Born in Paris, lives and works in Paris

Parisian Woman – Paris, July 2006

There’s something I have to tell you: from time immemorial Miss.Tic and I were meant to meet in this life as in others, which we obviously don’t believe in, since we’re Parisians and therefore Cartesians.“I believed in nothing but I no longer believe in it.”

Until then we never had the time. It’s a well- known fact that Parisans are always in a hurry, without really understanding why. In a hurry because time flies and makes them late. In a hurry for what? “Is time the perfect crime?”

Yet sometimes time gets inside our city-dweller’s thick skins and we stop to look at things and people – we raise our eyes and Miss.Tic smiles at us from the top of a wall. Her gaze draws us far onto the side of humanity, takes us back to the history of the city that watches us pass by: it has seen others, and its streets bear battle scars. On the wall, Miss.Tic opens a window onto freedom.

A citizen whom soon nobody will remember any more died here for the liberation of Paris: a wilting bunch of flowers brightens up an anonymous plaque. “Creating is resisting.” And then we remember that we’re in a hurry, that we’re going to be late, and so we have to leave our rambling reverie behind and return to the midst of an Antonio Segui picture, amongst the nameless figures carrying suitcases in a town where with luck they may get stolen. Time stands still and there’s room for adven- ture.“I no longer know who I am, who I’m going to follow.”

Parisian and in love. I might as well warn you straight away: time was already short, but now it really flies and the city lights up and shines night and day. I take off.“End every thing except desire.”

The whole world knows that Parisian women fall in love. And on the walls of Paris, Miss.Tic proclaims it loud and clear. In love, I stroll along with my nose in the air, lost in my thoughts and suddenly I run into her and her image is there, with her poetry that I can relate to, the poetry she constructs, destroys, curses or fights. She’s always campaigning. What for? For this new image of womanhood that I carry inside me and that she conveys: what I find on the wall is the mirror of my own thoughts. Mirror, mirror on the wall, that will always tell me I’m the fairest of them all. She brandishes it before my eyes. She is fair, I am fair, and we are both in love.“It’s too late to be good.”

People walk by.They all have a history which I could be curious about, but there are also cin- emas, theaters and cafés, exhibitions to see, friends to meet – and then there’s Miss.Tic. I meet her on all the city walls with her poems and her stencils, her poetic stencils along the sidewalks, and I didn’t need to ask for more, because, having met her, it seemed that that was enough: our lovers wait for us on all the world’s squares. “Make me a summer.”

For we are Parisian women, and the whole world knows it. Parisian women have lovers. A Parisian woman without a love affair is perhaps not a Parisian. Dressed all in black, with red lips and sparkling eyes, they move triumphantly and seductively forward, enjoying the freedom that they put on everyday like shining armor in order to conquer the world.

Casting our smiles from terrace to terrace, at home anywhere, Parisian even in the most unpretentious eatery in the middle of nowhere, flouting protocol because ever yone knows that Parisian women are chic, even without trying. We are born fashionable, with Parisian style.

Then one evening, Miss.Tic climbed down off the wall to the sound of broken glass.There she was, perched on a stool at the end of the bar, cigarette in mouth and glass in hand. Our eyes met and we bonded despite the loud background music. She’s an artist. I’m a gallery owner, and as Ben says,“Chance doesn’t exist.” When a galler y owner meets an ar tist, what do they talk about? Paintings!
She’s out there in the street.

She’s just spray painted the window.Two silhouettes now stand facing one another on the front of the gallery: we’re preparing the invitation for our show, “Let’s have fun while waiting for happiness!” From one Parisian woman to another, we’re going to have lots of fun – and early in the morning, someone will go out and buy us croissants.

Lélia Mordoch