a-mi purta ochii pictati cat-eye si unghiile scurte si rosii. Doar coafura bob a disparut, desi trisez uneori, ascunzandu-mi parul in bluza. In ciuda infinitelor mele nelinisti, Parisul a gasit intotdeauna o cale de a-mi oferi ce cautam: dragoste, atentie, afectiune, povesti. Povesti de dragoste, de prietenie, de moda, drame si alte experiente fantastice. Curand m-am trezit in mijlocul unor persoane straine, exotice chiar, care ma tineau de mana si imi cantau increzatori “we are your friends!”. Nici macar nu ne cunosteam, dar stiam. Vom fi prieteni.

Asa ca am devenit prieteni – prieteni de distractie, prieteni pentru plans de mila, prieteni de vizitat muzee, prieteni pentru vazut meciuri (haha)… si prieteni fashion addicts (o organizare perfecta conform unei eficiente diviziuni a muncii aplicata la prietenie; doar asta invatam la facultate.)

Categoria din urma era cea care imi intelegea si sustinea cu perseverenta obsesiile… ca atunci cand am mancat sandwichuri cu salam timp de 2 saptamani pentru a-mi permite nu-stiu-ce- haina. Acestia erau prietenii care ma tineau de mana cand intram cu nonsalanta in iconicul Chanel de pe Rue Cambon, doar pentru a proba pantofi. Saptamanal. Prietenii care raspundeau cu emfaza la “Bonjour madame, Bonjour monsieur!” cand intram la Dior. Prietenii care se intrebau, la fel ca mine, cum ar actiona Blair Waldorf?  Prietenii care ma asteptau rabdatori cand o domnisoara draguta de la Lancôme  se oferea sa ma machieze, care mergeau kilometri  intre Lafayette, Marc by Marc Jacobs si Rue de Rivoli, care plangeau vazand preturile gentilor Balenciaga, care erau capabili sa o recunoasca pe Catherine Baba mergand pe bicicleta infasurata intr-o opulenta haina de blana. Cei cu care, intr-o anumita noapte de duminica (cea de dinaintea primelor cursuri), planuiam intr-o camera minuscula din camin sa ne trezim devreme pentru a ne imbata cu atmosfera flamboaianta ce cuprindea Carrousel du Louvre inainte de show-ul Vuitton.

Sase ani mai tarziu este din nou #ParisFashionWeek si se cuvine celebrat momentul in stil frantuzesc (atat cat imi permite cadrul Micului Paris) si sa ne amintim ce ne-a invatat aceasta tara despre clasa, legile modei si, cel mai important, despre noi insine. Oh si mi-am dat voie sa ma inspir din lista plina de objets de desir a Lorenei pentru a alcatui aceata tinuta care imi aminteste atat de bine des belles de Paris ce se perindau pe la terasele din Saint Germain.

*Lorena ne-a pregatit o surpriza minunata, in colaborare cu o persoana speciala implicata in luxurianta industrie a modei frantuzesti, asa ca stay tuned this week.

FR:

Soudainement notre délicieux été indien s’est métamorphosé en un automne noir. J’ai du, tout naturellement, abandonner mon Frappuccino presque quotidien de chez Starbucks pour un choix plus classique avec des notes chaudes, italiennes qui  m’accompagneront dans le gribouillage de ces pensées qui dansent chaotiquement dans ma tête.  La fin de septembre est la période la plus difficile et déstabilisante pour moi, car elle baigne dans une nostalgie étouffante….au fur à mesure que j’écris, mes yeux glissent sur le calendrier qui me révèle sans pitié qu’exactement 6 ans (!!!) auparavant, mon aventure parisienne m’emportait. Ma chère Lorena, que vois-je à cet instant, ton anxiété suite au temps qui passe, le temps perdu…Où s’évade t-il ? Par quelle énergie s’en va-t-il?

Je reconnais à peine l’image palâtre de cette jeune fille effarée qui me revoie un sourire innocent, pendant que je parcours mes photos à cette date sur l’ordinateur. Heureusement les traces de style qui me caractérisaient y restent toujours (« l’œil de chat », les ongles courtes avec un vernis rouge parfait….même mon nez un peu cassé qui fait partie du décor). Juste le bob coquet a été abandonné en faveur des mèches longues, soyeuses  (pourtant, bien des fois,  je tente de les cacher sous ma chemise, me vendre à nouveau le rêve de la jeunesse perdue). Malgré la plénitude des peurs de mon âme, Paris a toujours répondu à mes désirs avec amour, attention, affection, histoires… Histoires d’amitié, histoires d’amour, histoires de style, des drames et tout le reste. Je me suis retrouvée si vite entourée des personnes de différentes nationalités, différentes cultures qui me tiraient par la main et me chantaient ‘we are your friends!’ On se connaissait à peine mais on le savait, on allait être tous amis…

Alors on l’est devenus, des amis….Des amis avec qui on traine, des amis avec qui on pleure, les amis amoureux des musées , des amis avec qui on va au cinéma regarder El Classico…. Des amis afficionados de la mode et d’autres amis pour tous nos cris de cœur.

La dernière catégorie concerne ceux comprenaient  et subissaient mes obsessions les plus rudes… comme le fait de manger pendant 2 semaines des sandwiches jambon beurre pour pouvoir m’offrir un certain manteau… Ce sont les mêmes amis qui tenaient ma main en flânant avec une insouciance inouïe, Rue Cambon chez Chanel, essayant une paire de chaussures. La même paire….Chaque semaine…

Ce sont  toujours eux qui devraient répondre aux “Bonjour madame, Bonjour monsieur!” en entrant souvent chez Dior. Ces amis qui se posaient des questions du type ‘Qu’est ce que Blair Waldorf en ferait’? Ceux qui attendaient patiemment, et très studieusement, chez Lancôme me maquiller, les mêmes qui marchaient des kilomètres des Galleries Lafayette jusqu’au Marc by Marc Jacobs vers Rue de Rivoli,  ceux qui pleureraient avec moi pour quelque chose de chez Balenciaga, capables de reconnaitre Catherine Baba faisant du vélo dans Paris. Les amis avec qui un dimanche soir (le même dimanche avant notre rentrée scolaire), dans l’ambiance pesante d’une chambre minuscule de l’internat, j’avais d’ailleurs planifié de nous réveiller tôt le matin  simplement pour aller gouter à l’ambiance du Carrousel du Louvre, avant le show Vuitton…

Six années plus tard, c’est la #ParisFashionWeek à nouveau, le meilleur moment donc pour faire revivre le zéphyr parisien dans une scénographie que seul, notre Petit Paris pourra dégager. Une atmosphère unique,  nous rappelant nos cours de style, ses codes et surtout et qui nous dévoile notre nature la plus profonde. Oh…et je me suis laissé inspirée par la wishlist de Lorena et j’ai incarné cette apparition qui me rappelle tant les ‘Belles de  Paris’…

*Suivez régulièrement nos histoires, et vous pourrez découvrir la surprise que vous prépare Lorena : Vous faire rencontrer une invité très spécial depuis les coulisses (très privées)  de la Haute Couture française.

Fall is pure fruitful Nostalgia. It draws from the grief of sunny departures the most intimate missing, lost memories that nowadays paleness the blazing red sky. With the finest golden thread and the slightest needle we are pricking into the fabric of our soul weaving the fresco of a lost summer. The fresco of misguided friends, reminiscences of our continuing love for them, now and ever shall be.

All is aligning with precision and thoroughness on the path of the heart, such noble embroidery that turns this material soaked with thrill into a precious jewel.

Maria, you spun the kaleidoscope, thus leaving my thoughts touching once more the colours of France, its artistic treasures, the divine craftsmanship and this fascinating dream factory …that is the ‘Haute Couture’. Such a pride to slip behind the curtain, taking part of the grace, fulfilling our soul with an almost museal experience, discovering the paths of a divining vocation…throughout the nimble fingers of my lovely Carla Cellerier.

Friend and colleague during our Fashion Design classes, she was to me the quintessence of ‘The French women‘ through her aura of innate elegance. Beautiful and passionate she has forged her history over the fashion with enthusiasm and committed quest for perfection. Carla has followed her dream and attended the 8th levelled vocational training at LESAGE school, the mythical place where this ancient art of embroidery had transcended the Haute Couture.

Fabulous and fragile, she gets inspiration from an image, a mood or a sentence. And hundred hours of meticulous labour later, she metamorphosis this energy into prototypes for the most prestigious French fashion houses. She gets ignite all of her senses scrolling her extravagant embroideries on the catwalk. Expensive embroideries, bolts of fabrics she had tamed, caressed, embellished, sometimes with dozens of kilograms of supplies. This adrenaline countdown before the runway show, the tiredness that draws a myriad of anecdotes to surprise with, that feeling of timelessness in giving itself completely to the artistic gesture , offering to each appearance, to each model that incandescence the embroiderer bequeaths to his creations.

Being closer to perfection, giving life to ideas and aesthetics is always rewarded. For my Carla it was embodied though the unanimous award of first prize Ile de France ‘FUTURE PRICES’ of the National Institute of Art Crafts for the realization of an embroidered dress, entitled “Water in the air. Air in the water”. Embroidery patterns represented the water and air in all their forms. The dress was divided into seven parts: the sky, earth, oceans and for each of these elements a hot part, a cold part and in the middle a temperate zone.

