If you ask me what would be must in women's closet (besides good jeans and trenchcoat), I would sing up for a white shirt.
There is nothing so simple, sophisticated and sexy as a wide white shirt belted around the waist of a woman. You can wear it with anything; jeans, suit, skirts, leather jacket etc.
It will never get out of the fashion and will always serve you as your secret armor when having doubts about what do dress.
Even Posh once said:
If in doubt, anything looks good with a white shirt.
As the spring has visited us this weekend, I wanted something fresh, elegant but still not too boring.
I remembered my black statement skirt enriched with colorful stones, pearls, and handmade embroidery. Very chic but hard to combine in a right way (if you do not want to look like spring meadow).
In that case, white shirt was the best option. Silk black tights fit perfectly so as my green heels which I have already promoted enough :)
Since my Sunday brunch can last until evening (Château de something's fault as usual), I have covered myself with my eternal black trench coat.
Details on my skirt looked great with the yelling green shoes and my favorite red bag.
As the spring can be so inspiring, why not use some of the most beautiful French poems to improve your vocab.
What is France without famed poet and essayist Charles Baudelaire?
Baudelaire was born in Paris in 1821 and was publishing his work in the early 40s. “Les Fleurs du mal” (“The Flowers of Evil”), from which this poem comes, was first published in 1857 and was a huge elevator for Baudelaire’s career and fame.
He is best known for his representation of art in the way that is “non-poetic,” thrilled with symbols from nature.
Enjoy the following sample of delightful French poem about springtime wrote by Charles Baudelaire (I will attach the translation as well).
“Paysage” (“Landscape”) is a fantastic example of the way in which Baudelaire was inspired by everyday life, making it different and unique from most other poems about springtime. nature was his inspiration but not the only focus.
The Original Text
Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,
Coucher aupres du ciel, comme les astrologues,
Et, voisin des clochers écouter en revant
Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.
Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,
Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde ;
Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,
Et les grands ciels qui font rever d’éternité.
II est doux, a travers les brumes, de voir naître
L’étoile dans l’azur, la lampe a la fenetre
Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament
Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.
Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes ;
Et quand viendra l’hiver aux neiges monotones,
Je fermerai partout portieres et volets
Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.
Alors je reverai des horizons bleuâtres,
Des jardins, des jets d’eau pleurant dans les albâtres,
Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,
Et tout ce que l’Idylle a de plus enfantin.
L’Emeute, tempetant vainement a ma vitre,
Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre ;
Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté
D’évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,
De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire
De mes pensers brulants une tiede atmosphere.
The English Translation
I want to write a book of chaste and simple verse,
Sleep in an attic, like the old astrologers,
Up near the sky, and hear upon the morning air
The tolling of the bells. I want to sit and stare,
My chin in my two hands, out on the humming shops,
The weathervanes, the chimneys, and the steepletops
That rise like masts above the city, straight and tall,
And the mysterious big heavens over all.
I want to watch the blue mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.
And I shall dream of luxuries beyond surmise,
Gardens that are a stairway into azure skies,
Fountains that weep in alabaster, birds that sing
All day — of every childish and idyllic thing.
A revolution thundering in the street below
Will never lure me from my task, I shall be so
Lost in that quiet ecstasy, the keenest still,
Of calling back the springtime at my own free will,
Of feeling a sun rise within me, fierce and hot,
And make a whole bright landscape of my burning thought.
(Translated by George Dillon)
Keep in mind that spring won't come from one flower and one swallow does not make a spring, so as the bag and the shoes!
I hope you enjoyed.
La Bohème Brulée