Narrative 10

G.'s raised collar :

I remember G. in high school, grade eleven. She was always dressed to the nines. She very often wore three-piece suits to come to school, almost always blue but in different tones. I always had the impression that she was dressed to go to a wedding ... or a funeral.

She was sitting in front of me in History. One morning she arrived dressed in one of her famous suit, but what was different is that the collar of her shirt was completely raised.

Sitting behind her, I saw this huge raised collar - shirts in those years had gigantic collars - and I decided on the spot to fold it down before anyone notices the "serious mistake "; her collar rose without her knowing! So I leaned on my desk reaching for her big collar and slowly I folded it down into its original position with my hand. I sat back on my chair with a sense of accomplishment.

G. then turned round giving me an interrogator keen eye and in front of the silent class raised her collar mumbling that this is how she wanted it.

Ô Shame! I, who had never dared to speak to this girl, whom I secretly liked, she scoffed at me in front of the class. (Well, in front of myself actually!) I felt so disgraced in front of her for the rest of the school year; an asshole who didn’t know the current fashion was raised collars!

The irony is that five or six years later, I began to raise my collars, not of my shirts, but of all my coats.

G., I have never forgotten you, you know; even today, whenever I raise my coat’s collar, I have a little thought for you...

This n' that

What's the strangest about this "re-conquest," it's that I change while being the same.

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At first, the person whom I made responsible for my blocking was my father. 

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Younger, I dreamed to be a professor or an archaeologist, and somebody important.

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I think that my creativity is the source of my soul.

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When I was a child, my father thought that my art, my creativity were useless. It triggered in me a feeling of anger. 

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I remember when he said to me, towards the end of my adolescence, that I would never be able to make a living as a artist. I felt very sad and angry. I have never forgotten this moment. (Ironically, this recollection is more and more vague today...)

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When I was a child, my mother taught me that dreams were impracticable. I remember that she always told me to snap out of it for my own good.