Pink Hair and My Finissage

Creative Fortnight in Paris #34

A map of Bruges in lace

“It’s like someone tells you that you have pink hair,” Olga said, trying to keep her calm voice steady in the joyful, noisy room of the My Little Paris headquarters. Once a month, creatives of all kinds gather for a Creative Morning - an early morning talk (which means 8 a.m. in Paris), and one of them shares their story. I did that just before my first book came out, back in 2018. This Friday, we were there for

Jessie Kanelos Weiner

’s talk, and I finally had the chance to go through her lovely new book Thinking in Watercolor.

The noisy, joyful room stayed noisy as I looked at Olga, nodding in agreement—aware that I really need to color my hair soon (maybe not pink, but still)—and prompting her to go on. I had met her just an hour earlier and told her straight away: now we only need an Igor and voilà—Chekhov could write a novella about us.

Olga resumed her “pink hair” exposé with passion: let’s say someone thinks you have pink hair when, in fact, your hair is jet black. What can you do? That’s simply their perspective, and it may not be possible to change it. The idea of “pink hair” says more about the observer than the person being observed. You might try to change their opinion, but it’s important to recognize that they may be facing something deeply ingrained. I nodded gravely and added, “And they might be color-blind—unaware of it—and there’s just nothing that can be done about that.”

The metaphor will stay with me. Pink hair, just like that. The weekend was off to a good start.

Yellow poodle . JK, get this pink one here

These last couple of weeks have been very busy. I’ve become a better boss to myself—I take breaks when I need them and respect weekends and holidays (a bit) more. May in France comes with many public holidays—ponts, or "bridges," as they’re called. (For example, if a public holiday falls on a Thursday, people often take the Friday off too.) We “made” one of those bridges and drove up to Flanders in Belgium.

Endless fields, cheerful people, and even happier cows were the first things I noticed as we glided down an almost toll-free highway. A friend once told me he imagines Belgium as a grey European bureaucratic hole. Quite the opposite, really—layers of history, shops that close at 6 p.m. (because life isn’t just work), and a lot of chocolate. A lot. I’ve been before, but never in spring, and never to this particular, fairytale-like region of Bruges and Ghent. We took boat rides along the canals, ate some proper Belgian fries, and were lucky enough to catch asparagus season in northern Europe.

While preparing for the trip, I read a lot about the Dutch painting scene of the 15th century. My brain was having fun—walking through the streets of Flandria, I imagined passersby as characters from Bosch’s and Bruegel’s paintings. Highly recommended. I had a great time with my brain!

Random photos from my Belgium album (weirdly cropped by the app)

I’ve been working on a couple of custom-made maps lately—some personal, others created for client projects. One collaboration I particularly enjoyed was with Rebecca Plotnick of

Everyday Parisian

, for her beautiful book Paris Every Day. It was a joy working with her—we both share a love for the details, for celebrating life, and well, for Paris.

Rebecca used my map as a special gift for her pre-sale orders (which, in my opinion, is a brilliant marketing idea and a lovely surprise for readers). My map will also be featured inside the book—how exciting is that?

You can order it and enjoy it while sipping a rich coffee on a slow Sunday morning. Rebecca wrote about our collaboration in this post, and here’s a video where I filmed my drawing process of the gates of Parc Monceau:

If you’d like me to create something just for you, I currently have two custom map spots open for June—get in touch!

Place Tells a Story

Scarecrow

I scared a crow.

I was minding my own business, and so was she. Our paths crossed—I was on the phone, she was standing on a branch lying on the asphalt next to a parked car—and she got scared, thinking I was about to walk into her. Instinctively, I shouted, “Sorry!” The empty Sunday morning street echoed with my unexpected comment. There was no one else—just the two of us.

I kept walking. A moment later, I saw her again—this time behind the car, still with the same giant branch. She was moving it around now, looking a bit annoyed, a bit intellectual. She looked like she was brainstorming something, turning her elegant head left and right, left and tight.

I stopped. I was now standing above the railroad tracks, far enough not to interrupt her thinking process. And I understood what was happening: she was trying to break the branch to move it somewhere important. The wind was strong, and she knew she could only fly short distances with a stick that size.

She and her branch had made it to the other side of the tracks—still a good distance from me. Now she was walking along a narrow concrete fence, one leg in front of the other, wobbly but proud, and carrying that giant branch. Teenagers passed behind me, trying to figure out the reason for my awe.

Then, out of nowhere, my bird friend flew up to the construction above the center of the tracks—all wires and spikes—and with two brisk movements, she snapped the branch. The next second, she was airborne, off to continue building her home—or so I assumed. The other half of the branch fell and landed between the rails, a few floors below. I wondered if I should wait to see if she’d return for it—it looked like very decent nest material to me.

This spring, I’ve reminded myself—over and over again—to stay on the lookout for nature and its rhythms. Sometimes that awareness comes to me naturally; other times, I have to remind myself that I am here, and that now is happening. As a child of the city, seasonality was marked mostly by school vacations and family trips. So I re-educated myself—by watching crows, trees, reading books, and listening to podcasts.

This brings me joy—just as much as a simple haiku does, when read slowly and with attention:

“Thanks for all”
Expressing my gratitude to blossoms
At the parting.

—Spring Haiku verse by Bashō

(read it again)

Studio News

Last Thursday, for the second time, I hosted a creative gathering—a space where people were invited to come with their own projects and, well… create.

I always have a list of ideas I’d love to explore if only I had the time—but in the end, it’s not about having time, it’s about making it.

Both times, a lovely group of people gathered, and we carved, glued, painted, and made cake flowers—each working on our own, but together. The first time, I simply played with oil pastels. The second, I created little mobiles from scrap paper I had painted and cut.

Mobiles from scrap paper. Which one do you like the best?

I’m hoping to continue organizing these free meetups (all you need is to grab a drink or a slice of cake or both). I’m very grateful to Jenni for opening the doors of her café and letting us create within its cozy walls.

My exhibition is currently up on the walls of 12Cakes and will be there until June 4th. There will be a little finissage (closing party) on Thursday, May 29th from 7pm, and I’d love to see you there!

You can take a look at the artwork here, and if something speaks to you, feel free to reserve it in advance—I’ll send it your way, lovingly framed and well-packed.

I’ll be back next week with my May List, but until then:
Thank you, merci, and hvala for being here.
I hope this Sunday morning finds you well and peaceful.

Sonja

Rebecca’s photo of her book and my map

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