Henry has stopped taking notes completely. He’s now staring at Wei with a look of disbelief, eyes bulging, mouth open. Again, I’m surprised. Shouldn’t he know all of this? Why is he reacting this way? Maybe it’s something to do with the business he’s planning to launch?
“Brands need to prepare for when — not if — the KOL bubble bursts, like all bubbles do. The digital world is saturated with KOLs, each with millions of claimed followers, and consumers may begin to tire of people being paid to prance around on their Weibo feeds for a particular brand.”
That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking! That’s why I decided right from the start never to do paid or sponsored posts on Bonjour Girl. I wonder what Brian would think of her statements.
“So what should fashion businesses look for in the evolution of Chinese digital culture? It all comes back to quality content.” Wei sounds a lot like Maddie when she talks about these things. Her comments also remind me of last semester’s lectures at Parsons about fashion and technology.
“In my work, I speak to many millennials in Shanghai, and their interest is in the rise and return of bloggers — not KOLs, not those who are paid to promote, but those who create original, honest content and share opinions based on genuine passions. People without Photoshopped facial features who write thoughtfully and express new and interesting ideas.”
Wow. Okay, now I’m really excited. This validates all the effort and energy I’ve poured into my blog. I’m thrilled that I’ve kept at it.
I turn to face Henry, but he’s gone. I was so immersed in what the teacher was saying that I didn’t even notice him slipping away. Why did he leave? Something must have been bothering him. But what?
“Hey, you.” I’ve managed to find Henry after class. He’s sitting alone in a corner of the research centre, totally engrossed in something he’s reading on his computer. It looks like an email. He still has a funny look on his face. “Why the disappearing act?”
“Sorry, Clementine, I had to scoot out to contact my business partner about something.”
“Something to do with what the teacher said?”
“Uh, maybe. Not really.”
Hmm. I’m not sure what kind of answer that is, but I let it go. He still hasn’t turned to face me as he furiously types away.
“Should I come back later? Or meet you in the café? You seem … preoccupied.”
“No, please wait! Just let me finish this message. I’ll be done in a few minutes, I promise.”
“Okay, take your time. I’ll read some magazines while you finish.”
This research centre is impressive. Not surprising, given that Condé Nast is the world’s most prestigious fashion magazine publisher. The modern space is filled with gorgeous books, magazines, and other periodicals. I could spend hours reading in here. I’m in no rush to leave. I plop myself down on one of the low sofas and pick up a copy of Vogue China. Couldn’t hurt to practise my Mandarin reading skills; they’re pretty good, but they could always improve.
With a circulation of close to two million, Vogue China is one of the most successful fashion magazines on the continent. There’s an article about the editor-in-chief, Angelica Cheung, who says that she always looks to the future and never dwells on the successes of the past. I like that idea.
I flip through the mesmerizing images of local fashion, taking in the colours and designs. There’s an article about some of the best shops and cafés in the city — I note some of them on my phone.
One article in particular catches my eye. It’s about the bookshops along Fuzhou Road that are a bibliophile’s dream: large bookstores with cafés inside, teeny foreign shops with books in every imaginable language, specialty retailers dealing in art books or children’s books, and used bookshops where you can flip through novels and wonder what the handwritten Mandarin notes mean. I definitely need to check these out.
My mouth gapes open at the image on the next page: it’s Sandra, my fairy godmother from the friendly skies, dressed in a stunning black gown and shimmering jewels, with full makeup and a chic updo. Wow. When we met, she was wearing baggy travel clothes. In the photo, she’s holding a plaque. As one of the philanthropists of the year, she’s been nominated for an award. It says she’s making an important contribution to the hospital where her sister is receiving care. Sandra in Vogue? Philanthropist of the year? This gives me goosebumps.
I knew Sandra was well off, but had no idea she was this wealthy. She flies coach and dresses simply. In addition to being smart and classy, she has a heart of gold, too. How lucky am I to have met her?
I stand up and ask the librarian to make a copy of the accompanying article. She kindly does it for me. I put it in my handbag for protection and good vibes, then sit back down to read some more while I wait for Henry.
He finally comes over, smiling and looking more relaxed. He’s wearing his messenger bag across his chest.
“Sorry about that. I’m all yours now,” he says slyly.
I know he expects a cheeky response, but I don’t say anything. How do you respond to that?
He runs his fingers through his hair just like Jonathan does — it’s something they have in common. He kneels down next to me to look at what I’m reading. At least, unlike Jonathan, he doesn’t seem to remain in a funk for very long.
“Sorry about leaving class like that. I’m just putting a lot of time and resources into this online business of mine, and I want it to succeed.”
The last time we discussed his projects, he’d said he was only at the planning stage. That’s strange. “No problem. I get it,” I whisper, trying to maintain the zen-like silence of the space.
“I have other people counting on me, too. There’s a lot of pressure.”
“Are your parents … helping you out?” I ask. I know I’m being nosy, but he’s shared very little about his family thus far.
He looks away for a second with a pained expression. “My dad is no longer with us. He died over a decade ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Henry.”
“It’s okay. I was going to tell you eventually.”