Art lover, Carla dedicates herself to the enjoyable game of searching for noble and uncommon materials. She experiments paper, raffia, leather, metal, plastic, 3D embroidery, feathers and flowers. It explores the fabrics such as linen smocks, inlays of mother-of-pearl, lace… This eclecticism holds her away from the monotony despite the hundreds and sometimes even thousands of hours that are required to complete the piece.  A masterpiece that completes the beauty of the French mosaic dazzling the most avid fashion victims on each new #ParisFashionWeek… Masterpieces, fragments of a beautiful and humble creative soul…

” The embroidery is for the fashion design what the firework is on July 14th ” François Lesage

RO:

Toamna este pura nostalgie fertila. Extragem din durerea plecarilor insorite cele mai intime doruri nepronuntate, amintirile pierdute ce innegureaza cerul impurpurat. Alegem fir de ata aurie si cu cel mai fin ac de broderie, pentru a tese pe materialul sufletului nostru fresca unei veri pierdute. Si cea a prietenilor rataciti, ramasitele dragostei pe care le-o purtam inca, pentru totdeauna. Totul se aseaza cu precizie si minutiozitate, in echilibru cu slabiciunile inimii, ca o broderie nobila ce transforma tesatura imbibata de emotie in bijuterie pretioasa.

Maria, ai invartit din nou kaleidoscopul iar gandurile si privirea mi se atintesc pe culorile Frantei, pe al ei patrimoniu artistic inestimabil, divina experienta creativa si aceasta fabrica mistica de visuri …’La Haute Couture‘. Ce satisfactie sa ma strecor in spatele cortinei, sa-mi umplu sufletul de o ambianta aproape muzeala, eterica, sa descopar culisele unei meserii unde imaginatia este divinatorie… sub degetele fermecate ale prietenei mele Carla Cellerier, creatoare de broderie pentru Haute Couture.

Prietena si colega pe parcursul anilor de Fashion Design, Carla incarneaza esenta suprema a ‘Frantuzoaicei‘ printr-o aura de eleganta naturala. Frumoasa si pasionata a stiut sa isi croiasca din stofe fine, un drum prin calatoria exclusivista a modei, prin exigenta, entuziasm si aspiratie catre perfectiune. Carla si-a urmat visul de a face o cariera in arta si a integrat cursurile exceptionale in 8 niveluri pe care le propune scoala internationala pariziana LESAGE.

Fragila si formidabila, a invatat sa interpreteze o inspiratie, o imagine, o ambianta sau o fraza si printr-un proces laborios ce se poate intinde pe sute de ore, metamorfozeaza toata energia in prototipuri pentru cele mai prestigioase case de moda internationale. Se imbata cu satisfactia de a-si vedea broderiile defiland pe podiumuri extravagante, aceste bucati de material pe care le-a disciplinat, pe care le-a imbratisat, pe care le-a infrumusetat cateodata cu zeci de kilograme de accesorii. Fiecare aparitie, fiecare manechin mosteneste din incandescenta pe care creatoarea de broderie o investeste, o deleaga piesei. Adrenalina numaratoarei inverse inaintea defileelor, oboseala care genereaza o multime de povesti intime intre ‘zanele’ din atelier, senzatia de atemporalitate cand se lasa posedate de gestul artistic creator…

Aspiratia catre perfectiune, materializarea ideeilor si a estetismelor intime, sunt intotdeauna rasplatite. Pentru a mea Carla, recunoasterea a avut loc o data cu atribuirea unanima a primului loc ‘PRIX AVENIR’ de catre Institutul National al Meseriilor de Arta, pentru realizarea unei rochii brodate  ‘De l’eau dans l’air, De l’air dans l’eau‘. Modelele de broderie reprezentau aerul si apa in toate formele. Sapte parti pentru cer, pamant, oceane, iar pentru fiecare dintre elemente cate o zona calda, zona rece si una temperata, unindu-se intr-o armonie supranaturala.

Indragostita de Arta, Carla se dedica jocului ludic de a experimenta materiale, de la hartie, rafia, piele, metal, plastic, broderie 3D, pene, flori, pana la asocieri de texturi, dantele, incrustatii de pietre etc. Acest eclectism indeparteaza orice pericol de monotonie, in ciuda rabdarii pe care trebuie s-o manifeste prin sute, sau chiar mii de ore de lucru pentru a desavarsi o creatie. Creatie care se imbina armonios in mozaicul de Frumusete cu care Franta isi hraneste gurmanzii de moda, la fiecare noua editie #ParisFashionWeek. Creatii ce sunt fragmente dintr-un suflet luminos si modest, dar plin de creativitate…

‘Broderia insufla in  Haute Couture ceea ce artificiile creeaza pentru 14 Iulie’ – Francois Lesage.

FR:

L’automne est pure Nostalgie fertile. On puise dans la souffrance des départs ensoleillées les manques intimes le plus inavouables, les souvenirs perdus qui font aujourd’hui pâlir le ciel empourpré.  Avec le plus beau fil doré et la plus légère des aiguilles on pique dans le tissu de notre âme et on y tisse la fresque de l’Été perdu. Celle des amis égarés, les réminiscences d’un amour qu’on leur porte toujours et pour toujours. Tout s’aligne avec précision et minutie sur le chemin du cœur, telle une broderie noble qui transforme cette étoffe imbibée d’émotion en un précieux joyau.

Maria, t’as retourné a nouveau le kaléidoscope laissant ainsi mes pensées reposer sur les couleurs de la France, sur son patrimoine artistique inestimable, son savoir faire divin et sur son usine à rêve… qu’est la Haute Couture.  Quelle fierté de se glisser derrière la cortine, charger son esprit d’une expérience quasi muséale, découvrir les coulisses d’un métier ou l’imagination est divinatrice… sous les doigts de fée de ma copine Carla Cellerier.

Amie et collègue pendant les années d’école, en Design de Mode, elle était à mes yeux la quintessence de ‘La Française’ par son aura d’élégance naturelle. Belle et passionnée elle a su tisser son histoire au fil de la mode avec exigence, enthousiasme et sa quête engagée de perfection. Carla a suivi son rêve de faire un métier d’art et a intégré la formation professionnelle en 8 niveaux de l’école LESAGE, un lieu mythique ou cet art millénaire avait transcendé la haute couture.

Formidable et fragile, elle interprète une inspiration, une image, une ambiance ou une phrase. Et après des centaines d’heures de travail plus tard, elle métamorphose des prototypes pour les plus prestigieuses maisons de couture française. Elle s’enivre à voir sur les podiums extravagants ses broderies défiler. Des broderies chères, des métrages de tissus qu’elle a apprivoisé, qu’elle a caressé, qu’elle a embelli, parfois avec des dizaines de kilogrammes de fournitures. Cette adrénaline du compte à rebours avant le défilé, cette fatigue qui entraîne une myriade d’anecdotes croustillantes à surprendre, cette sensation de l’intemporel en se donnant toute entière au geste artistique rend à chaque apparition,  a chaque mannequin, une incandescence que la brodeuse lègue à ses créations.

Être au plus près de la perfection, donner vie aux idées et à l’esthétique  a une récompense. Pour ma Carla, c’était  l’attribution unanime du premier prix Ile de France ‘PRIX AVENIR’ de l’Institut National des Métiers D’art pour la réalisation d’une robe brodée intitulée ” De l’eau dans l’air. De l’air dans l’eau” . Les motifs de broderie représentaient l’eau et l’air sous toutes leurs formes. La robe se divisait en 7 parties : Le ciel, la terre, les océans et pour chacun de ces éléments une partie chaude, une partie froide et en son milieu une zone tempérée.

Amoureuse de l’art, Carla se dédie au jeu ludique des recherches de matière, elle expérimente le papier, le raphia, le cuir, le métal, le plastique, les broderies en 3D, les plumes et les fleurs. Elle explore la parure de tissus tels que smocks, incrustations, dentelles… Cet éclectisme la tient loin de la monotonie malgré les centaines et parfois même les milliers d’heures de travail qui sont nécessaires pour achever l’œuvre. Une oeuvre qui rejoint la mosaïque de beauté avec laquelle la France éblouie les plus avides de la mode, à chaque nouvelle #ParisFashionWeek…  Ces œuvres, fragments d’une si belle et humble âme créatrice….

