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L’Instant Parisien
CHRONIQUES DE VIES PARISIENNES / CHRONICLES OF PARISIAN LIFE
VOLUME 1
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Le street artist Jordane À retrouver sur www.linstantparisien.com
Édito
En 2013, nous avons créé le site internet L’Instant Parisien avec le désir de montrer un autre visage de Paris. Dans les arrière-cours ou à l’étage des chambres de bonnes, rive droite, rive gauche, nous poussons les portes des ateliers et des appartements de ceux qui, selon nous, font la vie et la ville à Paris. Ils sont créatifs, artistes, doux rêveurs, artisans... D’horizons très divers, ces Parisiens, qui entreprennent souvent loin des projecteurs, irriguent la capitale de leur enthousiasme et de leur talent. Mises bout à bout, ces chroniques de vies donnent à voir un certain Paris contemporain : poétique, enthousiaste, sensible, bouillonnant d’idées, débrouillard, positif, multi-culturel et créatif. On entend dire que Paris devient une « carte postale », « une ville-musée ». Peut-être, si on se contente d’en arpenter les grands axes. Mais croyez-nous, la beauté et l’énergie se cachent aussi dans les interstices, dans les coulisses. Parce que Paris n’a pas fini de nous surprendre et qu’une revue papier ne suffit pas, nous vous invitons à nous accompagner dans nos pérégrinations urbaines en nous suivant sur le site internet et sur Instagram.
In 2013, we created the website L’Instant Parisien with the desire to illustrate another side of Paris. In backstreets and reconditioned attic spaces, rive droite to rive gauche, we opened doors into the workshops and apartments of those who bring Paris new life. They are the makers, artists, sweet dreamers and entrepreneurs who coolly & steadily fill up Paris with their enthusiasm and talent. Set back to back, these stories give way to a contemporary Paris that is at once poetic, enthusiastic, sensitive, bursting with ideas, resourceful, positive, multicultural and creative. We have often overheard it said that Paris is a museum, or that the city is as perfect as a postcard. Perhaps that’s true from the main streets, yet the Paris we’ve come to know is anything but static. The Parisians who populate this first issue are: Michiko, Maurice, Youssouf, Jacques, Ludovic, Lindsey, Alfi, Dana, Hitomi, Chayet, Tiphaine, Shade, Ondine, Lodia, etc. These are their stories.
Les Parisiens qui peuplent ce premier numéro s’appellent Michiko, Maurice, Youssouf, Jacques, Ludovic, Lindsey, Alfi, Dana, Hitomi, Chayet, Tiphaine, Shade, Ondine, Lodia, etc. Ce sont leurs histoires que nous vous racontons.
L’équipe de L’Instant Parisien
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Histoires de Bottiers THE BOOTMAKERS’ STORY
On aurait vraiment tort de croire que la mémoire du vieux Paris, du Paris de Piaf, de Coco Chanel et des élégantes, n’est plus accessible que dans les livres d’histoire et les archives. Il suffit parfois de pousser une porte pour rencontrer les derniers témoins de ces années-là. Bientôt centenaires, bon pied bon œil. Aujourd’hui, ce sont des maîtres du soulier sur-mesure qui nous parlent de tradition et de passage de relais. Dans cette « école » de bottiers de la Goutte d’Or, les profs affichent fièrement leurs 80 printemps et plus. La retraite ? Oui, mais alors seulement à mi-temps. Chaque semaine, ces artisans dispensent leur savoir et apprennent les ficelles du métier à la jeune génération. La transmission est en marche. ** *
We would be wrong to believe that the memory of old Paris, the Paris of Piaf or Coco Chanel & other elegant women, is only accessible via history books and archives. Sometimes, it suffices to push open a door and meet with the last witnesses from these years. Soon centenarians, hale and hearty. Today, its is the masters of made-to-order shoes who speak to us about tradition and passing on their savoir-faire. In this Goutte d’Or “school” for shoemakers, the professors speak proudly of their 80 or more years of experience. Retirement? Sure, but only half time. Each week, these artisans employ their skills by help the new generation to learn the ropes. The transmission is underway.
