‘There is never any ending to Paris,’ mused Hemingway in concluding A Moveable Feast. The posthumously published memoir was named by a friend, who recalled the late author once saying to him: ‘If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’ Many places leave a mark long after you’ve left them, of course, but Paris seems to remain with you more than most. Is it because you’ve followed the path of so many inspiring souls and minds that came before you? Their Paris can’t help but guide you on your journey to find your own Paris, making the city part of your identity, too.
Itinerary
• Jardin des Tuileries: 113 Rue de Rivoli 75001; 07.30-19.30 (October-March), 07.00-21.00 (April-September)
• La Colonnade de Perrault: Place du Louvre 75001
• Institut de France: 23 Quai de Conti 75006
• École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts: 14 Rue Bonaparte 75006
• Le Bonaparte: 42 Rue Bonaparte 75006; 08.00-02.00
• Sonia Rykiel: 175 Boulevard Saint-Germain 75006; 10.30-19.30 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Paul & Joe: 62 Rue des Saints-Pères 75007; 10.00-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Ines de la Fressange: 24 Rue de Grenelle 75007; 11.00-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Christian Louboutin: 38-40 Rue de Grenelle 75007; 10.30-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Repetto: 51 Rue du Four 75006; 10.00-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Hermès: 17 Rue de Sèvres 75006; 10.30-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); closed Sunday
• Le Bon Marché: 24 Rue de Sèvres 75007; 10.00-20.00 (Monday-Wednesday, Friday, Saturday), 10.00-20.45 (Thursday), 11.00-19.45 (Sunday)
• Bar Joséphine: Hôtel Lutetia, 45 Boulevard Raspail 75006; 11.00-01.00
In a cluster of horse chestnut trees nestled within the Jardin des Tuileries, you’ll happen upon a children’s wonderland of sorts. There are a flashing merry-go-round and sunken trampolines, and smiling over this playful scene is a vision in sculptural white. Say bonjour to Charles Perrault, he of Cendrillon (Cinderella) and La Belle au Bois Dormant (Sleeping Beauty) fame. His bust, with its mass of tumbling curls, sits atop a plinth around which children skip and twirl, while a cat wearing a natty hat and cape stands to the side, one booted foot jauntily turned out. Oui, he was also the père of Le Chat Botté (Puss in Boots).
Before Monsieur Perrault put pen — well, plume — to paper, he worked in the department for royal buildings. During that time, the celebrated royal gardener André Le Nôtre, after glorifying the grounds of Versailles Palace, turned his attention to the Tuileries, refashioning it into an elegant park of tranquil ponds, flower-laced parterres, tree-shaded terraces and fragrant groves. So thrilled with the result was the superintendent, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, that he planned to make the gardens private, for the pleasure of King Louis XIV and his favourites alone. It was Perrault, Colbert’s assistant, who successfully pleaded the case for the Tuileries to stay open as a park for all Parisians.
There’s no one best route for wandering through the Tuileries, so stroll this way and that, in the shade of the thousand-plus trees, weaving around the sculptures of antiquity and allegory. Stop intermittently to rest on one of the signature green chairs, to smell the figurative flowers, and the literal ones too, which are planted with the same care and accuracy as a painter takes in placing pigment on canvas. In spring, yellow and red tulips clash colourfully with the fuchsia blossoms of the Judas trees; by early summer, the horse chestnuts are alight with white floral cones that turn the trees into living chandeliers, and the orangers are out of storage, their green box-tubs dotted around the grounds; autumn carpets the Tuileries in leaves of amber that crunch underfoot; and in winter, when the botanical ornaments have been stripped away, you see the geometric genius of this precision-planned park.
With Versailles and the Tuileries, Le Nôtre refined the concept of the classic French garden. A jardin à la française is one of orderly loveliness: carefully controlled flourishes, such as patterned parterres; balanced bursts of trimmed greenery shading long and linear promenades. There’s an art to it, of course — basins of water add glitter while sculptures and topiaries a decorative whimsy — but mostly science, in that perspective and symmetry are the guiding principles. Nurture over nature, quite literally.