‘“La broderie est à la haute couture ce que le feu d’artifice est au 14 juillet” François Lesage

It’s that time of the year again when Paris becomes the most beautiful capital the Fashion world would dream of, when we all feel like buying a new Petit Bateau striped top and put on a black beret, always accompanied by some red blood lipstick. It’s that perfect time to bounce around the city, indulge in its exuberance, get inspired by the Parisian art of living, fall in love with a beautiful stranger that mumble sweet lies in your years…

Yes, there is an obsession regarding being Parisian and we’re guilty as charged. But don’t we all admire those strongly opinionated women, their simple yet admirable style? Their sense of continuity? Their cultural inheritance, their relaxation and independence? The accent they put on their brains, the way they play the sensuality game, rather than just be sexy? Even though they’re mostly pretending and their effort to look „effortless” is greater than we think, aren’t we all pretenders? All the world’s a stage and we are merely players…

• The French woman’s essence is all about freedom, in all aspects of life – Caroline de Maigret on the one thing that makes you look like a Parisian
• What is #PFW without an appropriate guide of the hypest things to do? – How to do Paris Fashion Week like a street-style star?
• Maison Chanel released a new video this week where international stars pay homage to the greatest lady of fashion – Mademoiselle Prive: The Bijoux de Diamants Collection worn by celebrities
• The wanderlust beast must be fed all year long, so get inspired by these Parisian instagrammers – Paris instagrammers you should be following
• A sparkly surprise in the Tuileries, with Pat McGrath performing free golden make-ups – Pat McGrath’s Golden Hour
• A peculiar collection for Chloe, sporty yet romantic, you’ll definitely love the bow details. And yeah, the 70’s trend will live forward – Chloe live stream video

RO:

Este acel moment al anului cand Parisul devine cea mai frumoasa capitala  pe care lumea modei ar putea-o visa, cand suntem cuprinse de o nevoie inexplicabila de a mai achizitiona un top breton de la Petit Bateau si de a purta o bereta neagra, intotdeauna insotita de buze pictate in 50 de nuante de rosu. Este acel moment perfect pentru te pierde pe largile bulevarde ale orasului, pentru a-ti rasfata sufletul cu exuberanta sa, pentru a te lasa inspirata de l’art de vivre parisien, pentru a te indragosti de un strain fermectaor care iti murmura minciuni dulci…

Da, exista o obsesie de a surprinde stilul parizian și ne declaram vinovate. Dar nu admiram cu toatele aceste femei care au opinii puternice, stilul lor simplu, dar de invidiat? Sentimentul de continuitate a stilului ce transcede generatii? Nu invidiem mostenirea lor culturala, relaxarea si independența lor? Accentul pe care il pun pe inteligenta, modul in care joaca jocul senzualitatii, in detrimentul notiunii de sexy? Chiar daca frizeaza absurdul teatral in mare parte, iar dorinta lor de a arata efortless  este mult mai mare decat pretind, nu facem si noi aceleasi lucruri? Toata lumea este o scena, iar noi suntem suntem doar actori…

FR:

C’est le moment de l’année où Paris devient la plus belle capitale que le monde entier de la mode puisse envier, quand nous sentons un désir inexplicable d’acheter une nouvelle marinière Petit Bateau  et de mettre un béret noir, toujours accompagné des lèvres fardées en rouge sang. C’est le temps idéal pour flâner sur les boulevards  larges de la ville, se gâter avec son exubérance, se laisser inspirée par l’art de vivre parisien, tomber amoureuse d’un bel inconnu qui chuchote des doux mensonges à l’oreilles…

Oui, il y a comme une obsession tenir fort être parisienne et nous en sommes hantées  par ce désir. Mais ne nous sommes pas toutes admiratrices de ces femmes fortes d’opinions, épurées dans leur style mais toujours au taquet?…Leur sentiment de advenir. Leur héritage culturel, l’aisance et l’indépendance? Le fait qu’elles prônent leur intelligence , la façon dont elles envisagent le jeu intellectuel de la sensualité au dépit d’une apparition triviale sexy. Même si la plupart du temps elles jouent qu’un rôle, et que l’apparition ‘négligente’ qu’elles affichent avec spontanéité  n’est qu’une mise en scène, ne nous faisons pas toutes la même chose? L’équilibre maladroit entre être et paraître…

 Le monde entier est un théâtre et nous ne sommes que des acteurs…

(Just scroll down for Romanian and French versions)

It’s October, that time of the year when the Fashion displays its passing fancies, crushing looks, and extravagant instants become abruptly obsolete, there is ephemeral beauty and dazzle set of lights… Out of the blue the thrill is gone, the curtain gets off the heavy velvet weight and the autumn’s chill freezes the artistic performances and cools off the body of the models. The rain extinguishes the latest fireworks of the show.

We seek shield in the cocoon, we return to our authenticity, we wipe away all the superfluous from our heart and we look inward, towards the tradition which gives breath to real heritage treasures.

Prestigia Gallery, this exhibition space for meetings and cultural exchanges, hosts a precious collection of wonderful Moroccan embroideries. The centuries-old tradition reaches the contemporaneity thanks to those beautiful creative hands that constantly reinvent a colourful realm of patterns and shapes influenced throughout history by different cultures, including Andalusian, Turkish or Moorish.

Essentials things you should know about Moroccan embroidery art:

• The embroidery was initially used to protect and beautify the Qur’anic book, but will soon manifest as a real civilizing witness. Already worn by the Parthians and Persians, the caftan was introduced by the wave of exiles arriving in Morocco.
• The caftan portrays the tradition in the most splendorous way, throughout parties or religious and social Moroccan ceremonies. As a matter of fact, each caftan must be unique depicted by the singularity of its embroidery, particularly at the waistline, on the hand crafted “Hzam’’ belt, woven with several silk threads.
• Women yawn with their fingers the history of this heritage… It was customary that girls embroider themselves their wedding trousseau. Dreaming of the days of their move (Nahar) these little skilled hands, patient and meticulous, realized their sheets, their curtains, their cloths, and worked all kinds of fabrics for serving tea and embellish their future interior and the iconic Moroccan lounge.

These moments of creative labour, precious in the life of a young girl, materialize a unique expertise, and extraordinary patterns, which are dwelling the artistic map of the Moroccan inheritance.

RO:

Este Octombrie, perioada in care Moda isi parada capriciile iluzorii, tinutele fulgeratoare, cand defileaza momentele extravagante ce se transforma intr-o clipita in obsolete, frumusetea efemera si jocurile orbitoare de lumina… Si dintr-odata freamatul se opreste, cortina isi coboara catifelele grele, frigul toamnei ingheata aceste performante artistice si infrigureaza trupurile manechinelor. Iar ploaia stinge ultimele focuri de artificii ale scenei.

Ne protejam intr-un cocon intim, revenim la natura autentica, demachiem sufletele de superflu si privim din interior, unde traditia insufleteste comori intime ale patrimoniului cultural.

Prestigia, intersectie de expozitii, intalniri si cultura da viata la Galerie de l’Immobilier, unei colectii de minuni ale broderiei marocane. Traditia ancestrala ajunge sa se oglindeasca in epoca contemporana, gratie acestor maini dibace care reinventeaza constant un univers plin de culoare si motive, adesea inspirate din culturi vecine precum ale Andalusiei, Turciei si epoca hispano-moresca.

Idei esentiale despre broderia marocana:

• Broderia este utilizata initial pentru a proteja si infrumuseta cartea coranica, dar curand se va oglindi ca fiind element civilizator in cotidianul marocanilor.
• Caftanul, purtat deja de persi si de parti, este introdus in Orientul Musulman de catre exilatii ce sunt trimisi spre Maroc. Caftanul este elementul far la petrecerile si ceremoniile religioase si sociale marocane. Fiecare exemplar este unic si purtator de simbolism, povestindu-se prin singularitatea broderiilor folosite, mai ales la nivelul centurii ‘Hzam’, piesa impletita de mana din mai multe fire de matase.
• Artizanele incunueaza fiecare creatie cu o poveste, oferind-o ca pe o mostenire culturala. Se obisnuia ca tinerele sa isi brodeze singure zestrea de mariaj, asadar, in asteptarea zilei de mutare in casa noua (numita Nahar), aceste copile deveneau femei prin teserea minutioasa si brodarea draperiilor, perdelelor, servetelor si a materialelor cu care isi puteau impodobi noul foier si emblematicul salon marocan pentru primirea oaspetilor (perne, servicii de ceai,etc)

Aceste momente pretioase in viata unei tinere construiesc si fac sa calatoreasca prin timp o poveste meticuloasa si unica in crearea frumosului, cu detalii artistice ce deseneaza harta intima a patrimoniului marocan.

FR:

C’est Octobre, le mois ou la Mode parade avec ses caprices illusoires, ses tenues foudroyantes, elle fait défiler les instants extravagants qui vont pâlir tantôt en obsolètes, la beauté éphémère et les jeux éblouissants de lumière… Puis tout d’un coup tout s’arrête, la cortine retombe, le froid de l’automne glace ces performances artistiques, et refroidi les corps. Quant à la pluie, elle éteint a son tour les derniers feux d’artifices du spectacle.

On revient dans le cocoon, on retourne à notre authenticité, on démaquille notre âme et on regarde vers l’intérieur, ou la tradition donne souffle aux trésors le plus intimes du patrimoine.

Dans sa Galerie de l’Immobilier, espace d’exposition, de rencontres et d’échange culturel, Prestigia présente une collection de merveilleuses broderies marocaines. La tradition perpétue jusqu’à nos jours grâce à des mains qui ne cessent de réinventer un univers haut en couleurs et des formes influencées à travers l’histoire par différentes cultures, notamment celles andalouse, turque ou encore hispano-mauresque.

