Jeanne Moreau
In the 1950s, taking advantage of my status as a footballer, I walked behind the scenes of the theater where Jeanne Moreau played.
During the filming of “Les amants” by Louis Malle, he had just sparked a scandal by proposing orgasm simply by shaking his hand on a sheet.
Muse of the new wave, friend of Miles Davis, she was already the representation of an insolence still ignored by the costume, she was forward and didn’t care.
Under the false pretense of an upcoming photo shoot, every night after the show, I would go to his dressing room for the pleasure of listening to him talk as he took off his makeup. In short, like everyone, I was in love with her.
Cinema, life, men, has dedicated itself to a sort of press review of a cheerful Paris. She did it with disarming naturalness, not at all embarrassed by my presence, evolving into a fluid silk dressing gown with an unforgettable scent. No doubt amused by this shy teenager’s assiduity, she knew that with or without makeup it was the absolute dream of the men of her time. I have never heard the slightest teasing from her. Like Simone Signoret, with whom I have had the privilege of having lunch with twice a year throughout my life, Jeanne has always had this wonderful ability to be interested in others. During the time of a conversation, no one but you existed. I’m sorry this kindness, this courtesy, tends to disappear under the cunning of the wrens of the beau monde, the short-sighted upstarts, who listen only to themselves, believing they are buying a personality by following the herd of those who look at each other mockingly, forgetting that it is not enough be interesting to become one.
With their imagination and their courage, Jeanne and Simone remain the clearest proof of this sentence by Boris Vian:
“Fashion is the imperative of the undecided. »
Jean-Marie Perier
