Yves: So what is the deal with you and Jane?

Maurice: Remember I told you that story about the American who only knew a few words in French?

Yves: Oui.  You slept with this American like you do with foreign women.  And when you told me this story you told me to find an American muse so I did.

Maurice: But you were not supposed to ask her to move in with you.  What if Agnes turns into another Anne-Marie?

Yves: She will not do that.  She does not want to get married and have babies.

Maurice: That is what they all say, then one day…

Yves: So did you have an affair with Jane and then dump her?

Maurice: You make the affair sound rude.  I do not know if I “dumped” her, only that the passion no longer existed.  Besides, her French was horrid and I am not fond of “Ooh, la, la” spoken by Americans with bad French accents.

Yves: Ah, non, Maurice, you are so cruel!

Maurice: Oui, mai, I will never get trapped by a woman.  Freedom is the name of the game, non?

Yves: You will end up a lonely man.  Besides, Jane is lovely.  She has learned some French and she supports artists.

Maurice: Well, yes, I know this because this is how she and I met.  She came to my art opening.  I think it was my second one and I found her attractive even though Americans are not my first choice for women.

Yves: Agnes does not know that you had an affair with Jane.

Maurice: No loss. Why does she need to know? Pretty soon the women will gossip about us, all that “he said, she said” stuff.  Non merci. Jane is an adult and she will get over it.

Yves: I do not think she ever did Maurice.  And Agnes does not like you and refers to you as the “oily waiter”.

Maurice: What does that mean?

Yves: Think about it.

When I introduced Jane to Maurice, they acted like they had known each other once.  Jane frowned, which is unusual for her–she is a smiley face most of the time, from what I know.  Maurice shrugged his shoulders and walked away.  Jane says that she does not want to return to that cafe.  I will ask Agnes what that is about, maybe Maurice already seduced Jane.  He kicks the girls out of his bed eventually and he moves on to the next. I do not like this about Maurice.  I think he is mean to girls.  What will he do the day his looks disappear and he grows fat and old? He does not think about these things.

Jane and I listened to Brigitte Bardot CDs that Jane brought with her.  Agnes threw a fit.  She ranted about Edith Piaf and old Serge.  Doesn’t she realize that these are French classics? Jane understands.  I think if Jane could be French she would.  She tries too hard and I feel embarrassed for her.  Her French is horrid, but she pulls it off as if she knows what she is saying.  I tell her to speak English so I can understand her better.

Jane and Agnes will go shopping today.  Hopefully they will take the dog with them because Munchkin acts hyper now that there are new smells in the flat.  Pablo continues to sleep all day, although, I did see him stretch once yesterday and yawn.  I thought he would go outside for a bit and prowl, but he fell back asleep.  For a Tom cat, he is too lazy.  We spoil him.  This is not good for a cat that is used to living on the street.

I told them that I’m only staying for two weeks, but in reality, I plan on staying indefinitely.  Sure, I will need to find work.  I figure my French is good and Parisians will enjoy my positive can-do attitude.  Oh, I’m so excited.  Agnes and I have some serious shopping plans at the flea markets and designer outlets (not that I have much money to spend…) And I just love la petite Munchkin.  Although I miss my French poodle who now lives with my cousin in Monterey.

It’s a little crowded in this flat, but we adjust.  I sleep on the foldout couch with Pablo. The cat has a thing for me, not sure what it is.  I have this affect on French men and creatures–gonna love my stay in Paris.  Bonjour Paris!!!

Jane has never experienced the hardship of rejection and unemployment.  She sent resumes to Mother Jones, San Francisco Chronicle and other Californian publications, and the only editor that responded was with Mother Jones, who told Jane she didn’t have the gumption for investigative journalism.  I heard those words before, but I handled it better than Jane.

So maybe two weeks in Paris will cure Jane of her blues.  Yves and I thought of taking her to the Louvres and the Picasso Museum.  Yves said that he would even paint Jane if she did not mind modeling for him..  Knowing Jane, she’ll agree.  She is so agreeable.  I hope she brushed up on her “Parisian” French.  I think her accents are wrong, but she says it doesn’t matter because French people are so patient.

Hello! What planet is Jane living on? Jane does have that snotty side that comes out when she’s around art.  Maybe that will pay off when she visits Paris.  At least she doesn’t mind eating escargot or froglegs.  She’ll love the animals too, but I wonder who is taking care of her French poodle in San Francisco? I wonder where she’s living these days? She told me that she sold her condo.