Les idées essentielles sur la broderie marocaine:

• La broderie est utilisée initialement pour protéger et embellir le livre coranique, mais ne tardera pas à se manifester comme véritable marque civilisatrice.
• Déjà porté par les Parthes et les Perses, le caftan aurait été introduit dans l’Orient musulman par les flots d’exilés arrivant au Maroc. Le caftan illustre la tradition dans toute sa splendeur lors des fêtes et des cérémonies religieuses et sociales marocaines. En effet, chaque caftan doit être unique, racontant un histoire, marqué par la singularité de ses broderies, notamment au niveau du « Hzam », ceinture travaillée à la main à partir de plusieurs fils imbriqués.
• Les femmes ‘diront ‘avec les doigts l’histoire de cette broderie héritage Il était de coutume que les jeunes filles brodent elles-mêmes leur trousseau de mariée. Rêvant aux jours de leur déménagement, Nahar, ces petites mains habiles, patientes et minutieuses, réalisaient leurs draps, leurs rideaux, leurs nappes, et travaillaient toutes sortes d’étoffes pour confectionner des services à gâteaux ou à thé, des coussins, et tout ce qui pouvait embellir leur futur intérieur et l’emblématique salon marocain.

De ces instants, jadis précieux dans la vie d’une jeune fille, il demeure aujourd’hui un savoir-faire unique, des motifs extraordinaires qui dessinent la carte artistique du patrimoine marocain.

Zara dress (similar here, also love this style), Massimo Dutti shoes (similar here)

(Just scroll down for Romanian and French versions)

EN :

“On the meridian of time, there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama.”
— Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)

Very often, the demons invite themselves and my thoughts get soaked in the tannic ink of haunting dilemmas. I strike for intimacy and inner nature into the confinement of an elasticated and sticky array of strings that would finally devour all the awareness. I travel on the black shores of the night, tortured by the pleasure of drawing creativity from grief.

I turn to the inside, withdraw and shut down, so as a flower does at night.

Playing with shades and lights, a hollow princess trapped in the black canvas of Louise Bourgeois’ spider worthy psychosis, I can’t find sleep while imploring some answers.

All the other people are they perceiving in the same way the colours? When I close my eyes and I imagine the Blue… does this violent electrifying flowing causes the same fatigue, the same vibration under  your eyelids? Do the Black snaps you, lock you, steal, dissolve and dismantle you as it does to me?

I built in my heart an insectarium of dead butterflies. Mummified insects are carrying on their wings the powdery dust of surreal memories, intoxicating outpourings and cold winter lights. That White blindness, the cruel instant when I have to say no to his love, on that small alley. The smooth touch of a cashmere scarf he grabbed from my neck while I was turning my back. And the rough tulle layers that I have worn for that party were you were in as well, Maria… that peculiar evening when…

He told me that I was Nis, he must have read too much Henry …

I told him it was not his fault, that it was me…

And it’s always me. This odd phosphorus body and soul, the harmfully asthenia, the way I can be fiery, dangerous – lava, inflammable, unrestrained such as caustic acid.

But my hair witnesses for ever and after, the imprint of his fingers over each length of strand, those delicate caresses.

« Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves.»
— Anaïs Nin

RO:

“De-a lungul meridianului timpului orice injustitie se disipa: ramane numai poezia intamplarilor ce creeaza iluzia adevarului sau a dramei.” Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)

Adesea demonii se auto-invita, iar gandurile mele se imbiba de cerneala tanica a dilemelor sfasietoare. Gasesec confort si imi regasesc natura in apasarea corzilor lipicioase si elastice ale gandurilor, un joc ce tortureaza si devoreaza orice ratiune. Strabat falezele negre ale noptii, ametita de placerea de a sustrage emotii si creativitate din durere. Iar mai apoi ma inchid in mine, spre mine, cum florile isi strang corolele langa suflet, seara.

Jocuri de umbre si lumini, o printesa fantoma stransa sub panza neagra a unui paianjen demn de psihoza Louisei Bourgeois, nu pot inchide ochii noaptea, cautand raspunsuri la enigme. Oare toti oamenii resimt in aceeasi maniera culorile? Albastrul meu, aceasta electricitate violenta, galvanizanta care ma stabate, electro-circula cand cu ochii mintii incerc sa o imaginez, iti provoaca si tie aceeasi oboseala, aceeasi vibratie intensa sub pleoape? Negrul te inghite, te inchide, te dezradacineaza, te desfiinteaza cum o face pentru mine?

Am construit in suflet un insectar de fluturi morti, insecte mumificate care aseaza pe aripile lor pudra si praful amintirilor suprarealiste, a efuziunilor ametitoare, a luminilor glaciale de iarna. Albul rece si orbitor cand I-am refuzat iubirea, pe o alee stransa, sub pasi de adolenscenti. Atingera unei esarfe de Casmir pe care mi-a smuls-o de la gat cand i-am intors spatele… Rigiditatea staturilor de tulle infoiat sub care ma ascundeam la o petrecere la care erai prezenta, Maria. O seara in care…

Mi-a spus ca sunt Nis, probabil citise prea mult Henry…

I-am spus ca nu era din cauza lui, eram eu de vina…

Si raman in continuare… Aceasta fosforescenta a mintii si a corpului, o astenie distrugatoare, ce arde, periculoasa, o lava inflamabila fara reticenta… cu acid sulfuric in suflet.

Doar parul meu pastreaza amprenta degetelor sale pe lungimea fiecarei suvite, sub mangaierile delicate.

“Multime de cupluri, multime de oameni nu traiesc cu oameni adevarati in suflet ci cu fantomele lor. Cine nu a alergat orbit dupa o nunata de voce printre atatea alte voci, ca un fetishist care, innebunit de urma lasata de un picior frumos , isi ridica superficial privirea spre femeia intreaga. O voce, o gura, un ochi, amintirea sulfurica si vaporoasa a dorintei primordiale, cea ce ne insclaveaza, ce ne dirijeaza pana in momentul cand destramam panza fatala in care suntem prinsi si ne eliberam.”— Anaïs Nin

FR :

« Sur le méridien de temps, Il n’y a pas d’injustice: il n’y a que la poésie du mouvement créant l’illusion de la vérité et le drame »— Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)

Très souvent, les démons s’invitent et mes pensées s’imbibent dans l’encre tannique des dilemmes qui hantent. Je retrouve l’intimité et ma vraie nature dans l’emprisonnement  d’un réseau de cordes élastiquées et collantes  qui accueillent le sens pour mieux le dévorer. Je voyage sur le cours des rives noirs de la nuit, torturée par le plaisir à puiser la créativité dans la souffrance. Je me tourne vers le dedans, me renferme sur moi-même, comme font les fleurs, la nuit.

Jeux d’ombres, princesse vide emprisonnée dans la toile noire d’une araignée digne de la psychose de Louise Bourgeois,  je ne dors pas, en implorant de réponses. Les tous autres perçoivent ils de la même façon les couleurs ? Mon bleu, cette électricité violente, galvanisante qui me circule  quand je ferme les yeux provoque-t-il la même fatigue, la même vibration sous tes paupières ? Le noir te happe-t-il, t’enferme-t-il, te dérobe, te dissout, te démantèle comme il le fait pour moi?

Je me suis construit un insectarium de papillons morts, des insectes momifiés qui reposent sur leurs ailes la poussière poudreuse des souvenirs surréalistes, les effusions enivrantes, des lumières froides d’hiver. Le blanc quand je lui ai refusé l’amour, dans une petite ruelle, sur nos pas d’adolescents. Le toucher du cachemire d’une écharpe qu’il m’a arrache du cou quand je lui ai tourne le dos.…Et le rêche de couches de tulle que j ai porte lors d’une soirée où tu étais aussi présente, Maria… Une soirée ou…

Il m’avait dit que j étais Nis, il devait en avoir trop lu Henry…

Je lui ai dit que c‘était pas de sa faute, que c était moi.

Et c’est toujours moi. Cette phosphorescence de l’esprit et de corps, l’asthénie destructrice, ardente, dangereuse – de la lave inflammable, sans retenue, l’acide sulfurique..

Mais mes cheveux gardent l’empreinte de ses doigts sur la longueur de chaque mèche, sous ses caresses si délicates.

« Beaucoup de couples, beaucoup de gens ne vivent pas avec des vraies personnes mais avec leur fantômes. Qui n a pas déjà suivi aveuglement l’envoutement d’une nuance de voix, parmi pleines des voix, tout comme un fétichiste suit la trace d’un beau pied en regardant a peine la femme toute en entière. Une voix, une bouche, un œil, le souvenir frémissant du premier désir, qui nous dirige, nous rendant esclaves jusqu’au moment ou on choisi de démêler cette toile fatale afin de nous libérer. » -Anaïs Nin

(scroll down for Romanian and French versions)

Zara skirt (similar) and shoes (similar, loving these and these), Stefanel roll-neck sweater (similar), DKNY bag from Sport Couture

Darling Lorena, our dear readers,

I celebrated my birthday on Monday (the lovely staff at Simbio even gave me a cake from the house and invited me to blow the candle <3) and I’m not the person to make New Year’s resolutions, I’d rather delve myself into memories at each anniversary and reflect the new image against the old me… I’m lying in bed, in my princess white sheets, enjoying an over-sweetened Starbucks signature chocolate (I’m a Starbucks junkie, as you might tell), the lights are dim, the music is sensual and inspiring, I’m passing the tips of my fingers over the wonderful gifts that surround me…

I’m trying to string some thoughts together for writing this new story while answering to tons of messages filled with kind words everyone sent me. I am litterally overwhelmed and honored to receive so much warmth from people I love, from my friends that are so far away from me, from people I haven’t seen in ages, from new connaissances, from people I don’t even know but admire, from family and teachers. And these are no empty words, I’m overjoyed with seeing how many people felt the need to congratulate me and stop by just to say „love your stories, hope you’ll keep inspiring us with your writing”.

