Marie's

Perhaps my favorite place in Paris is my sister-in-law's apartment. When I walk up the winding wooden stairs, there, waiting for me are two or three suspended heads. They pop out just at the moment when I've rounded the corner for the final round. And the heads are just as nice when I get inside.







And, I've said it before, but I'll say it again because it becomes more and more that way - Marie's apartment is her atelier. Her life sort of happens around where she does art. Her dining room table has been appropriated as an artists' desk and now the family eats around the table in the next room, everyone sitting on cushions or the floor or holding their plates on their laps. Last night, she explained how she does not want people to have their 'places' at the table - how it wreaks of sexism - the woman closest to the kitchen, etc (well, in this family, Fabien, my brother-in-law, does all the cooking) and how she likes when even dinner stays spontaneous. I love it. Not very French, this one's approach.







Here, Marie explains her magic and her next inspiration. Marie loved me before any other French person (except maybe Marguerite, but she was so little she didn't count as French yet and, of course, Xavier, who came very first). She let me in and she's kept me in and I love her and even France for it.