National Treasure
Meandering Walks and Blossoming Escapism
My father has always taken us on long, meandering walks. He has a knack for choosing routes that lead to scratched legs and good conversation. One sunny afternoon in Provence, I joined him on those paths in the garrigue. It had been years, and just as always, I found myself confiding in him again.
A friend of a friend — fun, vaguely famous, charismatic — had shown me warmth and attention on many occasions, and then, without warning, withdrawn it. The shift was abrupt. Almost curt. It caught me off guard and, despite everything, I could not quite understand it.
“She is your typical superficial person,” my father said as we walked past a blossoming wild almond tree.
The word made me smile. I hadn’t heard it used like that in a long time. It carried a certain nostalgia — of attractive classmates at school or university who managed their popularity by distributing affection generously but never committing to anyone in particular. Like fairies, they offered the illusion of intimacy. You felt chosen, briefly illuminated. Then the magic vanished, leaving you unsure whether it had existed at all and strangely eager for its return.
Today, superficiality has become a compulsory currency, well monetised. Popularity shines on a global stage, amplified by algorithms, sustained by the small voltage of a like, a swipe, a well-chosen emoji. I have felt it myself: that fleeting sensation of being made to feel like a million dollars by a charming PR or a magnetic content creator. The spell is real. So is its disappearance. It is part of the choreography.
Depth has a different tempo. I sometimes wonder where it now resides. Even in art, talent alone is no longer enough. Artists are expected to inhabit their myth, cultivate their image. A measure of superficiality has entered their world, whether they choose it or not.
A week later, I was back in London. At Tate Modern, Tracey Emin was opening a grand new show, Second Life.
I have never been entirely convinced by Emin. She has built her career on radical exposure, sharing her most intimate traumas with undeniable bravery. But I have often felt that her persona as an artist somehow overshadowed the work itself. For a long time it seemed to me that her art, built around personal confession, remained stubbornly centred on her. The leap into something universal never quite happened. But she captured our attention, and perhaps that was enough in a world competing for it.
“She is a national treasure,” Tate director Maria Balshaw declared at the press opening.
In many ways, she is. I remember seeing My Bed at the Saatchi Gallery twenty-five years ago, not quite disgusted by the dirty, much-talked-about underwear, but curious to see it; it was such a talking point then. Looking at it now, nothing much has changed. The empty Absolut bottle, the pregnancy test, the crumpled Marlboro pack, their visual codes are still instantly recognisable today. The outrage has faded, the cultural context shifted, but something in the rawness endures.
Then I came to the recent paintings. This is where the exhibition truly enters its second life. These are works Emin made during the illness that nearly killed her.
Emin lying in bed, ill, diminished. A body marked by suffering. A cat as her only companion. She could be your parent, your child, yourself. Whatever performance had sustained the earlier work was no longer possible, no longer necessary. What remained felt unguarded in a way the earlier confessions, for all their daring, had not quite managed to be. It moved me deeply, at last.
Spring weather of pleasures
And now it’s March. Magnolias in London are blossoming, and so is our need for new textures, colours, prints and scents — and for walking barefoot in spring derbies. I’ve been listening to Debussy’s Rêverie and dreaming that the soft weather might stay.
Here are some of the things I’ve read, bought and enjoyed this month: light knits, ballerina shoes, fresh makeup.
Spring must-have
I saw white derbies everywhere in Paris during fashion week. They are the shoes of the moment, and an easy way to give an everyday outfit a touch of spring.
A bright handbag
We are often tempted to reach for the black bag. But I can promise you that a bright-coloured one solves many problems: it instantly lifts an outfit. This Alaïa one is just gorgeous, but I am also tempted by a Bottega Pouch I spotted on Vestiaire Collective — very reasonable price-wise. My current fantasy is the Celine crystal pouch in cobalt blue — feather-light and seen everywhere during Milan fashion week.
Soaps to lather on
Flamingo Estate’s fabulous soaps are exactly what our post-winter skin needs. I especially recommend the manuka honey one: a subtle scent and delightfully nourishing.
Little red shoes
Perfect with light blue denim. I dream of owning the Phoebe Philo ones one day. In the meantime, these Soeur slingbacks have exactly the right dose of retro chic.
Dreamy eyelashes
Sweed’s eyelash growth serum has been something of a talking point among beauty editors. I’ve been testing it and have been very pleasantly surprised. Highly recommended.
French lamp
Sézane’s new lampshades, designed in collaboration with Les Composantes, are just what I was looking for. A touch of the seventies, but with elegance and simplicity.
An unlikely page-turner: Wild Thing
I am not quite sure how I ended up reading a biography of Paul Gauguin. I rarely read biographies. Gauguin, for all the dazzling colours of his post-impressionist paintings, is as famous for his philandering with Polynesian girls as for his art. I had cancelled him long ago.