Oh, but, perky Jane always lands on her feet.  I can’t wait to see her again and introduce her to Yves.  He’s even cleaned up the flat.  Come on, Yves, since when did we live in an immaculately clean flat?

Ciao mama!

Nancy Sinatra, 1960s

Agnes, must you keep playing Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking”? Even Pablo has grown tired of it.  He is in the corner hissing.

He’s not hissing because of this song.  He’s hissing because Munchkin chased him around the flat. She’s bored.  I need to take her for a walk, but I feel unmotivated.  Why don’t you take her for a walk? She likes you better.

You want me to walk Munchkin around the neighborhood? What if Maurice sees me and tells me that I am henpecked by my muse again?

Why do care what Maurice says about you? Who died and made him God?  Really, Yves, you care too much about what others think of you.  Which is why you need to listen to Nancy S.  She’ll teach you how to respect yourself.  Better yet, let’s listen to Aretha Franklin.

Why are you listening to these old songs? Are you feeling nostalgic for America? Are you reflecting on your childhood which you were forced to live in Paris? I do not know how anyone would feel forced to live in Paris, which is short for paradise…

Really, Yves, you’re getting on my nerves.  Go take the dog for a walk.  If Maurice sees you then all the better.  Get over yourself.

Why do Americans tell Parisians to get over themselves? Did Meg Ryan say that to her Frenchman in “French Kiss”?

Probably.  Perhaps it is an American thing.  We have so little patience.

Tell me about it.

I have to buy the print on demand books for the contest so I won’t be able to pay for postage too.

So keep your eyes on this blog and re-read previous posts.  You could be a winner.

from Wikipedia

Yves, I saw the most adorable rabbit today.  Do you think we could handle another animal in our flat?

Non, non, Agnes, we already have your Munchkin and Pablo.  There’s enough fur on the couch to choke an elephant! So why do you want to bring a rabbit in here? Besides, Munchkin will hunt the rabbit and leave it dead on the kitchen floor.

Oh, I had not thought of that.  Do you think Munchkin is the hunting type?

If she is not, then she would bark all day and night at the poor creature.  Imagine what a rabbit’s life is like. All you think about is how cute the rabbit is with its twitching nose and whiskers.  Do you know anything about rabbits?

No.  Do you?

We never would have had a rabbit for a pet.  We ate them with sauce.  It is strange that Americans have rabbits as pets or even rats as pets.  We could never have a rat because Pablo would kill it.  He is still feral you know.

Pablo sleeps all day and only wakes up to stretch and fall back asleep or to eat. I think I have seen Pablo awake one time since spring began and that was too look out the window at that Siamese across the street.  I am not sure what that was about, but Pablo seemed alert at the time, and aroused.

Non, non, he is fixed so he cannot make babies.

That does not mean he won’t try and have you ever heard Siamese cats having sex? They kept all of San Francisco awake at night or at least in my neighborhood.  You could probably hear all that yowling in Oakland.

It is April, no?  So where is your friend Jane?

She will be arriving any day now.

And thankfully she won’t be greeted by a zoo in our flat.  We will not adopt a rabbit.

Okay, Yves, it was just a suggestion.

Cairn terrier, Wikipedia

A very bad suggestion.

He bought me CDs sung in French, but I warned him that I won’t listen to Edith Piaf or Serge Gainsbourg–no way, Jose.  Anyway, Yves knows better so he bought me modern era French pop stars, who I enjoy.  Who would have thought, Agnes’ immersion in French.  Just dive in girl.

There are benefits too.  Now, that I’m making an attempt to learn Parisian French, Yves smiles more and he’s making dinner again.  Love that since I only know how to make paella, gazpacho, and lasagna–this gets old after a while and Yves prefers French cuisine with a capital “C”.  I’m surprised all those surprise sauces don’t cause me to put on weight.  And all this chocolate that I eat when I’m stressing out over my lessons also doesn’t put on the pounds. Is it in the Parisian air?

If I ate like this in San Francisco I would be a blimp by now.  Yves stirring in the other room, I had better get back to my lessons.

Like a parrot on steroids, I repeat, “Je ne sais pas,” “bonjour”….

Here is a list of things she did to me.  She bought me shirts in garish colors like orange because if I looked bad to other women, she would not need to defend her territory.

Same for the bad haircut.

Every time we walked past the boutiques she fawned over baby clothing and displays causing my skin to crawl.  She did this when we walked past bridal boutiques and bakeries with wedding cakes appearing in the window.