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Jacques “Jacko” Aslanian is a busy man. Paris, Friday at noon. Seventy-six-years-old Jacques Aslanian, who goes by “Jacko,” was in a hurry. “My wife is meeting me for lunch.” He put away his tools and said goodbye to his colleagues in the workshop. “Every Friday and every other Saturday,” this Parisian shoemaker with “65 years of experience” on his résumé, conveys his professional know-how to a small, passionate group of people. On this morning there were six students who came to thump, cut, and perforate under Jacko’s supervision. When they’re not making shoes, his students are interior designers, salespeople and engineers. Many come to his door looking to shake up their routines through manual labor. Can the hammer’s thud really become a relaxing alternative to a yoga session or meditation?
Passing the baton. Passage de relai.
Stylist around town, Ana-Bela came to the door of this tiny locale, wich smells strongly of leather, to “connect with the element of manual labor that was missing in my profession,” and also to “rediscover the time to take one’s time.” It isn’t all as paradoxical as it might seem. “In my work I am constantly confronted by deadlines. Here we concentrate on doing things well and it’s fine if that takes longer than expected.”
statement. We imagined Madame Aslanian’s foot tapping rhythmically, waiting for her shoemaker husband at lunchtime. She must be used to it by now. He explained with a smile that he has no desire to track hours because he “has known happiness in his profession.” That sentence alone provokes thoughts of this era’s professionals. We are many, seekers of growth and fulfillment in our work.
Just as he’s stepped away to leave a student asks, “can you show me how this works?” pointing to a left foot which was giving her trouble. “I don’t mean to keep you,” she added, feeling badly. Jacko puts down his things. “It’s not like that, but it won’t take me long.” One hour later he was still there, absorbed by his work. When the passion is authentic, the clock’s tick disappears. His wife might not endorse that
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Maison fondée en 1720 ESTABLISHED IN 1720
C’est l’histoire d’une entreprise familiale vieille de trois cents ans. C’est aussi le récit d’une femme, Isabelle, et de son incroyable détermination. En l’an 2000, elle décide de se consacrer corps et âme à la Maison du pastel, alors en voie d’extinction. Elle ignore tout de la fabrication des pastels. Isabelle va apprendre le métier, seule, dans un atelier où rien n’a bougé depuis les années 30. Seize ans plus tard, elle est fidèle au poste et à la tête de la plus belle collection de couleurs qu’un artiste puisse rêver de posséder. Aujourd’hui, le marketing (qui fait feu de tout bois) reprend à son compte des termes emblématiques qui deviennent des slogans ou des mots-valises. C’est problématique. Les mots « artisanat » ou « authenticité » sont galvaudés à force d’être utilisés à tort et à travers. L’authenticité, c’est la sincérité, l’engagement, la prise de risque. Et Isabelle incarne à merveille cette valeur. ** *
This is the story of a three-hundred-years-old family business. It is also the story of a woman, Isabelle, and her awe-inspiring determination. In the year 2000, she left everything to rekindle what was then in danger of extinction, the Maison du pastel. At the time, she did not know the first thing about making pastels. Isabelle would learn everything, alone in an atelier where nothing had changed for 30 years. Sixteen years later, she forges on at the head of the most beautiful collection of colors that any artist might dream of. Today, marketing (a sector that is firing on all cylinders) picks up on expressions and turns them into slogans & portmanteau words. And it’s a problem. The words “artisanal” and “authentic” are two such overused terms. When used without consideration, they lose their force. Authenticity means sincerity, engagement and personal risk taken. Isabelle incarnates these values better than anyone.
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Everything here evokes patience and self-sacrifice - the basis for longevity. In this instinctual era, when we are excited by the immediate, is there still an audience for those who take their time, work in withdrawal, and whose path involves real human difficulty? Isabelle’s story tells us yes.
