Here at OC, we are struck by how often we end up in everyday conundrums. The ones that land you in the thick of semi (or full-blown) awkwardness, or maybe, the doghouse.
So, we turned to Simon Collins, the dean of the School of Fashion at Parsons, who after six years in his plum perch, just announced plans to step down at the end of this year. Translation: More time to divulge lessons from the French.
Q: Define "je ne sais quoi." Just give it a stab....
This week saw me in the City of Light for the bi-annual bun fight otherwise known as Paris Fashion Week. In between black cars and blackened caverns, I reflected on what makes the French so French, that special je ne sais quoi.
As an Englishman and with only the English Channel between us, I have a special insight into our Gallic pals. For example, a Frenchman—should he be fortunate enough to be strolling Le Marais with a beautiful woman—will do the following:
1. Wrap his arm possessively around her shoulders.
2. Press every available part of her body tightly against him as they walk.
3. Hold a cigarette in his free hand.
4. Look like he would rather be absolutely anywhere else in the world.
Furthermore there is a certain heavy-lidded insouciance that the French like to call their own. It's not, but they are rather good at it. Half-close your eyes, bottom lip out, pout (or moue if you're able), shrug your shoulders, head on one side, and say "boh." You will be welcome as the lost son of Yves Montand.
To begin to really understand the French, or rather les Parisiennes, you need to address the language barrier. Imagine yourself in a grande brasserie trying to order une omelette in French. You know the words, you know how to pronounce them, maybe you've even mastered the heavy-lidded insouciance. But when you do your part, the waiter simply lifts his Gallic nose, raises an eyebrow, and says, in a rich chocolate mousse of an accent, "Ah, do not understand yew. Eet ees better yew speak Eeeng-lish."
This level of haughty disdain takes years to master and can only be addressed by a flood of over-sincere, syrupy inanity. "Oh gosh, I'm so terribly sorry. Listen to me with my poor French. How can I ever compete with your perfect English? Thank goodness you're able to help me through the ordeal of ordering. Paris is famous for its wonderful waiters, of which you are clearly the king..." etc. You know how it goes. You won't make friends but, tant pis, you'll at least even the score.
And that, mes cheries, is je nais se quoi. ![]()
Simon Collins. Photo by Evaan
So, we turned to Simon Collins, the dean of the School of Fashion at Parsons, who after six years in his plum perch, just announced plans to step down at the end of this year. Translation: More time to divulge lessons from the French.
Q: Define "je ne sais quoi." Just give it a stab....
This week saw me in the City of Light for the bi-annual bun fight otherwise known as Paris Fashion Week. In between black cars and blackened caverns, I reflected on what makes the French so French, that special je ne sais quoi.
As an Englishman and with only the English Channel between us, I have a special insight into our Gallic pals. For example, a Frenchman—should he be fortunate enough to be strolling Le Marais with a beautiful woman—will do the following:
1. Wrap his arm possessively around her shoulders.
2. Press every available part of her body tightly against him as they walk.
3. Hold a cigarette in his free hand.
4. Look like he would rather be absolutely anywhere else in the world.
Furthermore there is a certain heavy-lidded insouciance that the French like to call their own. It's not, but they are rather good at it. Half-close your eyes, bottom lip out, pout (or moue if you're able), shrug your shoulders, head on one side, and say "boh." You will be welcome as the lost son of Yves Montand.
To begin to really understand the French, or rather les Parisiennes, you need to address the language barrier. Imagine yourself in a grande brasserie trying to order une omelette in French. You know the words, you know how to pronounce them, maybe you've even mastered the heavy-lidded insouciance. But when you do your part, the waiter simply lifts his Gallic nose, raises an eyebrow, and says, in a rich chocolate mousse of an accent, "Ah, do not understand yew. Eet ees better yew speak Eeeng-lish."
This level of haughty disdain takes years to master and can only be addressed by a flood of over-sincere, syrupy inanity. "Oh gosh, I'm so terribly sorry. Listen to me with my poor French. How can I ever compete with your perfect English? Thank goodness you're able to help me through the ordeal of ordering. Paris is famous for its wonderful waiters, of which you are clearly the king..." etc. You know how it goes. You won't make friends but, tant pis, you'll at least even the score.
And that, mes cheries, is je nais se quoi.
Simon Collins. Photo by Evaan