As you know she went into a rage when she found out I was with Agnes.  She slashed the nude painting of Agnes in front of my art patron Monsieur Rochelle.

And before all of that happened, she moved into my flat, papered the walls in floral print and hung Impressionist paintings, which I do not like.  She said, “a true Parisian hangs these paintings in their homes.”  What does this make me, a fake Parisian?

Now, that Anne-Marie is gone, I should feel happy that Agnes has few faults.  She will learn French eventually.  She must, this is Paris.  Parisians run out of patience and then what will Agnes do? It is for her own good.

When I ask her why she has not listened to her French CDs or opened the books, even glance through them, she says that she is busy.  How is she busy? She barely cooks, telling me that I am the better cook–oh, flattery can only get you so far! She walks the dog and sits around all day, pretending to write a novel.  There is no evidence of this novel.  When I ask her about it, she does not even know the plot.  She tells me that she waits for inspiration to strike.

Meanwhile, she has time, beaucoup temp to learn French.  She will like Paris better if she learns Parisian French.  She might not ever understand our customs and culture, but she will at least have the ability to converse with real Parisians in the real, not tourist Paris.  I tell her this.  She says she learned French as a child and forgot all of it.  Then she shrugs her shoulders like a Parisian at least, and says these French words, “c’est la vie.”  As if that is enough to get by.

I am now off to my studio to paint.  If Agnes finishes whatever she is doing, she can model for me.  Earn your keep, ma cherie.

au revoir

Delightfully Hillarious,March 21, 2012

I just loved this book. The first words that come to mind to describe my inner feelings: hilarious, delightful, and original.
Ms. Herlevi did a fine job creating the characters. They totally made the story. In fact, they’re quite memorable.
Agnes is an arts journalist in San Francisco. She’s been sent on assignment to interview French artists who dwell in her city. Unfortunate for her, she loathes the French. It all stemmed from her adolescence days when she lived with her mother in Paris. Memories of her mother’s many lovers makes her mental stomach churn. After interviewing a couple French artists, she writes an insulting piece for the art magazine she works for which leads to a rift in the art community and a lot of humiliation for her.
Not long after this story, she finds herself in an awkward moment while playing the PR person for her magazine. The next day when she arrives at work, her boss fires her. This gives her the opportunity to throw caution to the wind, following an old lover to Spain who doesn’t feel the same as she.
Yves is an artist who lives in Paris but his inspiration has dried up. His muse refuses to pose for him. He can’t seem to paint because of the pressure his muse/lover puts on him about marriage and getting a REAL job. The last thing on his mind is getting tied down in a relationship that’s sinking and into a job he’ll hate. He’s a free spirit who loves Pablo Picasso, St. Francis, fish, cheeses, french baguettes, croissants, and fine wine. (NOTE: I loved her food descriptions, the smells, and how oil could drip down chins. I could taste the food myself.)
Ann-Marie is Yves muse/lover. She’s shallow. High maintenance. Revengeful. Manipulative. She does everything to corner him into marriage and a job at a shoe store.
I don’t want to give the details away to this story. So I’ll leave you all with this. There is an unexpected romance, plenty of twists, and a surprise ending.

Woof!

So what’s up with Yves? Does he miss is former muse? Does he regret hooking up with an American woman? Is he eying one of those pretty Parisians that prance around in high heels and look wonderful the first thing in the morning? The term fresh as a daisy comes to mind when I think of those Parisian women.  Ah, but they can’t all be beautiful. And yet, they possess so much poise that even if they are a few pounds overweight or have a large nose, they’re still elegant.  How do they do that?

Perhaps, Yves’ cranky mood is contagious.  I have caught it. Perhaps we need to go out for coffee and take Munchkin with us.  I have to drop her off at the groomers anyway. Actually they call it the salon de chien.  I should be so lucky.  I still haven’t found a good hairdresser for myself, but Munchkin looks fantastic like one of those human shampoo commercials.  Is she going around thinking, “And I’m worth it”?

Agnes, you have a jealousy problem.  Time out for you.  I think I will go stroll in the park, enjoy this beautiful spring, and stay away from people talking politics.  I will stop by a bakery and get a baguette and eat the entire thing alone, without Yves in sight.  Then I will shop for a spring dress and wear my favorite sandals, pretending that I am living in paradise, though I miss San Francisco.

Ciao!

