That was covered with vines…lived my Inner French Girl. I’ve shown you how she hangs out in her pajamas, and what she wears for an early afternoon stroll around the city, so now I’d like to share her fabulous studio apartment. If I could make a Frankenstein-compilation of my favorite interior (and exterior) spaces, this is the apartment I would have. Er, correction, the apartment my Inner French Girl would have. Let’s not focus too much on how she pays for it; not because its origins are dubious, but because in real life she nor I could ever afford this life, and nothing about this series is anchored in real life. I mean, obviously.
She keeps art books stacked in her fireplace, a Diptyque candle on the table, and prefers to use the back stairs in the building to get to her landing; the architectural details are more beautiful there. She decided she had to have the apartment when she laid eyes on the fireplace; for that she happily lives in 300sq. ft. The terrace along her apartment is just wide enough to stand on, but she never does, choosing only to lean onto it to water the plants or smoke another cigarette or flirt with Matthieu, the handsome bearded cellist who lives in the building across the alley, whose name might or might even be Matthieu; she made it up one night sitting in her window sill. Sometimes she toys with the idea of writing a novel, something groundbreaking (or at least heartbreaking), but just as often she’s struck with extreme self-doubt and doesn’t know how to begin. So instead she writes letters to the people she sees in the park, to the baker on the corner, to her widowed landlady, and to Matthieu’s girlfriend, or whoever the blond girl she sometimes sees is, to whom she apologizes half-heartedly.