Vanessa Para, Para, Paradis
She’s the only woman to make Hasidism de rigueur
When the London tube first said “mind the gap,” I wonder if it was because someone saw her smile. She must have been visiting from Paris and switching trains when she laughed so hard that all her teeth showed, and this man who makes slogans for a living caught sight and just…fell right in.
In love with that space, and that face, and then perhaps rather unfortunately, dramatically and romantically, into the gap.
I wonder about how the sun feels every time she wears a hat. The thing about her in a hat is that she looks otherworldly, as though hats were invented to shade only her. So does the sun feel excluded? Or does it understand style?
She wears leather in this way that I’ll never be able to, and I bet she’s figured out how to keep her elbows perennially soft. I don’t think she worries if this works with that, or what the dress code is and if it’s “okay” to wear jeans.
She probably just does it anyway, and the whole ball-gowned room sighs in jealousy.
Men must look at her in a trouser and give up all hope, either because they can’t have her, or because they’ll never look like she does in the same pair they own. Women, at the very least, have come to accept it.
I wonder if her co-stars have a hard time remembering their lines when hers form around the corner of her eyes. And I wonder if Robert Frost were to see her now, he’d take back the sentiment that “nothing gold can stay.”
There’s this wispy thing about her hair, as though a bird sits atop her head each morning and methodically selects the individual strands that deserve to be out of place. With it’s beak it musses, and very clean feet, it tap dances, until her mane is perfectly, ethereally messy.
And I wonder if every time this happens, a J.Crew model gets her wings.