So I wonder if Yves and I should still save a spot on our couch for Jane.  She already bought her plane ticket to Paris and is scheduled to arrive April 15, or tax day in the States.  Perhaps her plane will get grounded during a transportation strike and the only place for Jane to stay is here with Yves and me or with that waiter Maurice–who I suspect Jane already met on her last trip (ages ago) to Paris.

The funny thing about Jane, is that she is the eternal optimist, and even losing her job does not derail her from showing up at French language movies, her French lessons, or listening to her favorite French musicians.  She mentioned that she parted with two paintings to cover some bills, but she refuses to part with the French paintings and she said she would hang them in a tent if things got that bad.  Now, there’s a true Francophile.

Maybe she could camp out in Yves’ studio for a while–doubt she would enjoy that.  Or she’ll meet the Frenchman of her dreams and become an expat, what she’s always wanted anyway.   I wish Jane the best, and try not to live my own nightmares of losing my job as an arts journalist.  Of course, the economy had nothing to do with me losing my job.  I am too embarrassed to admit how it happened.  But if you read the book, “Agnes et Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)” my secret gets out.

ciao mama!

Doubt Parisians would enjoy this American comfort food.

The other day I sat with a group of Parisian and expat American women at a cafe.  We sat at a long table discussing the difference between American and French cuisine, with the Americans taking many barbs from the Parisians. Then I brought up the concept of frog legs.  Who would have ever considered putting frogs out of their pond environment, tossing them into a frying pan and eating their legs? Really, just can’t get my head wrapped around this one.

One of the Parisian women quipped, “At least the frog is real, unlike American food.”

So I responded, “You are talking about American junk and fast food, but not the real whole foods that some of us prefer to eat.”

She shook her perfectly coiffed head and aimed her carefully made up eyes at me, as her lacquer mouth contorted into a snarl.  “What real food? What do you mean by whole food? Don’t you all eat fast food burgers and eat greasy frits?  What about that stuff you call American cheese?”

I shut the woman up when I asked her if she had ever been the the United States.  She had not.  Then I mentioned that she could visit any number of outdoor or farmers markets across the US where she could buy food fresh.  I mentioned food cooperatives, but when I mentioned artisan cheese makers, she scoffed–in favor of French cheese.  Oh, what a snob!

So I reverted into my old ways of despising French people, but only momentarily.  When I saw Yves arriving the cafe with his sunny lopsided grin, and paint stains on his black trousers, I suddenly enjoyed Paris again.  We left the cafe and had dessert somewhere else, quiet with amber candles on the table, and American jazz playing in the background–Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” and then Yves and I discussed music and music makers for the remainder of the evening.

Now, I prefer to sleep.  Ciao!

Agnes' favorite movie. Shhhh, don't tell anyone.

My cranky mood sent Yves running from the flat.  And usually when these moods come, I watch a favorite chick flick, like “Amelie” which Yves can’t comprehend.  He doesn’t understand how someone such as myself, who once professed to despise French anything would watch a movie that screams “Parisian”.  Yet, I adore the actress Audrey Tautou.  She reminds me of a cartoon hero.

When I lived in San Francisco, I watched the movie on the sly and pretended that I could never watch cute Parisian movie.  I didn’t want my Francophile friend Jane to get the best of me.  The other journalists would have harassed me for weeks had they known.  Then I would never have pulled off my expose on Parisian painters living in San Francisco.  You’ll have to read the novel to learn the rest of that story.

So now back to my adorable movie.  I cuddle with Munchkin and Pablo on the couch.  We watch the movie without Yves, who would just make stupid comments throughout the movie.  Thankfully he’s at the studio working on commissioned paintings.  We will eat well this month.

So then I had to unpack his clothes. Otherwise he would have thrown hissy fits all day.  Nothing gets me down faster than Yves’s pouting and sulking.  He reminds me of a song by Billy Bragg, “All she does is sulk, sulk, sulk…” Was Billy talking about a Parisian?  Ah, but I love Paris this time of year.  You can smell winter fading in the air, no, you really can. I feel so giddy, like a colt let out to a sunny meadow–not that I’m going to roll in the grass, in Paris, I would just end up rolling in dog mess.

Speaking of dogs, Munchkin went crazy in the park today.  She rolled in the grass, getting grass stains on her blonde fur.  So I took her to the groomers–which she did not enjoy.  Now she is pouting in the corner. The only one that isn’t pouting is Pablo and only because I bought him catnip.  He’s high as a belfries.  Yves tells me to stop acting like Pablo’s drug dealer.  I tell Yves, “Hey, it’s like chocolate for cats.”  Then he’s okay with it.  Yves adores chocolate.  Perhaps, I’ll go get him some chocolate cake from his favorite dessert cafe.  All I know, is stop the pouting.  It’s almost spring.