“Illness?” As soon as I say it I know: not an illness. Much worse. I can see it in his face. I never should have asked. He bites his lip and looks away.
He takes a seat next to me. “He took his own life after the massive financial meltdown on Wall Street. He worked for one of the banks that went belly up. It killed his spirit.”
I choke up listening to him. “I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible.” I put my hand on his shoulder. I can feel his deep sadness. I guess I was right. Like all of us, he does have a story. I feel bad that I judged him as too intense. Could it be that he tries to maintain such a perfect outward appearance to hide the pain he’s feeling inside?
“It was really tough. My mom especially had a hard time. That’s when she moved back to Shanghai to be close to family. It’s been challenging. I’ve been trying to focus on my dreams, but in the background, I always have this feeling of having been left behind by my dad. I’m trying to find my own way while also striving to make my dad proud.”
I place my hand over his. I can relate to him on this level. I felt the same way when my mom left me and my dad to go on an international tour when I was only a toddler. I think that feeling of abandonment affects my ability to connect with others on a deep level. It’s a continuous struggle.
“Wherever your dad is right now, I’m sure he is proud of you.”
He looks at the floor.
“It’s none of my business,” I continue, “but whatever you do, you need to think about yourself, okay? Don’t do it for him. Do it for you.”
He looks up with tears in his eyes. The cracks in his designer armour are showing. It’s kind of refreshing to see his vulnerable side.
He squeezes my hand tightly and lets his head fall on my shoulder while I finish reading the rest of the Vogue China in silence. Angelica Cheung is right: it’s best to focus on the future, not dwell on the past.
/> Chapter Twenty-Three
IT’S BEEN A WEEK since the beginning of the summer semester and a little over a week since my disheartening exchange with Jonathan. Although I’ve tried to reach out many times since, he hasn’t called back or responded to my texts. I’ve had a hard time sleeping or getting any work done. The situation is affecting my concentration. And it hurts. I wish I could just go over to his place and resolve this.
I do my best to push all this out of my mind as I head to my first class with Jean-Charles Luteau, a well-known fashion journalism guru from Paris.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Liu,” he says with that distinctive Parisian accent as I walk into class.
Jean-Charles Luteau is tall and slim, with dark-brown hair and a square jaw, and he’s dressed in a sharp black suit. He’s internationally renowned as an expert in fashion reporting and has been teaching here at Condé Nast for the last five years.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Enchantée.”
“I’ve heard about you and your work,” he says.
“Oh.” This takes me by surprise. “Do you know Maddie?”
“Yes, of course. I also know about your relation to her, but don’t assume you’ll receive preferential treatment because of it,” he says dryly.
Ouch. His tone is cutting and a tad accusatory. I inhale deeply, reminding myself that I didn’t get selected for this exchange program on the basis of my relationship to Maddie. I was selected by an independent committee based on merit and hard work.
“I don’t operate under that assumption, Mr. Luteau. Quite the contrary. I prefer to have my work speak for itself.”
“Well, speaking of that” — he zeroes in on me like a hawk — “I’ve read your blog, and I can’t say your work speaks to me very much.” He crosses his arms and leans against his desk. “Your recent posts are too commercial for my taste.”
I remain frozen, feet planted in the doorway as other students walk past me. Most of them try to tiptoe around me in silence. They must see the shock on my face. Is Jean-Charles always like this?
I take a deep breath and remind myself that Parisians can be highly critical. But this does nothing to quell my insecurities.
“I respect your opinion, Mr. Luteau,” I respond quietly. “I’d love to get some more specific feedback about my work when you have time.”
He nods in response. “With pleasure.”
“What was that about?” Henry whispers as I take a seat next to him.
“He doesn’t like my work. We’re off to a rocky start.”
“Don’t worry. He has a reputation for being tough on everybody. You’ll survive.”
“Sure I will. I made it through two semesters in New York, didn’t I? Besides, everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” I whisper, trying to remain cool and mature about things. A few students send me sympathetic looks. I nod back appreciatively. We’re all in this together.
“Today, we’ll talk about the importance of solid storytelling,” Jean-Charles announces. I sit up in my seat, trying to be optimistic, although I’m not sure how I’ll manage to get through this class if I have such a serious handicap. Can he fail me just because he doesn’t like my blog?
Jean-Charles begins by talking about his background as an editor at a prestigious French publication, then he talks about the critical importance of creating cohesive editorials. He presents a lengthy slideshow of the various features he’s worked on over the years.
“In order to prove my point that digital storytelling is the future,” he says, “I want you to partner with someone in this class, go out to the hallway, and create a short video with your phone about a product you love. It can be anything — clothing, accessories, beauty products — but choose wisely. The video must be engaging. Be back here in forty-five minutes.”
Henry turns to me and grins. He’s all smiles. He excels at this sort of thing. Making videos is his specialty.
“I have some ideas,” he whispers and smiles, revealing his dimples.
“Great, because after what Jean-Charles said to me, I do not.”
“No worries, I got this. Let’s go.” He nods toward the door as students begin to exit the classroom en masse.