So now I feel the urge to open up a little, to show you more of me, to write this article on a purely personal note.

I strongly believe the essence of a successful life long relationship is the capacity of always surprising the other, collecting little secrets and then delivering them, one after the other, in order to knit the love bonds in an everlasting story. There are still things you don’t know about me, memories that define me, things I have learned throuought these years, stories that might not become the screenplay of box office movies, but that are important to me.

We all know this is recommended as gold by trend hunting agencies, but that’s not why I’m approaching this subject. Look at the photos. It’s not a static photoshoot setting as other bloggers prefer. You already know I’m a wanderer. Even in Bucharest.

And I grew up in an old bourgeois neighbourhood, surrounded by ivy-covered houses, wondering about the treasures hidden in dusty attics and the dark mysteries of cellars. My childhood developed on a golden hued narrative background… My great grandmother always took her time to challenge my imagination with her stories about the interwar era, the elegance of the royal family, the flamboyant society of that period. She incarnated the perfect image of a woman, elegant in the way of thinking, dedicated to her family, relaxed, loving, resilient in dramatic times, strongly opinionated and normal. Normal in an abnormal world. That’s why I keep her example as a permanent landmark for the times I feel lost.

Here at The Storyletters we aim at becoming createurs d’ambiance. Talking about life goals, I want to seduce with the words I deliver. Sometimes I’m profound, sometimes I’m more commercial and easy, but what I want to achieve is for people to feel good when reading these lines, to find inspiration in my ideas, to even contradict me, to ignite emotions in their souls.

When I was little, in the second grade I believe, looking all library worm¸ short-haired, with huge eyeglasses, my only dear occupation was reading fairy tales. And I was the only crazy miniature person in my classroom to join a fairytale writing class. That’s when this passion for writing started and has never left me ever since. I’m not at my best standards, I know it, it’s been 7 years of only writing academic papers so my style was damaged, but I’ll get better, I promise.

Don’t know if I’m shy (after years of being  an ugly duckling… haha) or just have an intrinsic fear of ridicule, but I’d rather isolate myself until I reach a comfort zone and get to trust people around me. I wasn’t like this at all, I am a person incapable of true envy (ok, I envy those Chanel 2.55 owners, but we all fight our own wars, so I don’t want their stories) and I cannot imagine why anyone would envy me, I cannot understand how that could be possible, but guess what?! We cannot apply our own standards to the others.

Women tend to envy other women, they tend to be mean and judgemental, they strive for attention and popularity… After all, there are 9 women for each man on this world… I was told I’m pretty charismatic and charming, they say I am intelligent and have a magnetic personality, but this traits attracted so much animosity and troubles in the past that now I am always left with a l’esprit de l’escalier in public, I’d rather shut up and try not to attract the limelights. That’s why most people that meet me for the first time believe I’m arrogant and snobbish, but I don’t really care… Because ->

I don’t enjoy being perceived as dull or infatuated and I know I must work on my self image/trust, but the most important lesson I’ve learned from my mom and friends is not to give a damn about what other people think. You cannot please everybody, nor should you.

They can’t all love you, but that’s ok, you’re not Miss Universe, you don’t love everyone either. I don’t care of what others might think of me and my actions and, as I noted before, we all have our personal fights (mostly with ourselves and our desires), no one is really the image he/she sells. I’m not the princess everybody thinks I am, I’m not daddy’s girl, I’m not superfluous and life’s not so pink, but the essential point is that I know who I am, how much I’ve worked and struggled to become who I am today and how strong I must fight to be better. For myself.

The song playing in my head is the soundtrack from Two and a Half Men. This is a complicated and inexhaustible subject, I change my opinion about it all the time, but some words should be mentioned… There are frustrated men that waste our time, that are incapable of love and only want to manipulate us, that cannibalize our thoughts, that drag us down, that might destroy us and affect our mentalities; men that are made to be amusement instruments, that are destined to be little mice and make us think we are femmes fatales or cat women out for a hunt, that humiliate themselves just to please us…

And men that are made to be loved and respected, they are rare (you meet them once or twice in a lifetime and completely change your destiny) and the only ones that make us truly fall in love, that offer us moments of pure joy and are determined to create unforgettable memories for us both. They are still flawed, but who’s perfect?! I’ve done them wrong and I regret it, but it’s experience and I’d rather do stupid things when I’m young and the consequences are not dramatic, than later when things will get more serious.

I’ve just started a new Personal Branding class at Naked PR, with the coolest classmates and the most inspiring teachers that challenged us to get personal with our storytelling so I thought my birthday was the best opportunity to let everyone see more of the real me.

Gros Bisous,

Maria.

RO: 

Luni a fost ziua mea de nastere (cei de la Simbio chiar au fost draguti sa imi ofere un delicios desert si m-au incurajat sa imi formulez o dorinta inainte de a sufla in lumanare) si cum nu imi stabilesc rezolutii de Anul Nou, prefer sa ma afund in amintiri la fiecare aniversare si sa pun in oglinda noua mea persoana in fata celei care am fost. Acum stau in pat, printre asternuturi albe de printesa, delicat brodate, cu dantele si volane, savurand o prea dulce ciocolata calda de la Starbucks (imi place mult Starbucks, imi aminteste de vremurile cand aveam date-uri la Paris si era un loc aspirational), lumina lumanarilor cu aroma de vanilie este difuza, muzica este senzuala, iar eu imi trec degetele, emotionata, peste multitudinea cadourilor pe care le-am primit….

Incerc sa imi adun gandurile pentru a scrijeli aceasta noua poveste, in timp ce ma straduiesc sa raspund la infinitele mesaje pline de cuvinte frumoase care mi-au fost trimise. Ma simt cu adevarat coplesita si onorata sa fiu invaluita de atata caldura din partea oamenilor pe care ii iubesc, din partea prietenilor care imi lipsesc, din partea unor persoane pe care nu le-am mai vazut de ani, din partea unor oameni de-abia cunoscuti sau a unora pe care nici nu ii cunosc dar pe care ii admir, din partea familiei sau profesorilor. Nu sunt vorbe goale, sunt mai mult decat incantata sa parcurg felicitarile atator oameni care imi ureaza sa am inspiratia necesara pentru a-i incanta si pe viitor cu povestile mele.

Presiunea e mare pentru a ma ridica la nivelul asteptarilor voastre, deci este momentul sa ma dezvalui putin cate putin…

Cred cu tarie ca esenta unei relatii fericite pe termen lung este capacitatea de a-l surprinde pe celalalt, de a colectiona mici secrete si de a le devoala in timp, pentru a tese legaturile dragostei intr-o poveste fara sfarsit. Misterul e cheia. Sunt multe detalii pe care nu le stiti despe mine, amintiri care ma definesc, lucruri pe care le-am invatat in toti acesti ani, povesti care nu vor face niciodata subiectul unui film de Holywood, dar care pentru mine sunt esentiale.

1. THE FASCINATION WITH THE PAST

Agentiile de trend hunting promoveaza destul de agresiv aceasta intoarcere spre trecut, dar eu abordez subiectul din alte motive. Priviti pozele de mai sus… O panoplie de locuri ale Bucurestiului vechi pe care ador sa le explorez, nu doar un scenariu static, atat de des exploatat pe bloguri.

Am crescut intr-un cartier burghez vechi, printre case ascunse in spatele cortinelor de iedera, intrebandu-ma plina de curiozitatea specifica varstei despre ce s-ar putea ascunde in podurile prafuite si in pivnitele intunecate al caror intuneric ma infiora. Copilaria s-a depanat pe un fond narativ plin de culori calde… Strabunica mea isi facea intotdeauna timp sa imi provoace imaginatia cu povesti din perioada interbelica, despre eleganta familiei regale, despre flamboaianta protipendada bucuresteana. A incarnat imaginea perfecta a femeii, eleganta in maniera de a gandi, dedicata familiei, relaxata, iubitoare, puternica in perioadele dramatice, ferma si normala. Normala intr-o lume aberanta. Este reperul meu cel mai de pret pentru zilele in care ma simt pierduta.

2. THE WRITING ISSUE

The Storyletters este mijlocul prin care visam sa devenim createurs d’ambiance. Telul meu este de a seduce prin scris. Catoedata sunt profunda, alteori comerciala si usor de digerat, dar  ce imi doresc este ca oamenii sa se simta bine atunci cand citesc aceste randuri, sa fie inspirati de ideile mele, sa prinda dorinta de a experimenta lucruri similare, si chiar sa ma contrazica. Visul este de a crea emotie…

Cand eram prin clasa a doua, aratam ca un soarece de biblioteca, cu parul scurt si ochelari de vedere care imi acopereau jumatate de fata, iar singura mea preocupare reala era sa citesc basme. Si am fost singura micuta creatura ciudata din clasa care s-a alaturat unui optional de scris basme. Acela a fost momentul 0 cand s-a aprins scanteia entuziasmului de a scrie, pasiune care ma tulbura inca de atunci. Stiu ca nu sunt la cel mai inalt nivel al scrisului meu, au trecut 7 ani in care in cel mai bun caz am scris lucrari academice (in care stilul este strict si total diferit fata de cel pe care il abordez pe blog), ceea ce mi-a deformat maniera de a relata povestile vietii mele. Dar voi evolua, promit.