I experienced one of those “I told you so” moments today.  I wore my new Parisian spring dress with sandals and I froze, boy, did I freeze.  I was shaking so hard from the cold that Yves acted motherly towards me, scolding me for my American stupidity.  He kept telling me that Paris is not California.  He has that right.  Now I  am wrapped up in several blankets drinking hot chocolate with lots of real cream on top.  Just looking at it causes me to gain five pounds.  Oh, by why bother with such a thought?

Ciao.

What’s Agnes’ Mother’s name?

Connie Cass

What’s the name of Agnes’ best friend in San Francisco?

Jane Liberty

What are Yves two favorite colors?

Blue and gray

Why is Yves obsessed with Picasso?

A childhood incident involving a famous Cathedral and a visit to the Picasso Museum in Paris (see prologue of novel).

What is the name of Yves’ Tom cat?

Pablo, of course.

Who is Yves’ favorite saint?

(See novel for answer)

What is the name of the Spanish flamenco musician–Agnes’ love interest?

What is the name of the fine and performing arts magazine that employed Agnes?

Have I piqued your curiosity?

BUY “Agnes et Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)” at http://www.createspace.com/3713611

I met Kathy at Les Deux Magots–her idea.  We brought our dogs with us–now best friends.  They lounged under the table eating treats we picked up for them at the doggy bakery.  If you remember a previous post, I met Kathy at a dog park.  She’s the one with the silky terrier and the Parisian photographer boyfriend.  Oddly enough, they live on our street.

Unlike me, Kathy started out as a Francophile and has remained one.  She met Jacques in Louisiana when he was covering Mardi Gras for a travel magazine.  Kathy relocated from LA to New Orleans after graduated from university with a BA in French language and culture.  Jacques stayed on in New Orleans for two months then after that, the couple corresponded.  It didn’t matter where Kathy lived at that point since Jacques travels six months out of the year.  He’s now making films in Paris so she sees him more often.  Well, at least they’re in the same city.  He works long hours leaving her too much free time, that is until she met me, another American expat unable to work in Paris.

I wonder what my San Franciscan friend Jane will think of Kathy.  She’ll probably steal my new friend from me, if that were possible.  I asked Yves if we could invite this new couple over for dinner, but please don’t serve them raw food.  Kathy is a vegetarian like I am, but Jacques isn’t–she says she’s working on it.  I tell her good luck because Parisians like to eat flesh–it’s their Divine right or something.

I want to get back to my conversation with Kathy.

Ciao

better than chocolate soup

Yves made enough chocolate and gogi berry soup to last us for days.  So we eat another bowl of raw cacao soup with berries and coconut.  It tastes good, but feels like I am cheating on my meals by only eating desert.

“Yves if we keep eating like this I will look like a blimp before Jane visits us in April.”

“What is a blimp?”

“You know those large sausage shape balloons that people fly around in.”

“You mean that you will be a fat girl by the time Jane visits us?”

“Fat is not the politically-correct term, Yves.  We see large-size woman or full-bodied woman…”

“Yes, because you Americans are so polite and kind to each other.  I do not understand this politic correct philosophy.”

“At least we don’t act like passive-aggressive or just plain aggressive Parisians.”

“Ah, non? What are you saying, that Americans do not act like bullies around the world and act like demanding tourists when they visit France?”

“Oh, I guess you have a point. But you must admit Yves, if I look like a blimp I will stand out in a city with lithe and beautiful women.”

“Usually I paint thin women, but maybe if you gain all this weight before April I can imitate a different Picasso period, you know the one where the full-bodied ladies recline on the beach like sunning seals?”

“You think I would let you paint me if my body was full of fat and cellulite? No way, Yves.”

“It is okay because the raw foods chef was skinny and he said people lose weight with raw foods, even the raw chocolate.  You do not need to worry.  Maybe Jane has gained weight since you last saw her.”

“Jane never gains weight.  Her hair is always perfect, she’s perky, and kind. Come to think of it, the Parisian women are going to despise poor American Jane.”

“C’est la vie.”

“Back to the soup.  I don’t think I like raw chocolate soup.  If you want raw soup, let me make you gazpacho.  I promise I won’t toss any sleeping pills into it like Almodvar’s characters in Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.”

a cousin of Pablo

Yves surprised me alright.  He brought over this fabulous raw foods dinner which he prepared at a friend’s flat.  Basically he went a little overboard with the cacao which he used in the soup, the entree and of course, the dessert.  La Petite Munchkin went into a rage of jealousy because dogs can’t eat chocolate.

