The album at the front of my parents' record collection, the one whose cover I could see as a little girl from almost every angle of the room, secretly terrified me. The pastel sketch of a sunken, tortured Edith Piaf made me uneasy. The artist had portrayed her haggard face in a such a way that for the first time I understood that some people were not completely happy. Something in her eyes and hollowed out cheeks made me recognize, in my own childishly vague way, the existence of sadness, suffering and death. It reminded me, in fact, of a skeleton, although I can't think where I might have actually seen one at that age.
My parents played her records often. I remember twirling around the living room to "La Goulante du Pauvre Jean" and imitating the movements I thought were those of a woman in love to "La Vie en Rose" and "Hymne à l'Amour." I had no idea that the voice which at turns transfixed and annoyed me - "Bravo pour le Clown" and "Ca Ira" really, really grated on my nerves - belonged to the woman on the scary album cover. Without understanding the actual lyrics, her voice communicated the emotion she was singing about, be it love or dancing in a crowd.
Years later when I was learning French, her songs took on a new dimension as I rolled over my tongue the sweet simplicity of lines like, "Il me dit des mots d'amour/ des mots de tous les jours / et ça me fait quelque chose." *
When I went to Paris for the first time, it was her voice that was the background music to my strolls along the quais of the Seine, my pilgramges to Hemingway haunts such as the Shakespeare & Company bookstore and the Closerie des Lilas, and my attempts to strike poses in cafés worthy of Doisneau photographs. A blonde American teenager trying to look sufficiently European, mysterious and brooding over her afternoon café au lait and ridiculously strong Gitane filterless cigarettes must have been touchingly naive and cliché. (Pardon my French).
A film has just come out about her life, which Handsome and I went to see. Called "La Môme" over here, and "La Vie en Rose" in the US, the press has been abuzz about the young actress, Marion Cotillard, who plays the role of Edith Piaf, and how amazingly she disappears into the skin of the French legend. Ms. Cotillard is only in her twenties, and had some successes on her film resume, but no one except the director thought she was capable of pulling off such a role, much less carrying the entire film.
She is incredible.
My parents played her records often. I remember twirling around the living room to "La Goulante du Pauvre Jean" and imitating the movements I thought were those of a woman in love to "La Vie en Rose" and "Hymne à l'Amour." I had no idea that the voice which at turns transfixed and annoyed me - "Bravo pour le Clown" and "Ca Ira" really, really grated on my nerves - belonged to the woman on the scary album cover. Without understanding the actual lyrics, her voice communicated the emotion she was singing about, be it love or dancing in a crowd.
Years later when I was learning French, her songs took on a new dimension as I rolled over my tongue the sweet simplicity of lines like, "Il me dit des mots d'amour/ des mots de tous les jours / et ça me fait quelque chose." *
When I went to Paris for the first time, it was her voice that was the background music to my strolls along the quais of the Seine, my pilgramges to Hemingway haunts such as the Shakespeare & Company bookstore and the Closerie des Lilas, and my attempts to strike poses in cafés worthy of Doisneau photographs. A blonde American teenager trying to look sufficiently European, mysterious and brooding over her afternoon café au lait and ridiculously strong Gitane filterless cigarettes must have been touchingly naive and cliché. (Pardon my French).
A film has just come out about her life, which Handsome and I went to see. Called "La Môme" over here, and "La Vie en Rose" in the US, the press has been abuzz about the young actress, Marion Cotillard, who plays the role of Edith Piaf, and how amazingly she disappears into the skin of the French legend. Ms. Cotillard is only in her twenties, and had some successes on her film resume, but no one except the director thought she was capable of pulling off such a role, much less carrying the entire film.
She is incredible.
Amazing.
Stupefying.
Go see it.
*He tells me words of love / everyday words / and that does something to me.
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