The Jardin des Tuileries is so exceptionally gorgeous it can feel more a palace garden than a public park, and there’s a reason for that: it was originally the estate of the Renaissance-styled residence that Catherine de Medici built herself in the mid-sixteenth century, just beyond the walls of Paris, on the site of an old tile-making workshop (thus the name: tuileries). Look towards the Louvre; the column-encrusted façade of the Tuileries Palace once stretched from one of the museum’s western tips to the other, with its cupola-topped pavilion in the middle.
The palace’s dramatically ornate exterior matched the decadence of what went on within, where Catherine threw parties known as magnificences — abundant banquets followed by ballet extravaganzas, poetry recitals by women dressed as nymphs, and musical performances by lauded castrati and violinists. The all-night affairs then spilled out into Catherine’s pleasure garden: a Florentine-inspired patchwork of parterres and wooded spots. Guests could get lost in a maze, relax in a grotto decorated in terracotta shells and sea creatures, or boat along a canal. Women in gowns of gold and silver and necklaces of ruby and emerald shone by candlelight. It must have looked like a fairytale.
Charles Perrault, incidentally, didn’t invent the fairytale; French families had been telling folktales the country over for ages. But with his 1697 publication of Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé, avec des Moralitez (Stories or Tales from Past Times with Morals), Perrault was the first to take these oral yarns and re-spin them into written word. It was perhaps the first time that popular and high cultures were aligned, which is rather fitting considering that Perrault was the guy who ensured the Tuileries remain open for all walks of life, be they in wooden clogs or satin slippers. He did, however, soften the bawdy edges, polishing the tales into smooth narratives that would suit salon society. Still, his flourishes were subtle, in deference to prose that was above all clear, and easily legible to all. Perrault was nothing if not a man of his time, and he was at the forefront of pioneering classic French, a language precise and poetic — the literary answer to the jardin à la française, if you will.
With Cinderella, Perrault, who was a dapper kind of man (remember that sculpted mass of curls?), tapped into another major trend of the times: a fetish for shoes. Fancy footwear had become big business. Colbert, who became the king’s Minister for Finances after his gig as Superintendent of Buildings, had established a host of local luxury industries as a means of boosting the economy. The king in particular was a shoe addict, decorating his much-admired long legs — honed by a passion for dance — with the most artistic of cobbler creations, designs jazzed up with buckles or bows, and always complete with the crimson-painted heel that sumptuary laws deemed exclusive to nobility.
Towards the end of the seventeenth century, the mule — a shapely slip-on number with a pointy toe and curved heel — was the shoe of choice for fashion-forward women, who ordered it in every which material, and showed it off not just at balls, but also when out walking in the Tuileries. The full title of Perrault’s legendary tale was Cendrillon, ou La Petite Pantoufle en Verre — Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper. These days, pantoufle is French for the comfortable indoor shoe, but back then it denoted a mule. As for the verre, or glass, factor … some academics have argued that Perrault simply misheard the word that was actually used in the oral telling of the tale: vair, a.k.a. squirrel fur, a material commonly used in the Middle Ages.
The thought that Cinderella was actually meant to wear nubbly brown shoes rather than the sparkling glass creations of our girlhood dreams is quite shattering, really (pardon the pun
), but when you think about it, the glass slipper is up there with the story’s most unlikely details. Still, would the story have maintained the same lustre over time if the heroine had been wearing fur slippers instead? At any rate, Perrault was once again in sync with his times, because Paris had been mad for shiny things ever since Colbert had launched the Royal Mirror Manufactory, whose most famous commission was Versailles’ celebrated Hall of Mirrors. This luminous light-filled space was the first time many Parisians were able to regard themselves wigged-head-to-muled-toe — and they surely liked what they saw.