The lives of others, what stories they make! Each meeting is like a new book to leaf through, turning the pages of life itself. Sometimes it is a short novel, at others a gripping first chapter. With Isabelle, it is a multi-tome saga. This type of family epic recounts decades of secrets, self-sacrifice, tough decisions, strong women, hard blows and doomed lives – all endured to perpetuate the tag line “Maison Roché, founded in 1720.” The Roché family’s pastel craftsmanship has been handed down from father to son & daughter, both directly and indirectly. As one’s race winds down, the relay takes over. This has resulted in incredible longevity for the storied pastel manufacturer. They are the oldest in the world. For context, Louis XIV died only five years before they opened in 1720. One ought not visit a historical monument without a few references. Though the workshop’s doors are opened up to us, the location must remain a secret. We are not very far from Paris. There are clear skies, a wandering cat dawdles in the autumn sun. We walk toward a wooden gate that resembles that of an old farmhouse. Isabelle, the story’s current heroine, enters. Things feel right. This will be a magical encounter. Let’s make a little stop in the mid 90s. Isabelle is an oil industry engineer. “I was earning a good living.” Hers was not an existential question, but one of professional accomplishment. She lived according to her missions, and traveled often. And then, one day, she was transferred to the trading services sector. “I told them that I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t want the job. But they didn’t listen.” Without destiny’s nudge, perhaps the Maison du Pastel would have forever remained dormant, and never known its fourth century.
She despaired during her time trading in Paris. As expected. Maybe she ought to shake things up? Yes, but to do what? Those who have not understood that chance is life’s real decider are missing out on the mysteries of our singular existences. Chance tumbled into Isabelle’s world while visiting a dusty workshop a few kilometers from Paris. Welcome to the secret HQ of three sisters: Huberte, Denise and Gisèle, cousins of Isabelle’s parents. For fifty years they maintained a family tradition and a savoir-faire handed down by their father: the fabrication of pastels. Isabelle recalls, “I remembered visiting their workshop when I was 19. At the time, I was concentrated on my studies. The place seemed old and very dark.” Ten years later, in the midst of professional trepidation, her optique was not the same. On this day, in this atelier deficient in both running water and electricity, the foundations of what she’d believed to be “her path” experienced a shattering jolt. “I realized how deeply I felt unfulfilled in my professional life. All of a sudden, while in this atelier, I had the feeling that I was in the right place.” We can all imagine aching yearn to leave everything behind, but the real choice is weighted with consequence. “A lot of my colleagues didn’t understand.” Rumors spread on the trading floor. Isabelle is quitting! She is leaving to learn the traditional method of pastel making in an atelier that could have been a film set for the Name of the Rose. The potentially poisonous cherry on top, she doesn’t know if she will be able to pay herself in the coming years. We can feel the cold wake left by her colleagues’ grimaces.
Isabelle rolls and cuts the pastel sticks in absolute calm. Dans un calme absolu, Isabelle roule et coupe les bâtons de pastels.
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Sur les pavés, la page LOST ON THE PAVEMENT
Un soir, Ludovic a croisé Victor Hugo, trempé jusqu’aux os, rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. Une autre fois, c’était Boris Vian, errant comme une âme en peine rue de Belfort. Cet ange gardien de la littérature recueille chez lui les livres lâchement abandonnés par leur propriétaire sur le bitume parisien. Ramasseur compulsif ? Non, vous n’y êtes pas. Ludovic est à la tête d’une bibliothèque clandestine. Notre rencontre avec ce passeur de littératures, nous a interrogés sur la place que nous accordons, ou que nous n’accordons plus, à nos livres. Quels livres jette-t-on, comment s’en sépare-t-on, et pourquoi le fait-on ? A contrario, pourquoi n’arrivons-nous pas à nous en débarrasser ? Au fond, un livre ce n’est que du papier et un peu d’encre. Sauf que dans les faits, c’est un peu plus compliqué que ça. ** *
One night in Paris, Ludovic crossed paths with Victor Hugo. He lay soaked to the core on the rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. Another time it was Boris Vian, wandering like a lost soul on the rue de Belfort. This guardian angel embraces and gives shelter to carelessly abandoned books that he finds on the Parisian asphalt, left by their owners. Is he a compulsive collector? No, that’s not quite it. This man manages his own underground library. Our meeting with this literary marauder led us to ponder deeply on the place we give, or don’t give to books in our lives. What books do we discard of, how do we do it, and why? Or, why can we not get rid of them? At its most basic, a book is no more than paper and ink, right? In reality they are far more complex than that.
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For some, deserting books is easy. Others cannot bring themselves to part ways with a page, no matter the tome. Those still stashing their MS Word 97 manuals, show yourselves!