3. APPEARENCES MIGHT BE DECEIVING

Nu stiu exact daca sunt timida (am fost ratusca cea urata multi ani… haha) sau am dezvoltat un simt al ridicolului extrem de dezvoltat, dar prefer sa ma izolez pana imi creez o zona de comfort  si incep sa am incredere in cei din jur ( am si o intuitie puternica legata de oamenii pe care ii cunosc, prima impresie este 99% cea corecta). Nu eram asa in trecut… Sunt o persoana incapabila sa invidieze (in fine, le invidiez pe posesoarele de Chanel 2.55, dar fiecare isi duce propria lupta asa ca nuimi doresc dramele lor), nu pot sa concep ca cineva m-ar putea invidia, dar ghiciti ce?! Nu are sens sa incercam sa ne impunem standardele sau viziunea despre lume asupra celorlalti.

Femeile invidiaza alte femei, tind sa fie rautacioase si sa judece fara drept de apel, se lupta fara mila pentru atentie si popularitate… Toate ca toate, dar suntem 9 femei pentru fiecare barbat din lume… Mi s-a spus ca sunt destul de carismatica si fermecatoare, se zice ca as fi inteligenta si ca as poseda o personalitate magnetica, dar aceste trasaturi au atras atata animozitate si incurcaturi in trecut incat acum raman permanent cu  un esprit de l’escalier in public, pentru ca prefer sa tac si sa nu atrag reflectoarele asupra mea. Drept pentru care mai toata lumea are senzatia ca sunt aroganta si snoaba, dar nu prea imi pasa, pentru caaaa…

4. FRANKLY MY DEAR, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN

Nu ma pot declara incantata de faptul ca sunt perceputa drept infatuata sau pur si simplu neinteresanta, stiu ca trebuie sa lucrez la increderea si imaginea de sine, dar cea mai importanta lectie invatata de la mama mea si prietenii mei este de a nu-mi pasa catusi de putin despre parerea celorlalti. Nu poti multumi pe toata lumea si nici nu trebuie. Nu te poate iubi toata lumea, dar nu esti Miss Univers, deci nici tu nu ii iubesti pe toti. Este un sentiment eliberator. Nu conteaza ce crede lumea despre mine sau despre actiunile mele, totui purtam propria lupta (mai ales cu noi insine si dorintele noastre), nimeni nu e imaginea pe care o vinde. Nu sunt o printesa sau daddy’s girl, nu sunt superficiala si viata nu e chiar atat de roz, dar ideea esentiala este ca stiu cine sunt, cat de mult am muncit pentru a deveni cine sunt astazi si cat mai trebuie sa lupt pentru a fi mai buna. Pentru mine.

5. MEN, MEN, MEN

Mi se invarte in minte soundtrack-ul din Two men and a half. Un subiect complicat si inepuizabil despre care imi schimb parerea saptamanal, dar merita notate cateva cuvinte pe marginea lui…

Sunt barbati frustrati care ne pierd timpul, care sunt incapabili sa iubeasca dar sunt maestri ai manipularii,  care ne canibalizeaza gandurile, care ne trag in jos, care ne pot distruge si schimba mentalitatea; sunt barbati creati pentru a fi surse de amuzament, mici soricei care ne fac sa ne credem femmes fatales sau cat women iesite la vanatoare, care sunt dispusi sa se umileasca pentru a ne face o placere; si mai sunt barbati pe care sa ii iubim si respectam, care sunt, evident, greu de gasit (ii intalnesti o data sau de doua ori in viata dar iti schimba destinul) si care sunt singurii care ne fac sa ne indragostim cu adevarat, cei care ne ofera momente de fericire pura si vor sa creeze amintiri pretioase pentru amandoi. Evident ca au defectele lor, dar nici noi nu suntem perfecte. Am gresit in fata lor, dar prefer sa numesc aceste greseli experiente si sa le fac cat sunt tanara, decat mai tarziu cand consecintele pot fi mult mai grave.

Joia trecuta am inceput un nou curs de Personal Branding la Naked PR, cu cei mai cool colegi si cele mai incantatoare profesoare, care ne-au provocat sa devenim mai intimi in povestire, asa ca aniversarea (26 de ani!!!) a creat contextul potrivit pentru a va lasa sa patrundeti in universul meu…

Gros Bisous,

Maria.

FR: 

Ma chère Lorena, mes chers lecteurs,

Je viens de fêter mon anniversaire Lundi, et comme je n’aime pas faire des résolutions pour cette nouvelle année de l’aventure de ma vie, je préfère me baigner dans les souvenirs passés, et contempler l’image que je renvoie face à l’ancienne moi… Je suis donc allongée dans mon lit, blottie dans mes draps immaculés de princesse, savourant un chocolat presque trop sucré de chez Starbucks (J’en suis une accro, je vous l’accorde), les lumières sont tamisées, la musique sensuelle et intense, et je caresse avec émotion les cadeaux qui m’entourent.

J’essaie de rassembler au mieux mes pensées voyageuses, pour créer le meilleur décor à cette nouvelle histoire, pendant que je réponds enthousiaste au maintes messages pleins de gentillesses que j’ai reçu. Je suis véritablement touchée et honorée par cette chaleur qui se dégage de tous ces gens que j’aime, dés mes amis qui sont loin aux personnes que j ai perdu de vue depuis des lustres, les ‘connaissances’, ceux que je ne connais même pas réellement mais que j’admire en secret, ma famille et mes professeurs. Ce ne sont pas des mots légères, vides d’émotion, je suis sincèrement surexcitée à l’idée de voir qu’il y en a qui ont pris le temps de me féliciter, qui se sont arrêté  sur mon chemin me disant “on aime tes histoires, continue de nous inspirer”.  J ‘estime alors que c’est le bon moment de me dévoiler un peu plus, de m’ouvrir à vous, de me délivrer sous ces mots que je vous adresse.

Je crois avec ardeur que l’essence du succès pour consolider une  belle relation de longue durée réside dans la capacité de toujours essayer éblouir l’autre, collectionner en secret les petits détails, pour ensuite tisser avec cet amour qui doit durer, une histoire sans fin. Il y a encore des choses que vous connaissez pas sur moi, des souvenirs qui m’ont construit, qui m’ont enseigné des principes au fil des années, des scenarios qui ne verront surement pas le jour sur des projections de cinéma mais qui donnent de la couleur au Moi d’aujourd’hui.

LA FASCINATION DU PASSE

On le sait tous maintenant, c’est le sujet fétiche des bureaux de tendances, mais c est pas de cette perspective que je veux l’exploiter. Regardez les photos. C n’est pas un shooting statique, typique aux gouts des autres bloggeurs. Vous le savez déjà, je suis une flâneuse. Même à Bucarest.

Et j’ai grandi dans un quartier ancien, bourgeois, entourée par des maisons couvertes de lierre, recherchant toujours les trésors cachés sous les niches poussiéreuses, et le mystères des plafonds hauts et sombres. Mon enfance a puisé dans cet univers de brume dorée… Mon arrière grande mère a toujours pris son temps me nourrir avec les narrations de ses histoires de jeunesse, l’élégance de la famille royale, la haute société qui a marqué l’époque. Elle était la parfaite quintessence de la Femme, élégante dans sa façon de penser, dévouée à sa famille, relaxée, aimante, résistante pendant le moment dramatique, et toujours contre le ‘normal’. Normal c’est un monde anormal. C’est son exemple que me revient à l’esprit quand les choses me dépassent un peu…

UN BESOIN D’ ECRIRE

Ici, chez The Storyletters nous aimons aspirer être des créateurs d’ambiance.  Parlant des vrais buts dans la vie, j essaie séduire avec les mots que j’emplois. Des fois je suis profonde, des fois plutôt commerciale et légère, mais ce que je veux offrir aux lecteurs c’est une sensation de confort pendant qu’ils survolent mon intimité, leur offrir de l’inspiration par mon vécu, les provoquer me contredire.

Quand j’étais petite, dans la seconde il me semble…c ette époque ou on avait tous l’air de petits souris de bibliothèque, avec nos cheveux courts, des lunettes surdimensionnés, mon unique échappatoire était d ‘écrire des contes de fée. Et j’étais la seule mini personne qui a osé la folie de s’inscrire a ce cours d’écriture. C’est a ce moment la que la magie a eu lieu, et ca ne m’a plus quitté depuis. Je ne suis pas encore au top de mon style, j’en suis consciente car les sept années d’écriture académique ont essoré la fantaisie de mes récits, mais je peux vous promettre de aller toujours d’avance.

