I dream of Dior

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It was Dior that made me book the Eurostar tickets. After persuading myself since summer that I didn’t need to see every exhibition and that I could be satisfied with the catalogue, I could no longer resist. For Dior is the stuff dreams are made of, whether you prefer designs by CD himself, YSL, Marc Bohan or any of the later designers. Even if you hate most of the stuff that comes down the runway today, there is nothing like the magic of a Dior dress to restore your faith in fashion and elegance.

The exhibition at Les Arts Décoratifs is not without its drawbacks. Although I had booked tickets, it was absolute chaos just getting in and then there are the enormous crowds in the first few rooms which make it almost impossible to see anything. But you forgive them that for the lighting which makes the clothes look even more exquisite. Each room is more beautiful than the previous one until you come to the grand finale – a temple of fashion with the most magnificent dresses – jewel encrusted or plain, dreams in satin, silk, tulle or taffeta – with the shimmering light show in gold overhead and on the walls. There is nothing to do but pause and gaze open-mouthed. I shall never forget the experience and can only say merci, Monsieur Dior.

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My favourite dress in the whole exhibition.

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Written in stone

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The last time I visited Paris, it was winter and a light dusting of snow covered the ground. I couldn’t  wait to take the metro up to Montmartre cemetery, one of the few I haven’t visited, with my Paris guidebook featuring a guided walk there by the great photographer Jean-Loup Sieff, plus flowers for François Truffaut, Hector Berlioz and Dalida who are all buried there. My enthusiasm died a sudden death though when I found the gates firmly locked with a notice that this cemetery, and in fact, all cemeteries and large parts of parks were closed for health and safety reasons. For such a romantic nation, the French have no sense of the poetic at times – what could be more beautiful than funerary monuments in the snow? To paraphrase Henri IV, “Paris vaut bien une jambe cassée.”

Anyway, I’m happy to report that this time there was no snow. In fact, it was the perfect winter’s day and the only decent one of my trip. Returning to Père Lachaise after 16 years, everything felt both familiar and new. It really is a remarkable place and like many great French things, we owe it to Napoleon, or more specifically Nicholas Frochot, after the walls of the notoriously overcrowded Cimetière des Innocents collapsed and he ordered him to create new cemeteries outside the centre including this one, named after Louis XIV’s confessor, Père de la Chaise. Its immediate attraction for me all those years ago was the number of famous people I admire who sleep there – Simone Signoret and Yves Montand, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrision, Frédéric Chopin, Isadora Duncan, Marcel Proust, Marie Trintignant, Balzac, Edith Piaf and too many others to mention. But one of the great pleasures is just to wander from section to section along its avenues lined with magnificent old trees, stopping to admire any monuments or graves that catch your eye and even imagining the story behind the names.

If you want to go there, I encourage you to get off at Gambetta and walk down the hill which is much less arduous and crowded. You will need a plan which you can find at the entrance at the top or from the conservation office at the bottom. I also recommend a guide like Permanent Parisians or Stories in Stone, both of which are excellent. But also be realistic – there are 108 acres to cover and it’s almost impossible to visit all the graves you want to in one day. And always be prepared for surprises – a cemetery cat greeted me after I unexpectedly found the great Claude Chabrol’s grave on my way to Chopin’s. Pausing, I saw a man with wild curly hair and glasses, carrying a folder coming towards me. When I told him I was now looking for Jim Morrison’s grave, he exclaimed, “Jim is dead?!,” before leading me on a shortcut to find it and telling me all the fascinating stories about Edith Piaf, Marcel Marceau, Chopin and so many others. He works as a guide and loves his job because he has no boss calling him on the phone and covers a huge amount of space walking each day. His secret was revealed when he opened a cigarette box to reveal large amounts of chocolate. He left me to make his way to the crematorium to see the barbecue as he described it but I encountered him again, chatting and laughing with other visitors. A true delight.

As the sun started to set, my feet began to ache and I resigned myself to not seeing all the graves on my list and felt sad at the thought of leaving this place that means so much to me. But the memories of that special day are still so vivid and I’m already thinking about my next trip to Paris when I might finally get to Montmartre.

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Héloïse and Abélard

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Robinson’s phantasmagoric tomb

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Félix Faure, President of the French Republic who may have died after erotic excess with his mistress.

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Vivant Denon

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Memorials to those who died in concentration camps.

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The Communards’ Wall

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Oscar Wilde

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Honoré Daumier’s grave was in a sad state when I first visited but it’s now been restored thanks to donations by those who love his work.
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Jim Morrison

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René Lalique