And you, have you ever abandoned a book? Left one on the curb, in a box coupled to a tree trunk, at the bottom of a garbage bin... If that is the case, be aware that your trash can become another’s treasure in Ludovic’s library. Professionally, this Parisian writes & directs documentaries *. In complement, he likes to collect outcast literature from Parisian streets and give it new context. We met with him to talk about this intriguing alternative pursuit. Does he have a preferred literary genre? No, all books interest him, without discrimination. From airport novels to philosophical essays, epic classics to lesser known novels, biographies of old TV stars, and textbooks. Ludovic’s collection is eclectic. In his library, Marguerite Yourcenar sits next to A Question of Weight by Demis Roussos, Jacques Chirac’s memoires are tightly fit next Nabokov’s Lolita, while Victor Hugo, not known for being shy, cozies up to the children’s book Oui-Oui, Taxi Driver. Regardless of the work’s artistic merit, he follows the mission he has set out on: save books that have been abandoned by their owners. How did he come to assume this role as Good Samaritan? Everything began with an undersized apartment. “In 2010, my partner was expecting our se-
cond child and we lived in 50 square meters, so we had to rethink the whole place.” Parisians can never win in this hellish version of real-life Tetris. To make space, Ludovic had to bid farewell to several of his books. His heart hung heavy. The mental block settled when trying to decide what to keep and what to give. “I realized that I was having a really hard time saying goodbye.” This emotional pang illuminated a new question. “What does one do with a book that they want to get rid of?” Do we give it away, or sell it? He takes interest in a particular type of reader and wonders about the people stricken with bibliophobia, who throw away or abandon their books in the city. “I found that really strange. There is a contemptuous spirit in the gesture. This reflection on people who throw away books made me think about myself. I asked if it wasn’t actually me who had the problem. If I wasn’t some sort of book fetishist! (laughs). One thing led to another and it raised more queries. For example, why is having a library so important in the West? In other cultures, like in Africa, oral tradition takes precedent.” With a smile, Ludovic concludes: “Basically, I didn’t know what to do with all these questions.”
* Hubert Selby, 2 ou 3 choses. La Luna Productions.
The documentary director was convinced, however, that there was groundwork for an interesting story. Without a defined concept, he followed his instinct and began collecting the books he found on the street. As a person hoping to slim down his own library, something did not quite add up. “I don’t ever go looking for them, I just keep an open eye when walking through Paris. I let destiny take control – I’m a big believer in serendipity.” This slightly exotic word reveals an affinity for the accidental. Ludovic is the type of person who thinks luck is a great leader when given the reins. Luck’s track record: 1,700 books brought in from the cold, and counting. What would he do with them? “I needed to tame this madness, and make something of these ridiculous piles.” His idea was to create a “library for the unwanted, rejected and abandoned” by gathering all of these shunned books under a system. He would call it the “Bibliothèque Fantôme” (The Ghost Library). Ghost because it does not have a fixed address, and because the word is part of library jargon. A “ghost” or a “ghost card” is a library book’s passport of sorts. Think back to the little hand-stamped index cards with the “to” and “from” borrowing dates. Did computerization bring the practice into disuse? Ludovic chose to update the method with his own ritual and near maniac precision. Each found work is stamped (with the Bibliothèque Fantôme seal), carded, then has its cover scanned by a professional and set against a black background. Once the ritual is complete, the book can be placed into circulation, free of charge.
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La (vraie) campagne à Paris THE (REAL) PARISIAN COUNTRYSIDE
Il était une fois, dans le 18e arrondissement, une parcelle laissée en friche par les aléas de l’histoire. Dame Nature en profita pour y faire pousser une petite forêt. Les habitants lui donnèrent alors un nom : le bois Dormoy. Le conte de fées s’arrête là. Cet îlot de verdure est aujourd’hui menacé de destruction. Devant l’inexorable disparition du Paris du siècle dernier, la démolition des petites boutiques, des cinémas de quartier, la transformation des usines et des ateliers d’artistes en lofts ou en sièges sociaux de start-up, devant tout ce gâchis patrimonial, ne serait-il pas temps de se poser la question de l’importance de sauver ce qui reste du Paris modeste. Une capitale n’a-t-elle pas intérêt, en terme d’image et de notoriété, à laisser vivre en son sein des anomalies et des poches de résistance ? À condition de le protéger durablement, ce bois sauvage pourrait bien faire rêver les gens de Brooklyn ou de Berlin, pour changer ! ** *
Once upon a time, in Paris’ 18th arrondissement, there was a strip of earth left to waste, forgotten by time. Mother Nature came here to rest, and she grew a small forest. The neighboring inhabitants would name it “Le bois Dormoy.” The fairytale stops here. This inlet of verdure is now in risk of being destroyed. Facing the remarkable disappearance of last century Paris – the demolition of small boutiques, neighborhood movie theaters, the transformation of factories and artist workshops into lofts and startup headquarters... Facing all of this patrimonial erasure, is now not the moment to consider how meaningful these fragments of the more discrete Paris are to the city? Does a world capital not deserve to have its historical anomalies and monuments alike? By protecting it sustainably, this little wood could become an attraction to visitors from places like Brooklyn and Berlin, for a change!
