From the 11th With Love (and a Side of Fries)
Nobody Listens Until You Leave
Week one in Paris and a few things are already clear: I suck at content creation, the men in my life are terrible listeners, and duck breast might just be my love language.
I’ve been in Paris for a week, and already, the city has begun to unravel me in the best way. In the quiet moments between gallery visits and slow meals, I’ve found myself thinking not just about this place—but about the people I left behind. Specifically, the men.
Here’s the thing I’ve realized: most of the men in my life don’t really listen to me when I’m around. They don’t ask about my work, my goals, or what I’m building. But when I’m gone? Suddenly, there’s concern. There are texts. They wonder how I’m doing. It's curious—how proximity makes me invisible, and absence makes me essential. And truthfully, it’s not that they don’t care. It’s that they never had to learn me. They just assumed I’d always be there.
It’s made me reflect on how often I move in silence. I don’t share my goals widely. I don’t ask for help. I don’t outsource my vision. Partly because I trust my instincts more than anyone else’s advice, and partly because I’ve learned that people often listen just long enough to respond—not to understand. And that’s exhausting. So I keep my cards close. But in doing so, I wonder: do I make it too easy for people to misunderstand me?
I live an intentional life. Every decision—from what I wear to what I write to where I sit at dinner—has purpose. Yet I’m often met with assumptions, projections, or comments rooted in fantasy rather than fact. I find myself standing at the intersection of who I am and who people believe me to be, and I’m learning not to take that personally. (Or, at least, give my therapist some tasty tidbits to unpack when I get back stateside.)
But here’s what I do know: I am my own best friend. My own loudest cheerleader. My own damn therapist. And if nothing else, this trip has reminded me of the value of solitude and the power of writing things down. Your journal is a mirror. Look often.
The Art of Wandering (and Duck)
Paris Gallery Weekend just wrapped, and I spent Saturday on a gallery hop focused on soon-to-close exhibitions. Some standouts:
Sophie Calle: Séance de rattrapage and Barry McGee: I’m Listening at Perrotin—two wildly different artists, both masterful in their own way. Calle continues to blur the line between memory and performance, while McGee’s work buzzes with movement and contradiction.
Lorraine O’Grady: Artifacts at Marianne Ibrahim—a moving and nuanced look at legacy, image, and erasure.
Frank Bowling’s solo exhibition at Hauser & Wirth, his first in France. His collage work is stunning, and I’ll be sharing a deeper dive later this week.
I’m staying in the Charonne neighborhood in the 11th arrondissement—a neighborhood filled with boulangeries that smell like heaven and restaurants that test your resolve to not dine out three times a day. Spoiler: I’ve failed. Gloriously. And I love that for me.
Two standouts so far:
Clamato – The seafood sibling to Septime. I couldn’t get a Septime reservation (because... Paris), but I walked into Clamato and snagged a seat at the bar. The spiny crab was all vibe, minimal yield. The cockles in chipotle butter, though? Sublime.
Brasserie Martin – My favorite meal of the week. I sat at the chef’s counter (a theme is forming) and ordered the duck breast. It comes with spätzle, but I couldn’t ignore the parade of rotisserie chicken and fries being served around me. I asked for fries. Chef Antoine Casel handed me a bowl. He gets me. That duck and those fries were a revelation. I’ll be back. I may even let the chef serve it his way next time—but let’s not rule out a side of fries.
On Being a Terrible Content Creator
Let’s address the obvious: I am failing at content creation. I’ve taken plenty of photos of artwork, because that feels natural. But photographing my food in restaurants? Not so much. The angles, the lighting, the performative pause before eating? I can’t do it. I want to experience the meal, not curate it.
So, for now, I’m opting out of the "aesthetic overhead shot" struggle. I’ll describe it. I’ll savor it. I might ask the restaurant to email me a press photo. But I won’t stop mid-bite to stage a shot. I came here to create—and sometimes, that means putting the phone down and picking the journal up.
What’s Coming Up
This week, I’m planning to visit:
Paris Noir: Artistic Circulations, Anti-Colonial Struggles 1950–2000 at Centre Pompidou
Worth: Inventing Haute Couture at Petit Palais
David Hockney 25 at the Louis Vuitton Foundation
And, if all goes according to plan, a weekend trip to London for the opening of Leonardo Drew at South London Gallery, including an artist talk with Drew and Ekow Eshun.
Wish me luck. I’ll report back—with or without photos.
Until then, here’s to solitude, duck fat, and trusting your gut. Literally and metaphorically.
—Christal
You will learn to love duck fat!! And it’s many applications aside from confiť