The Manufactory still exists, now known as Saint-Gobain, and its other celebrated commission lies ahead … Walk up the stairs at the eastern end of the Tuileries. And imagine, as you do, Cinderella running down them in a past parallel universe, in her sole glass slipper, as the Tuileries clock just under the cupola above you strikes midnight. Head through to the cute Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel ahead, once the gateway to the palace (it fortunately survived the 1871 fires that destroyed the rest of the Tuileries). Before you is, of course, the glass pyramid that serves as the Louvre museum’s main entry point. And yes, its glossiness comes courtesy of the mirror company set up all those years ago by Colbert.
The Louvre Pyramid was called an ‘architectural joke’ when it was unveiled in 1989. Parisians scorned this Postmodern monument, zut-alors!-ing that it clashed with the city’s harmony. Neo-Classical architecture, inspired by Ancient Greece, had been the city’s guiding architectural principle for most of the previous few centuries — Greece had been the epitome of civilisation, and so it made sense that Paris, determined to be the modern capital of bon goût, would turn a little à la grecque. In architectural terms, that meant an emphasis on serenity and lightness, in contrast to and rejection of the dark and cramped designs of medieval times.
But the pyramid is art as much as architecture, as is that other once-controversial Parisian structure, the Eiffel Tower. And you surely have to commend the designers for managing to create such delicacy out of weighty matter. The Eiffel Tower is somehow light and lacy for all the iron, and the pyramid also seems somewhat ethereal, its perfect proportions and transparent glass both ensuring respectfulness for surroundings. Perhaps it’s as far from classical Greek that you can get … although a pyramid is the symbol of another grand civilisation.
Continue wandering eastwards, through the Cour Carrée, and beyond to Rue du Louvre. Now spin around; before you is the Colonnade de Perrault. Not as in Charles, mind you, but his brother Claude, who had trained in maths and medicine before pivoting to architecture (Maman must have been très proud of her over-achieving sons). Ignore the dusty strip you’re standing on, and the old moat filled with sheds that make this seem like the tradesman’s entrance to the Louvre — because this façade is one of the city’s most important architectural treasures. With its flat roofline and row of freestanding columns, inspired by ancient temples, the design was revolutionary at the time — 1668 — and the first major example of the classical style that would come to define the city of Paris. See how it’s colossal yet strangely buoyant; notice the austerity yet the subtle detailing thanks to the play of light and shade; look at the emphasis on horizontal over vertical; consider that it seems to be the work of an engineer as much as an artist. To me, the Colonnade epitomises the harmonious balance of substance and style that the French strike so well.
Once you’re done being duly impressed, wander towards the Seine and head over the Pont des Arts, stopping in the middle of this graceful bridge. Ahead is the Institut de France. It was built at the same time as the Colonnade but more in the ornate Baroque style, which was defined by soaring heights, dramatic shapes, and glamorous decorative touches. Turn back towards the Louvre. Claude Perrault also designed the wing in front of you, which is the southern façade of the Cour Carrée. Contrast it with the Institute and you’ll well see how one is in the older Italian style, the other in the emerging French style.
Architectural lines were being refined just as literary ones were, and the Perrault brothers played a major part in this shift. Charles was a member of the Académie Française, one of the various academies that were housed in the Louvre before being moved across to the Institut de France. As an academician, he was one of forty members charged with protecting the French language. The Academy has a conservative reputation these days but back in Charles’s era, it was more akin to a battleground. Charles was known as a Modern in the late seventeenth-century culture war that saw these forward-thinking literary types go up against the so-called Ancients. These fustier folk thought literature should be along the verse-filled lines of tried-and-tested plays that celebrated illustrious people of history. The Moderns, however, preferred prose to poetry, and writing about the emotional lives of everyday French people rather than the grand deeds of past heroes. To do so, they pioneered a new language in a new form, the novel. While the Ancients believed that only scholars should have opinions on matters of the arts, the Moderns wrote for an increasingly literate public, happy to have their work discussed by Parisians who took to the Tuileries, showing off their good taste in shoes as much as their cultural cred.