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L’appel de la forêt
The Forest’s Call Que faut-il à la nature pour reprendre la main sur la ville ? Ce n’est pas très compliqué. Prenez pour commencer une ancienne fabrique datant de l’entredeux-guerres. Rasez-la. Puis, dessinez un projet immobilier. Attendez que le promoteur fasse faillite. Agrémentez ensuite l’affaire d’une longue bataille juridique entre avocats. Enfin, laissez pourrir la situation. Dans les années 90, sur ce petit morceau de Paris devait pousser un immeuble de six étages. Deux décennies plus tard, ce sont saules blancs, érables et peupliers d’Italie qui grattent le ciel. L’histoire de cette friche aurait pu connaître un dénouement en béton armé. Mais c’était sans compter sur une poignée de résistants, tous convaincus que la nature a le droit de cité sur le bitume parisien. En 2008, ce terrain est en sommeil, dissimulé derrière le rempart d’une palissade. Seuls quelques rares curieux savent qu’à l’abri des regards et des pelleteuses, la nature a fait son œuvre en créant un... petit bois. 1 800 m2 sont retournés à l’état sauvage. L’espace, unique dans sa biodiversité, servait de dépotoir. Dommage ?
What has to happen for nature to take back the city? It is not too complicated. To start, find an old 1930’s factory and raze it to the ground. Draw plans for a real estate project. The developer should then claim bankruptcy. Tack on a lengthy legal battle. Lastly, let the situation deteriorate. In the 1990s, a six story building was meant to be built on this small 18th arrondissement plot. Two decades later, the only skyscrapers here are white willows, maple trees and Italian poplars. This wasteland’s story could easily have met a reinforced concrete conclusion if were it not for a handful of motivated opponents, all convinced that nature has as much right to the patch of asphalt as any person. In 2008, this land lay dormant, hidden behind a screening wall. Only a few curious explorers knew that, sheltered from wandering eyes and excavators, nature had expressed itself by creating a miniature forest. 1,800 square meters returned to the wild. The space, unique in its biodiversity, served as a dump. Is that not a shame?
En octobre, les tomates sont encore en pleine forme. On se rappellera de 2014 comme d’une annÊe exceptionnelle. In October, the tomatoes were still in fine form. 2014 was an exceptional year.
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Illustrations d’Amandine Delaunay.
Broken Biscuits
10, passage Rochebrune 75011
An expat couple moved to Paris to bake. In itself, the pitch isn’t all that unusual. But that this same couple finds themselves running a successful catering business within months of their arrival? That’s an entirely different story, one that sums up the last two years in the lives of Christine O’Sullivan and Chris Wilson, the duo behind Broken Biscuits. O’Sullivan, originally from Cork, Ireland, is an example of how a few key decisions can change the course of one’s future. After participating in the Irish edition of Masterchef, she worked as a chef de partie for Michelin-starred chef Dylan McGrath at Rustic Stone restaurant in Dublin. Two years on, she yearned to learn more and found herself getting a crash course in pastry from Wilson, now her partner in business and life, who was then a colleague handling desserts. That first taste of pâtisserie was the catalyst to a second career shift (the first was dropping architecture studies) that brought her to Paris for a five-month intensive pastry training program at Ferrandi, the French School of Culinary Arts. Himself a pastry chef with over a decade of experience (the Four Seasons Dublin among other belles maisons), Wilson fell for Paris after making several visits to see O’Sullivan during her training and saw the potential for a future in the true capital of pâtisserie.
