Paris, Purpose, and Preserves

Paris always brings out my best self — my charitable self, my photogenic self, the version of me accompanied by my assistant Cécile, a Cultural Liaison for Emotional Optics I hired to help me “connect with the locals.” She mostly sighs and mutters “mon dieu, pas maintenant” whenever I try to film, which I find grounding in a devotional sort of way.

A certain “revitalized” brand begged me to attend their show, but I couldn’t. I do so care about children, and while redemption arcs are fashionable, complicity is not. Still, I sent flowers and a gracious note thanking them for the invitation and assuring them that my absence was purely a matter of timing and fatigue.

Instead, I spent the afternoon at a luncheon featuring hand-foraged truffle consommé and something called velouté of ethically massaged pigeon. It arrived beneath a bell jar of perfumed steam, a presentation so excessive it nearly brought me to tears. I dabbed them away with my napkin embroidered with the word balance.

I also made a brief visit to pay respects near the tunnel — quietly, reverently, as one does. Some people find tragedy aesthetic; I find it sacred. I left white roses and didn’t record a single frame. It’s called restraint. More people should try it.

Later, I tried to “accidentally” run into a certain man who owns rockets and entire economies. He wasn’t at the event, which was unfortunate, because I’d practiced my pitch for a new streaming venture — something between MasterClass and therapy, but starring me. It’s called Empath.

By midweek, I felt it was time to reconnect with the earth, to return to my agrarian essence. I noticed the array of canning tools in the pantry- funnels, jar lifters, and a truly intimidating thermometer- and wondered what it might feel like to actually use them. So, I filmed myself arranging them for aesthetic purposes and pretended, briefly, to be my Domestic Artisanal Coordinator.

Of course, she’d already done the real work, the sterilizing, the stirring, the quiet heroism of keeping jam from scorching. But watching the footage afterward, I felt genuinely accomplished, as though I’d contributed meaningfully to the process through sheer empathy and excellent framing. It was deeply moving, in a curated sort of way- almost pastoral, really. And isn’t that what connection is about? Feeling like you’ve done something meaningful, even if someone else did it for you.

Between the interviews, the awards, and trying not to be photographed with anyone more famous than me, I remembered that the appearance of purpose can be just as nourishing as the thing itself.

Now that I’m back in Montecito, the air feels indulgent again, salt from the sea, sage from the hills, and the faint perfume of camellias opening along the garden wall. The house is calm except for the ducks preening by the fountain and the low hum of the espresso machine, which I’ve decided counts as meditation. I’m considering my next act of benevolence- perhaps a candle drive, or a luncheon for women burdened by abundance.

It’s important work, maintaining balance. But someone must do it beautifully.