I catch Jean-Charles looking at me from the corner of his eye. I can tell he’s glaring at my outfit. I guess he doesn’t approve of my apple-green sweatshirt, funky green-and-yellow banana skirt, and green-and-black high-heeled booties that I’m wearing with yellow socks. I’m a total rulebreaker here. Nobody here wears heels and socks, but I couldn’t care less; it’s a look I like and that I stand behind. I want to tell Jean-Charles that life should be spontaneous, interesting, and layered, and that’s what I choose to reflect in my style of dress, but I can’t see how it would do any good. He just doesn’t get it.
“So, where are we going?” I ask Henry after he’s fetched his backpack from his locker. He’s also pulled out a large paper bag from a store whose name I don’t recognize. It must be a local brand.
“Somewhere amazing.”
“Okay, what’s our product?”
“Ta-dah!” He pulls out a crisp white leather bag. It has a clean, boxy shape, and no logos or adornments.
“A friend of mine makes them. And she’s been thriving — her bags sell like hotcakes.”
“Cool. I really like how pristine it looks.”
“Yeah, me too. Like a blank canvas.” He grins. I have a feeling that his idea goes beyond a simple white bag.
He gently takes me by the elbow and leads me to the street, where he calls for a taxi.
“You’re full of surprises,” I say once we’re in the back seat.
“You inspired me, Clementine!”
I can’t help but smile. “Happy to hear I’m inspiring someone in that classroom,” I say.
“Don’t worry about Jean-Charles. He just needs some time to warm up to you.”
“Yeah, right. I seriously doubt that’ll happen anytime soon.”
Henry nudges my elbow, and this time, his touch is electrifying. Sparks fly through my entire body. I roll down the window to get some (not so) fresh city air. I need to cool off. Peering out the window, I notice things I haven’t before, like how some motorcyclists protect their legs, chests, and necks from the wind and the chill with funky-looking covers made of vivid multicoloured fabrics. There are different styles for men and women. It’s a great concept. Why don’t motorcyclists in Paris and New York do the same? Jake would get a real kick out of it. He’d probably design some himself.
Another thing that catches my eye is the people walking around town in their pyjamas. There are people shopping, drinking tea, walking around, and playing games in sleepwear — matching tops and bottoms in a bright array of bold colours and patterns. This makes me smile. I mean, why not?
Henry tells me this practice of stepping out in sleepwear started after the opening up of the country around 1980, when Western-style PJs started to be sold in China without proper instructions for use. Shanghai officials recently became so concerned about what effect this look might have on their city’s cosmopolitan image that they ran a campaign about ten years ago to snuff out the fashion faux pas, posting signs saying Pyjamas Don’t Go Out the Door! The pyjama police even patrolled neighbourhoods, telling offenders to go home and change. Clearly, however, there are still people who resist. I’m all for it.
The taxi stops in front of a public market. Henry leads me to a young woman selling embroidered fabric swatches. They’re intricate, bright, and cheery, and the colours take my breath away.
“These are Miao embroideries, traditional Chinese textiles from the southeast provinces,” Henry explains. “Miao embroidery involves unique and complex stitches that give it a special look. The most common one is the satin stitch, which gives a shimmery effect. Choose the one you like most.” I see that he’s filming me with his phone as I make my selection.
“What is this for?”
“Take a guess,” he says, holding up the white leather bag.
“Oh, I get i
t. We’re customizing this bag now, are we?” I say with a posh English accent.
“Yes, darling.”
“What a great idea! All righty, then.”
I pick the swatch with the brightest pops of red. “These fabrics are stunning! They make me happy just looking at them,” I say into the camera.
Then I smile at the young woman, who nods back. “You make these?” I ask in Mandarin, and she nods in the affirmative. “They’re spectacular! You have so much talent.”
I almost forget that I’m being filmed. I wrap two pieces of fabric around the white bag’s handles. The effect is exquisite. I lift it up to show Henry. “Tradition and elaborate craftsmanship meets modern minimalism.”
“Brilliant!”
I love this idea. It feels great to be creative. No matter what Jean-Charles thinks about me and my blog, I’m totally liking this class … or is it Henry that I’m liking?
Henry pays for the fabric, then grabs my hand and pulls me away from the stand, through the countless market stalls, and eventually back to the street.
“What a great concept. You’re so good at this stuff!”
“We’re not done yet, Mademoiselle Liu.”
“Oh?”
“The bag could use a bit more loving, don’t you think?” he says, flashing his boyish grin.
“I guess. Do we have time?”
Henry looks at his watch. “Yes.”
“Okay. Um, I think the bag needs some charms,” I suggest.
“Good idea. And I know exactly where to find those.”
“I really picked the perfect partner, didn’t I? Oh, wait a minute, you picked me.” I poke him. He pokes me back.
Henry hails a cab and asks the driver to take us to an address in the Tianzi Fang neighbourhood, an arts and crafts enclave in the French Concession.
We stop in front of a mall-like complex and enter a space where a young woman is at work creating jewellery. As we approach, I see that she’s working on a pair of delicate earrings in the shapes of a flower and a bird.
Bonjour Shanghai Page 12