Once settled into Paris, the duo made friends with the burgeoning network of coffee lovers (and makers) through which they quickly discovered a gap in the market for wholesale pastry suppliers. Fondation Café in the haut-Marais was their first client (they now have eight regular wholesale partners) as new caterers and gave them the blank slate to create something locals hadn’t been exposed to at informal cafés. Their tarts, muffins and cookies have the comforting, made-withmum feel that Anglosaxons do so masterfully but their individual cakes and loaves (think: whiskey, chocolate and orange or chocolate praline) demonstrate serious skill and wouldn’t look out of place in the elegant windows of a Parisian specialty bakery. Now with increasing demand and a reputation for quality to drive their ambitions, O’Sullivan and Wilson laid claim to a small but practical retail space in a quiet corner of the 11th arrondissement, where cake fans can cozy up with a piece of whatever they’ve made fresh that day and a cup of filter coffee (the beans are supplied by Belleville Brûlerie). The space serves as their catering lab and café corner which the couple hopes to broaden to include breakfast pastries and a stronger emphasis on coffee. Either way, they’ve successfully demonstrated that the French are no longer the only stars of sweets in this town.
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A giant crab, which bears some resemblance to Jean-Paul Sartre, stares up at us from his carpet.
Paris on a November afternoon. It is fairly gray, but not yet cold. Dana is preparing a few packages – a giant octopus headed to California, a whale to Sweden, and an oversized sardine destined for somewhere in the south of France. Dana is not a taxidermist, and is not shipping off embalmed fish or cetacean sea mammals. Rather, she fills the boxes with stuffed animals. Alone in her workshop in the center of Paris, with the help of the Internet, this ex-stylist created an unusual animal family called Big Stuffed. She just had to post a photo of a handmade Enteroctopus Dolfeini (scientific name for giant Pacific octopus) to have a wave of orders from all over the world to roll in over a few months. The epitome of a pipe dream. What is so special about these sea creatures? A splash of melancholy that suggests tenderness, a touch of soul and sincerity to spare. Created two years ago, the Big Stuffed project is the result of being hugely fed up with industry work. That is what Dana felt regarding the world of fashion. “After my studies as a stylist in Tel Aviv, I asked myself: where can I do this work? I need a city where fashion is really significant.” Paris fit the bill. During the years to come she would work in the ateliers of Lanvin and Giambattista Valli.
DANA
I need a city where fashion is really significant.
The outcome is less glamorous than we would think (naively so). “Fashion is boring,” Dana concludes in her soft voice. Not enough simplicity, too many never ending conversations, and an unbearable pace, which lead to a real loss of her original purpose: the creativity. “I liked working in those big name fashion houses, but I was getting bored and couldn’t do anything about it.” What would she do? No need to panic, destiny would take care of everything. As she sat pondering her future, her niece prepared to be born on the shores of the Mediterranean. Dana took out her sewing machine to make the newborn an original gift. This is how her first octopus came into existence. The day of the birth, Dana flew to Israel with Octi (his nickname) under her arm. He would be her guardian angel. Big Stuffed’s wonderful adventure was born alongside this baby girl.
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Audric
LE MIEL DE PARIS
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Un apiculteur heureux A BEEKEEPER IN THE CLOUDS
À Paris, il y a des fantasmes collectifs qui forment une sorte d’utopie rassembleuse. Comme cette idée que la ville deviendrait plus douce au fur et à mesure que l’on monte dans les étages. Bien sûr, on a vite tendance à exagérer les vertus de la verticalité. Une terrasse mouchoir de poche garnie de deux plants de tomates et c’est la campagne à Paris ! Au panthéon des rêves parisiens, les toits de Paname occupent une place de choix. Ne soyons pas de mauvaise foi, une vue dégagée sur les cheminées et le zinc des gouttières, c’est un Everest qui domine la chaîne des désirs parisiens. Récolter son miel au sommet des plus beaux bâtiments historiques et faire dormir ses tonneaux d’hydromel dans les catacombes, est-ce encore du domaine du fantasme ou entre-t-on dans un monde parallèle ? En tout cas, c’est la vie d’Audric. Sous son canotier, Audric, l’apiculteur urbain, impose son style. Nous l’avons suivi dans les douves des Invalides, sur les toits de l’École militaire. Là-haut, les abeilles citadines font leur miel avec « vue tour Eiffel » . ** *
In Paris, there exist collective fantasies that grow into common coulter, and eventually are considered all-embracing utopias. One of these notions is that the city becomes sweeter with each floor ascended. Of course, it is easy to exaggerate the virtues of verticality. A sliver of terrace harboring two tomato plants is considered the countryside in Paris! At the pinnacle of the Parisian dream pyramid are the rooftops of Paname (a nickname for the city of light). Avoiding all hypocrisy, a clear view of the chimneys and zinc ducts is the Everest of life in Paris. So when we think of harvesting honey at the summit of Paname’s beautiful historical buildings while storing tons of mead in its catacombs, we are not sure whether we’re talking about fantasy or an alternate universe. Regardless, it is Audric’s life. Under his merry Parisian boater, Audric, urban beekeeper, has a style all his own. We followed him through the moats of the Invalides, and the rooftops of the École Militaire. Up there near the clouds, the metropolitan bees make honey with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
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The Invalides, the bees, and tranquility. Les Invalides, les abeilles, le calme.
