The longer story

I grew up in a house where dressing well wasn’t optional. My mother kept us in whatever was current, and we shopped every weekend — not for anything in particular, just to look. Later it was the house: a bowl, a lamp, a chair nobody needed. There was never a goal. That was the training. I learned proportion, colour, and how to spot the thing that’s half a degree off long before I knew those were skills.

So I’m overdressed. People tell me so regularly. Some days there’s paint on my face as well.

I started painting because I needed somewhere to put feelings I couldn’t say. I still don’t plan them — I pick up whatever colour the day is and stay in that family until it’s finished.

At twenty I was on my own and needed work, so I applied to everything, blindly. I showed up to an interview having forgotten what the job was. It turned out to be an au pair placement in America. I didn’t speak English. I went anyway.

That year taught me the thing I’ve leaned on ever since: you can adapt to anything if you actually want to. I think in French and in English now and I’ve stopped noticing which one arrives first.

Dancing taught me the other half — how to follow without needing to know where we’re going.

Most people admire money. I admire talent, purpose, and the reason someone does a thing at all. And I’d rather be told the truth, even when it stings. Most people won’t say what they really think, which is a waste — half the time what they’re holding back is good.

I’d rather be real than impressive.