Charles’s fairytales were in this sense also modern, even though they were derived from old folk stories, because they were essentially about inner lives and personal journeys. His injection of morality into the tales also suited the turn of the eighteenth century, the Age of Enlightenment, when Parisians were starting to think about what it meant to be your best self in a challenging world, how to forge your most fulfilling life. Perrault’s definition of a happy ending is not the Disney one. In Cinderella, for instance, it’s not found in the wedding so much as in Cinderella forgiving her step-sisters, it’s about kindness.
Still, Cinderella’s happiness is also surely, in no small part, due to that spectacular makeover. Which brings us to the rest of today: shopping. The French have long been taught to put their best faces forward and they are arguably one of the most groomed cultures around. This is especially so in Paris, where beauty comes in many manifestations: in parks and in bridges, in how windows are merchandised and food is served. Here, keeping up appearances is tantamount to a civic duty, to live up to the beauty of the city around you.
It was around the time Claude Perrault hoisted his colonnade, thus cementing classical chic as the city’s architectural template, that Paris began its own Cinderella-like makeover, shaking off its dark, dirty medieval robes in preference for bright shimmering stone. Walk down Rue Bonaparte — which runs off Quai Malaquais, just to the west of the Institute — and you’ll pass the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, which saw the merging of the Academy of Architecture (of which Claude was one of the early members) with that of painting and sculpture. I’ve always loved that the French say ‘beautiful arts’ instead of ‘fine arts’ — again, it’s that notion of the importance of enhancing the environment around you. Since height restrictions were first imposed, in the late seventeenth century, architects have created a city of such expertly calibrated beauty that it sometimes seems a stage set. And it’s one where everyone is a performer, required to dress the stylish part.
Overlooking Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés is the popular restaurant Le Bonaparte. Take a seat en terrasse beneath the tricolor awning — it’s the perfect place for contemplating the art of Parisian dressing while you indulge in people-watching. Oh, and for lunch. What you notice, by and large, about the way Parisiennes dress is that it’s really quite simple: classic staples such as dark denim jeans, a navy or black blazer and a white shirt, accessorised with a printed scarf and neat shoes. Some trace this desire to dress discreetly back to the French Revolution, when flashy fashion could put you in mortal danger. There have been periods since, of course, when Parisiennes reverted to feminine frills, but for most of recent times their signature style has been what you could term egalitarian chic. Don’t be fooled though: while they might not continually change their looks — preferring to stick with simple form-enhancing silho
uettes rather than trends that might not flatter the figure — a lot of care is put into the selection. Think quality over quantity — a philosophy that applies to all of the city’s other ‘beautiful arts’.
The Left Bank of Paris has been much mythologised as a spiritual centre of literature and philosophy, but it’s as much about fashion, even if that thought might frazzle some intellectual minds. It was the site of Paris’s first shopping mecca — the seventeenth-century Saint-Germain Fair, a warren of covered markets. But perhaps it really came into its fashionable own in the 1960s, when Yves Saint Laurent opened his Rive Gauche ready-to-wear boutique, giving a brand to the breezy beatnik spirit of the area. Jane Birkin would soon move to Saint-Germain and personify Rive Gauche cool in her slim jeans and airy shirts, a straw basket swinging by one side, a sultry Serge Gainsbourg accessorising the other.
If you’re ready for your own Left Bank makeover (or un relooking, as they say here), turn right at Boulevard Saint-Germain, where you’ll find the Sonia Rykiel boutique on the corner of Rue des Saints-Pères. No Parisian brand does a more pitch-perfect striped top — a Parisienne essential since Coco Chanel repurposed the Breton fisherman’s top. A few minutes south along Rue des Saints-Pères, pop into another quintessentially Parisian store, Paul & Joe. In addition to the bright suits and separates, it sells party frocks fit for a modern Cinderella.
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