We are off for the tour of the beehive. He takes out the frames one by one, ensuring that all is well in this little world. “You see, that’s the queen.” With bees, The Queen (recognizable by her size) rarely comes out of the hive. When she does stick her antennas out, she is joined by her personal guard. Buckingham has nothing on this royalty. “Come a little closer or you’ll miss the most important. Look how beautiful.” We do not know what to make of the perfectly formed wax alveoli, the honeycomb. And in our awe, what should not have happened, did. Bam, a first sting. One of the students is hit on the cheek. A small moment of panic ensues. Audric suggests to light a cigarette, and to bring it close to the sting. “The source of heat will ease the pain, but don’t bring it too close. You risk burning the skin.” Frightened eyes align. Smack! A second attack. This time, two bees set their sights on another student’s scalp. We came to follow this beekeeper filled with childlike innocence, but find ourselves in the scene out of a Hangover movie. Everyone flies into their protective jumpsuits. Gloves, hats, zippers closed tight. Heat or not, this time no one is taking the chance.
Audric is satisfied with a boater hat that he customized with a mantilla scarf. The look is half cabaret/dance hall singer, half 6 foot 3-inch con man of Corsican widows. “Damn, I’m going to be in all the photos with this thing on my head?” He worries suddenly. We reassure him. It reinforces his eccentric beekeeping charm, right? Satisfied with the response, this hyperactive worker dives back into his frames. Light smoke clouds drift along the moats. The mix of tobacco and fresh herbs burning in the smokestack calms his ladies. Between smoking two of the hives, Audric tells us about his old life. Imagine him in a suit and tie, tied down to strict hours and coffee machine chat with his colleagues… Uh, no, that does not match the personality. “Honestly, I was losing my mind,” he admits. He held out for a few years before leaving the well paying position. How did his entourage react? “It didn’t really shock them; they all know I’m a little crazy!” This former HEC student became a beekeeper in 2010. Audric was already familiar with the world of bees from having, as a teen, installed several beehives at his parents’ country home. His business suit stowed away, it was time to start. Where to put the first hives? True to his eccentricity, Audric imagined the impos-
sible: The Invalides. “Think big,” as they say in the USA. And how to convince the Invalides’ overseers that adopting the beehives was a good idea? “I took a chance and sent an email,” responds the cheeky beekeeper, concentrated on his hive smoking exercises. It is getting hotter and hotter, and bees are whirling around the Parisian astronauts. He still needed to convince the Governor of the Invalides. “At first, he thought my email was a joke.” At the end of the hive inspection, Audric put away his gear and proposed to climb a bit higher. “Now I’m going to check on my hives on the roof of the École Militaire. Do you want to come with me, I’m going by car?” Absolutely! Along the way, we took a detour by his parents’ apartment to pick up more keys (just how many does he have?) and to grab Filou. His assistant? Sort of. The beagle goes everywhere with him, braving the stingers without complaint. The car filled to brim, a stoic dog in our laps, we drive to the historic École Militaire. The hives are waiting atop a steep, mountain trail like stairway. The bees are under a small bell tower facing the Eiffel Tower. Trippy, unreal and magical.
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