LES APPARENCES PEUVENT ETRE TROMPEUSES

Je sais pas si c’est juste la timidité ou que j’ai une peur angoissante du ridicule mais je préfère largement m’isoler et construire doucement une zone de confort afin de véritablement pouvoir faire confiance aux gens qui m entourent. Je n ‘étais pas du tout ainsi, je suis la dernière à être envieuse (bon, j’avoue, peut être juste envers les possesseurs des Chanel 2.55 mais chacun a ses propres démons, alors je leur en veux pas trop) et je n’imagine pas en quoi quelqu’un pourra m’envier moi, comment ça pourra être possible. Mais vous savez quoi ? On ne peut jamais appliquer nos standards sur d’autres personnes.

Les femmes ont la tendance d’envier les autres, de les juger et les disqualifier, elles s’écrasent pour un peu de popularité et attention. A la fin, il y a 9 femmes pour chaque homme sur cette terre… On m’a toujours dit que j’étais jolie, charismatique et charmante, on me dit que je suis intelligente et que j’ai une personnalité magnétique,  mais ces ‘qualités ‘m’ont couté assez  lourdement par le passé alors je garde l’esprit de l’escalier en publique, je préfère rien dire et ne pas trop diriger l’attention sur moi. C’est pour cela que les gens ont tendance de croire que je suis hautaine et snobe mais sincèrement…je ne me prend plus trop la tète parce que… ->

LA VERITE, JE M’EN CONTREFICHE

Ca me rend pas heureuse d’être perçue comme une idiote ou une infatuée et je sais que je dois encore faire des efforts sur la question de confiance et image de soi mais le plus important des choses que j’ai acquises de ma maman ou mes amies est de s’en foutre royalement de ce que les gens puissent penser. On ne peut surement pas plaire à tout le monde, et il le faudra encore moins. Ils ne peuvent pas tous t’aimer, mais c’est ok, tu n’es pas Miss Univers, et tu n’aimes pas tout le monde non plus. On n est pas vraiment l’image qu’on renvoie, je ne suis pas la petite princesse que les gens gardent de moi. Je ne suis pas la fille à papa, suis pas excessive et ma vie n’est pas si rose mais le plus essentiel est que je suis lucide et consciente de qui je suis et  combien ça m’a pris pour devenir ainsi, et surtout comment je dois travailler avec ténacité pour devenir encore meilleure. Meilleure, pour moi.

  LES MECS LES MECS LES MECS

J’ai une chanson qui ne me quitte pas l’esprit, la bande sonore de Two men and a half. Ce sujet complexe et compliqué… Je n’arrête pas d’en dire et m’auto contredire souvent, mais j aimerais tout de même mettre en évidence quelques constats. Il y a des mecs frustrés qui bouffent notre temps, qui sont incapables d’aimer et qui cherchent juste nous manipuler, cannibaliser nos pensées, qui nous alourdissent, qui nous tirent vers le bas, qui sont destructifs et troublent nos mentalités. D ‘autres mecs qui sont des instruments d’amusement, les petits souris qui nous donnent l’impression d’être des femmes fatales, ou des chasseuses en quête de proies, qui s’humilient juste pour se faire plaire.

Et des hommes qui sont faits pour être aimés et respectés, qui sont très rares( on rencontre un ou deux dans une vie et vont bouleverser ta destinée).Ils sont les seuls qui nous font tomber éperdument, qui nous offrent des instants de pure joie et sont inventeurs des souvenirs spéciaux pour nous deux. Ils ont aussi leurs petits défauts, mais qui est parfait de tout façon ? Je leur ai fait du mal, et je le regrette mais ce de l’expérience et je préfère faire les choses stupides tant que je suis jeune sans qu’il y ait des conséquences trop dramatiques.

Je viens de commencer un nouveau cours de Personal Branding chez Naked PR, entourée que de gens extrêmement sympathiques, avec des professeurs qui regorgent des idées créatives. On nous a provoqué des nous ouvrir un peu par le biais du storytelling, alors je me suis dit quoi de mieux que mon anniversaire pour me mettre un peu à nu en plein bain de lumière.

Gros Bisous,

Maria.

(scroll down for Romanian and French versions)

Sandro dress (similar, on blue and also loving this one), Persol sunglasses, Massimo Dutti shoes

Maria, I’ve just unfolded your envelope, arrived directly with the stamp of the magical Istanbul and it’s as if the oriental winds blew with heat a taste of cinnamon and yellow saffron. I have unleashed my thoughts to travel over your steps, I danced snatched by the whirlwind of spices and colours, surrounded by the ochre and the reddish vibrant and soft smoked side streets.

This smell of amber and the jade pathway are so much familiar to me, they are intimate to my soul nowadays. Your experience in the Turkish Grand Bazaar can equal only with the mystic shiver of Jamma el-Fna, a real courtyard of miracles, the door of the souk market of Marrakesh, a traditional, popular and livened up top-place registered as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.

The mirror of Moroccan traditions, the fresco of an oriental theatre where each one is an actor:

sellers of orange juice, snake charmers, Chleuh dancing-boys, story-tellers magicians, and peddlers of traditional medicines henna tattooers, “halka “singers, acrobats, fire-eaters, fortune-tellers, Gnaouas musicians, Arabic horses carriages … 

These baths of different exoticism are a narcotic dust which get the tourists drunk. But as far as I’m concerned I am far from this excitement and this musical violence, I stroll in Casablanca’s districts, with my little boy… And I discover this white, white and clean place, this jewel of a town planning, a real souk to the sweetnesses of the emotion, The Habous.

This district, developed during the French protectorate mainly in the 1920s and 1930s, was imagined to welcome the traders’ families coming from diverse regions of Morocco, in particular the city of Fes. It is thus the unique example of a reconstructed medina with its traditional style and the common habits, that the French architects, of whom Henri Prost, managed to break towards the modern town planning.

This mixture of small crafts and peaceful light, the numerous bookshops, the wood and the smell of mint tea and absinthe, the penetrating singing of a mounshid, the details of a Berberian aestheticism which dress warmly the limestone walls with these  geometries purified patterns, the silver jewels which glisten under the copper-coloured lights, one afternoon of the end of fall…

What delight, what innocence to discover this crystal mirror which reflects pertinently the new outlines of my feelings, these ornaments which dress the mother-of-pearl of my new shell.

RO:

Maria,

Am deschis plicul tau, primit direct sub timbrul magicului Istanbul iar acum vanturile orientale au suflat cu caldura un gust de scortisoara si sofran. Mi-am lasat gandurile sa alunece peste urmele pasilor tai, am dansat prinsa in furtuna condimentelor si a culorilor, intre ocrul si caramiziul strazilor intortocheate, pline de vibratie si fum dulceag. Aroma chihlimbarului si poteca de jad imi sunt atat de intime, fac parte din tesatura corpului meu, de acum inainte. Senzatiile pe care le-ai degustat in Marele Bazar nu se pot egala decat cu freamatul mistic al Jamma el-Fna, aceasta curte de miracole ce se deschide la portile pietelor din Marrakesh, un loc cult, traditional, popular, inscris ca patrimoniu cultural imateral al umanitatii de catre UNESCO.

Aceasta oglinda imensa a traditiilor marocane, fresca unui teatru oriental unde fiecare participa jocului de rol :

vanzatori de suc de portocale presate, desinatori de tatuaje cu henna, povestitori de anecdote si de cantece populare « halka », acrobati, dresori de cobre, suflatori de foc, ghicitoare in palma, mestesugari de arta marocana, muzicieni de gnaua, dansatori folclorici, calesti cu cai arabi…

Aceste imbaieri de exotism te depeizeaza, sunt ca o pudra narcotica ce imbata turistii. Dar eu sunt departe de aceasta efervescenta si violenta melodioasa…eu strabat impreuna cu baietelul meu cartierele casablancheze… si descopar acest loc imaculat, alb si seren, o bijuterie urbanista, o vasta piata de emotii, Le Habous.

Acest cartier, ridicat pe timpul ocupatiei franceze, intre anii 1920 si 1930, a fost imaginat pentru a gazdui familiile de negustori din provincii, diferite regiuni din Maroc, in special din traditionalul Fez. Locul reprezinta reconstituirea unei Medine tipice, unde toate simbolurile islamice sunt prezente, dar extrem de frumos conduse spre un urbanism modern, sub semnatura arhitectior francezi printre care Henri Prost.

Acest melanj de artizanat si calm, librariile care isi deschid portile si cartile catre orice cotlon de strada, lemnul si mirosul de ceai de menta si absint, melodia patrunzatoare ale religiosilor mounshid, detaliile unui estetism berber ce se astern cu caldura peste aceste ziduri calcaroase, covoare cu forme geometrice structurate, bijuterii de argint ce stralucesc sub luminile rosiatice, o dupa-amiaza de sfarsit de toamna…

Ce deliciu, ce candoare sa descopar aceast colt de cristal ce oglindeste atat de bine noile contururi ale emotiilor mele, ornamente ce deseneaza sideful noii mele cochilii.

FR: 

Maria,

J’ai ouvert ton enveloppe, arrivée directement du magique Istanbul et c’est comme si les vents orientaux ont soufflé avec chaleur un gout de cannelle et safran.  J’ai laisse mes pensées voyager sous tes pas, j’ai dansé happée par le tourbillon d’épices et couleurs, entourée par l’ocre et le rougeâtre de petites rues pleines de vibrations et douce fumée.  Cette odeur d’ambre et le chemin de jade me sont tant familières, elles font partie de moi dorénavant. Ton expérience au Grand Bazar peut s’égaler seulement avec le frémissement mystique de Jamma el-Fna, véritable cour de miracles aux porte des souks de Marrakech, un haut-lieu traditionnel, populaire et animé inscrit comme patrimoine culturel immatériel de l’humanité par l’UNESCO.

