Creative

You can see the metro from your Belleville window, and as soon as the Bobos taking their kids to school clear off, you’ll stop by the Le Président for a nêm au porc: cheap and nutritious, the perfect breakfast. All the pain au choc’ and croissants will have been sold out by the time you emerge from your appart’ anyway. You tuck the right leg of your pants into your sock and hoist your bike onto your shoulder. You’re on your way to your shared atelier in Saint Ouen. Sure, it’s a pain to get to, especially on the bike – especially since the seat fell off (you really need to get that fixed) – but ever since you switched to ceramics you’ve been tellement inspiré, like you haven’t been in years. The collective show you did in Brussels last month went well… well… well, you would say in comparison to others. You managed to sell a piece but the gallery kept more than you think is fair. They always do. Still, the gallery served a really nice Sancerre at the vernissage – a nice break from of your usual lower-than-Kronenbourg-in-a-can beer. Although, honestly, the taste isn’t so bad and drinking it is also kind of a comment in and of itself. It’s a fun dialogue between pretending and consumption that you sometimes hope comes through in your work, although your friends do appreciate the occasional Champagne splurge whenever you sell something. You’re very much into the manipulation of bodies lately, and you’ve spent practically the whole week at Musée de la Chasse et Nature. Thank god you’re an artist and get free access to museums. Paris is the only city in the world that understands la vie creatif, and as long as that continues, so will you.