Yves bought her something special at the doggy bakery. Pablo was satisfied with his catnip.  He slept in the corner all night, sprawled out, dreaming about whatever cats dream about.  Did you know that Pablo purrs in his sleep? Munchkin snores.  We kicked her off the bed a few times.

Yves and I stayed up all night eating chocolate. We shared stories about our childhoods and I bonded with him.  He told me about a trip he and his mother took to the Notre Dame Cathedral, and how that was the turning point in his artistic career.  He knew on that day that he would paint women for the remainder of his life.  He also fell in love with Picasso’s paintings that day.  Some times I can imagine Yves as a child, but he acts enchanted everyday anyway, did he ever grow up?  Carl Jung would probably say that Yves has a Peter Pan complex.  It doesn’t matter because the man can paint.  I don’t mind modeling for him either because he makes me look good.

However, I felt nervous for our first gallery showing.  Some haughty women kept staring at the paintings then examining me.  I felt like I was put under a microscope.  I don’t like being on public display, but the paintings sold so Yves and I are now thinking about getting a small house on the outskirts of Paris.  He would like to live in the neighborhood where Maurice Ravel spent his last days with his menagerie of pets. Yves likes Ravel, calls him “a musical genius” but I wouldn’t know.

Munchkin has her leash in her mouth which means that it’s time for a stroll around the park.  She made friends with a silky terrier the other day.  The human companion of the dog is another American, Kathy something or the other. She also lives with her Parisian boyfriend so we compared notes.  She and I will meet for coffee later this week.  Munchkin is happy about that.

Caio

Yves here.  My surprise for Agnes involves food–raw food.   I met a raw foods chef who came from San Francisco and taught classes in Paris.  We ate lots of raw chocolate–cacao this and cacao that, we were a giggling bunch.  This chef whipped up desserts and soups, but I liked the chocolate best.  So I thought I would surprise Agnes with a vegan raw foods dinner and chocolate dessert.

I plan on making the food at a friend’s flat because it is a secret.  Agnes stays home all day with that dog, Munchkin, who cannot eat chocolate because it is not good for her.  I will also take Agnes to see American jazz musicians who are in Paris tonight performing in a small club.

Wish me luck. Agnes is hard to please.  But if this works then I she will pose for more paintings, non?

Au revoir.

My friend Jane in San Francisco loves that movie. It’s chick cinema for her with an arty touch.  I tried to explain to her that it’s just a pretentious art film that I had to watch too many times during my childhood in Paris.  But that did not stop Jane from dragging me to every Godard retrospective to hit San Francisco.  Then when I moved to Paris, well, I ended up here by default, Yves dragged me to that wretched movie and I had to sit through those scenes with a naked Bardot pouting. Never did understand what Yves called an ironic statement about Hollywood.

Oh, I know I’m a former arts journalist and I should love Godard, talk about him all the time, at cafes with groups of artists at 2:00 a.m. as they smoke their cigarettes and destroy my lungs.  Yes, I know, I should love those types of situations.  But instead I live my artist life precariously through Yves and my dog Munchkin, who is more creative than me.

On this rainy February day, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, I am heading to my favorite cafe, cute dog in-tow, and going to enjoy an afternoon of chocolate cake and coffee, with no Godard in sight.

Ciao

“Bonjour, are you Jean-Jacques Beineix?”

“Oui, how do you know who I am?”

“You directed ‘Betty Blue’ and my friend Jane interviewed you in San Francisco for ‘Art World’.

“Ah, oui, I remember Jane.”

“I have a question about Betty Blue.  Was she crazy before she got in that relationship or did the relationship with that strange man drive her to insanity?”

“Have you seen the movie?”

“No, not yet, but Jane told me about it and I’m curious.”

“But you have not seen the movie?”

“No.”

“Well, then, how can you ask me questions about Betty? This disturbs me.”

“Je suis desole.”

“Au revoir, madame. ” He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, quickly walked away, only looking over his shoulder once to scowl at me, the dumb American.

Author’s note: While my character Agnes never saw “Betty Blue” I have seen it along with two of Beineix’s other movies.  The character Betty Blue is mentioned once or twice in my novel “Agnes et Yves” especially in relation to the character Anne-Marie, who is slightly off her rocker (crazy).