My great love affair with the Western. Horses, buffalo, cowboys, Indians, the Great Plains, stagecoaches, deserts, campfires, harmonicas, forts, Apaches, peace pipes, treachery, Death Valley, the Grand Canyon - the whole mythology of the American West has always fascinated me.
On the Internet, people often have a need for simplicity, efficiency and speed. I, on the other hand, like to take the time to explain that our creations have a meaning, a soul.
When my father arrived in France, he didn't intend to stop there permanently. He thought it would be a stopover. A sort of appetizer to Western life, before crossing the Atlantic and settling in New York.
While my parents were busy tearing each other apart over what to do with their lives, at the age of eighteen I took matters into my own hands and decided to perfect my English by spending a term in California with the money I'd earned selling cheese at the market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, near Bastille.
People often ask me where I got the wonderful name I gave one day to one of my most beautiful creations, the aptly named Captain Love.
And so it's off again for the famous and indisputable best festival in the world, which despite a very tough competition, remains the most brilliant and coveted of them all. Each time the opening approaches, every director and every producer rushes to finish their film in the hope of being selected as an official, alongside other films, or at least on a beach on the Croisette.
A fervent admirer of the Cannes Film Festival, to which she is invited every year but never attends due to lack of time, being too busy getting your little shoes ready, Patricia is always in a state of trance when the most beautiful event in the world finally arrives.
It's back-to-school, damn it. Damn, because when you have to get ready to put your hands, feet, neck and whole body into a new year, you have to be prepared or, on the contrary, completely relaxed to stand up and face an opponent that may seem out of proportion.
When I was young, very young, very small, barely old enough to walk, I was fascinated by a crazy TV show.
The day I left home, because things were really heating up with my boyfriend, my husband, I set off in search of myself. I left the little one with him, and headed for California with one idea in mind: to find the man I'd fallen madly in love with, the man who'd introduced me to body fever, curtain climbing and seventh heaven.
Alone in the middle of the parking lot, in my future husband's white corvette with red leather interior, I called out for some kind soul to come and administer first aid. I could still hear a vague rattle emanating from his mouth. Seeing that no one was coming, I began to give him improvised mouth-to-mouth on his chapped lips.