Le grand miroir des traditions marocaines, la fresque d’un théâtre oriental ou chacun est acteur :

des vendeurs de jus d’orange presses, des tatoueuses du henné, conteurs d’histoires et de chansons « halka », acrobates, charmeurs de serpents, cracheurs de feu, diseuses de bonne aventure, échoppes d’artisanat marocain, musiciens Gnaouas, danseurs folkloriques, calèches…

Ces bains d’exotisme dépaysant, poussière narcotique qui enivre les touristes. Mais moi je suis loin de cette effervescence et cette violence musicale… moi je flâne dans les quartiers casablancais, avec mon petit garçon… Et je découvre cet endroit blanc, blanc et propre, ce bijou d’urbanisme, un véritable souk aux douceurs, Le Habous.

Ce quartier, développé pendant le protectorat français principalement des années 1920 aux 1930, était imagine accueillir les familles de négociants en provenance de diverses régions du Maroc, notamment de la ville de Fès. C’est donc un exemple unique de reconstruction d’une médina avec le style et les habitudes traditionnels, que les architectes français, dont Henri Prost, ont réussi transgresser vers l’urbanisme moderne.

Ce mélange d’artisanat et de calme, les nombreuses librairies, le bois et l’odeur de the à la menthe et absinthe, le chant pénétrant d’un mounshid, des détails de l’esthétisme berbère qui habillent chaudement les murs en calcaire fondant avec ces tapis aux géométries épurés, les bijoux en argent qui étincellent sous les lumières cuivrées, un après-midi de fin d’automne….

Quel délice, quelle candeur découvrir ce miroir en cristal qui réfléchit pertinemment les nouveaux contours de mes émotions, ces ornements qui habillent le nacre de mon nouveau coquillage.

Am scris si rescris si sters textul de cateva ori. Apoi mi-am dat seama ca nu are sens sa cosmetizez nimic din ce simt sa spun si ca prefer sa las emotiile sa curga.

Ai mei imi spun ca este inutila agitatia mea, se uita la mine si se mira de naivitatea pe care o eman. Pentru ca si ei au fost naivi, dar voalul iluziilor s-a destramat, iar realitatea li s-a devoalat in toata uratenia ei. In sinea lor stiu ca le seman… au fost la Revolutie, au fost in Piata Universitatii. Isi dadeau intalnire la mitinguri. Erau atat de tineri si credeau cu tarie in misiunea generatiei lor, in misiunea de a ne oferi un viitor liber, erau imbatati de frenezia evenimentelor si a posibilitatilor de schimbare ce pareau infinite, incat uneori ma intreb daca realizau cat de riscant era sa protesteze in strada cand aveau un bebelus acasa. Citeau cu nesat carti de filosofie si visau la o Romanie democrata, normala, intoarsa spre valori liberale.

Si am fost crescuta in acest spirit. Eu, dar si colegii mei de generatie, acesti Millennials atat de blamati. Ne-ati spus ca suntem cei mai buni, cei mai inteligenti, cei mai creativi si ca investiti in noi, si ca ne puneti la treaba pentru ca noi suntem viitorul si schimbarea, ca daca vom fi OAMENI, daca vom invata si vom face lucrurile comme il faut, vom ocupa locurile pe care le meritam in societate – ne-ati sadit in minte zi de zi, an dupa an, o responsabilitate imensa, asa ca nu va mai mirati de vointa noastra. Nu va mai mirati ca vrem sa impiedicam niste ne-oameni sa ne mai fure povestile. Si vietile.

Este varsta naivitatii mele. Sunt vocala, pasionala in a-mi sustine parerile si credintele, ceea ce evident nu este recomandat intr-o tara care isi propune de vreo 75 de ani sa ne alinieze.

Stai cuminte in linie, nu epata, da-i o cafea doamnei si te rezolva, ai grija ce vorbesti, nu te imbraca asa, ce-o sa zica lumea, ciocu’ mic si joc de glezne, las’ ca merge si asa.

Iar eu nu mai inghit argumentele astea, pentru ca:

1. Le-a mers si asa. Pentru unii chiar a mers de minune. Pentru cei care au ucis la Revolutie si au curmat viitorul unor tineri la Otopeni, pentru cei care au deturnat Piata Universitatii si au solicitat sprijinul minerilor, pentru cei care au devalizat tara de resursele sale… Si sunt liberi. #sanuuitam
2. Sunt aceiasi care ne-au spalat pe creier, care ne-au calcat in picioare sperantele, care au furat viitorul parintilor nostri si poate si pe al nostru… aceiasi care au ucis din nou, la Colectiv, niste tineri, niste copii. Ordinul nu a mai pornit in mod direct de la ei, dar prin sistemul pe care l-au perfectionat in ultimii 26 ani, s-au asigurat ca statul sa actioneze doar in antiteza cu nevoile cetatenilor.
3. Au avut grija sa ne asmuta unii impotriva celorlalti, sa ne sarim la beregata, sa ne injuram printre dinti la fiecare colt de strada, sa ne suspectam si sa ne privim circumspecti. Au avut grija sa ramanem fara medici, fara profesori, fara repere morale – analfabeti cu diplome, bolnavi mintal, fizic, spiritual – mase de manevra. Au reusit sa ne invete ca Romania este tara tuturor posibilitatilor daca stii catre cine trebuie indreptate ofrandele. Si au mai avut o grija deosebita in a-si crea dinastii care sa ne indrume pe mai departe.
4. Si-au consolidat sistemul cu ajutorul unor indivizi abrutizati, devianti, “oameni noi” lipsiti de decenta si empatie, care se bucura public de o tragedie care le confirma cat de “misto” este jobul lor, care bagatelizeaza subiectul creand un circ ieftin prin platourile emisiunilor, care considera ca acesti oameni si-au meritat sfarsitul. Serios, domnilor inchizitori?! Arhitecti, muzicieni, fotografi, copii olimpici, oameni care erau singura speranta a familiilor lor, o farama din elita si asa redusa a acestei tari merita sa fie arsa pe rug pentru ca a indraznit sa se distreze?! Dar voi ce meritati pentru comedia neagra in care ne obligati sa traim?!
5. Valorile societatii sunt inversate, in surdina se striga inca “moarte intelectualilor“, in media si in politica sunt promovate persoane cat mai slab pregatite, dar cat mai dispuse sa isi vanda constiinta… Pe cand medicii care opereaza la foc continuu de vinerea trecuta au salarii mizerabile, multi profesori sunt mai slab platiti decat o secretara de corporatie, intelectualii sunt mai putin respectati decat o prezentatoare de cancanuri. Pentru ca “doamna Simona” si “domnu’ Dan (Diaconescu, Capatos, completati cu ce va convine)” si “domnu’ Maruta”, dar “boul de Cartarescu”, “nenorocitul de Liiceanu” sau “basistul de Plesu”.
6. Pentru ca distractia ne costa viata, pentru ca nici pansamente nu sunt in spitale, pentru ca dam 2 lei aurolacului din parcare ca ne e frica sa nu ne zgarie masina, pentru ca lasam 5 lei bacsis taximetristului ca nu vrem sa ne injure, pentru ca mergem pe drumuri de tara ca ne e frica sa nu se prabuseasca autostrada, pentru ca dispretuim autoritatile care ne dispretuiesc… Pentru ca fiinta umana nu are nicio valoare daca nu face rating. Pentru ca totul e pe dos. 

DAR, dar… pentru un popor inert, care a suportat remarcabil toate intemperiile sortii, care s-a descurcat splendid, cu toate partidele, cu toate regimurile… este fantastica solidaritatea care s-a cristalizat in jurul acestei drame care zguduie fundamentele societatii. Astazi, Romania isi plange mortii in liniste, dar se revolta impotriva nedreptatii.

Sper doar ca aceasta unitate sa nu se disipeze odata cu demisiile care au urmat protestelor, sper ca revolta sa fie sustinuta, coerenta, permanenta, in sufletul fiecaruia, dar si in strada, atat cat este nevoie sa inteleaga ca trebuie sa le fie frica de noi. Si cand sunt pe cale sa uite, sa le amintim. Ca noi suntem milioane, iar ei cateva mii. Fiinte cinice aflate la marginea speciei, care nu ne reprezinta, care nu pot vedea mai departe de interesul personal, dar pe care le refuzam. Le refuzam, le blamam impostura, mediocritatea si scarba pe care ne-o poarta. Dar sa nu ne mai lasam amagiti si manipulati, sistemul nu se schimba peste noapte doar pentru ca le-o cerem in piata (au facut-o si parintii nostri in urma cu 26 ani si nu s-a schimbat mare lucru) si cel mai important este sa nu lasam ca aceste miscari sa fie confiscate de forte politice si grupuri de interese. Visul este frumos, dar poate fi spulberat intr-o clipita.

“Nu suntem numere, suntem liberi/ Nu suntem numere, suntem liberi, suntem asa de vii, asa de vii/ Pentru ca ziua in care vom renunta va fi ziua in care murim, ziua in care murim”.