My new job as an embalmer, preparing the dead in a pop, glittery way, was working like a charm. Families of the deceased would order the characters they wanted to see their loved ones in one last time. I was allowed to prepare people as Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain, Homer Simpson or simply as an anonymous cheerleader or soccer player.
Palm Springs was a vague indication, but if I went by what his mother had told me, it wouldn't be long before I could get my hands on him. All I had to do was frequent luxury hotels, posh dance halls and old-lady bars to try and locate him.
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.
I'm going to let you in on a little secret: last year, I went through a period of emptiness, something that really put me on edge. Between a mid-life crisis and the need to hold on to something concrete and give meaning to my life, I really wondered whether I was on the right track. But I had to move on, so I decided to postpone my questioning.
When we arrived on rue Beaurepaire twenty years ago, at number twenty, where we still are today, the neighborhood looked completely different.
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.
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.
About ten years ago, I went to a bar in the 20th arrondissement to screen a short film I'd made. It was a good time, and my film was screened alongside a dozen others.
Before each new collection launch, like a monk, wearing my most beautiful pumps, I set off with my team in search of the holy grail, divine inspiration, hoping to be struck by lightning like the tree of life split in two by the gods of Olympus.
In the course of her life, Patricia has had the opportunity to travel and experience a wide variety of places. From the desert of Tatacoa, to the great plains of Cergy-Pontoise, she has had the privilege of treading on territories that she has been able to transcribe in her passionate creations.
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.