She put me on to this and this a few months ago, and they’re still among the few blogs I check in on regularly.
Martin the tailor reminds me so much of my own dad and his own story. Both my parents are tailors, and my maternal grandfather owned his own tailor shop. Between the three of them, they’ve clothed generations of people, hundreds of people, maybe thousands, across three continents. Sloped shoulders, curved spines, protruding bellies — every body is perfect if you cut the fabric right. “There are no tailors anymore,” my dad tells me. To hear Martin echo his thoughts makes it feel like a poem.
Angry journalists seem to need anonymity to rant. A climate of paranoia within a climate of paranoia.
Not sure what the point of this hands-wringing mixtape is, but it would be far more interesting if there had been some cross-referencing of arrest rates and incarceration patterns. Crime has always been scattered; arrests and convictions much less so. Dig deeper! What crimes, anyway? And is the “ghetto” really a physical place? If you tear destroy the place, do you destroy the space? You already know what I think.
So what’s good in Paris these days? No link, I want you to tell me. Ont-ils des pop-tarts?