Deft fingers have rolled white satin thread onto a trellis of silvery mesh, like a jasmine bush in bloom, that finishes in twin swirls of floral petals. This brassi²re is as delicate as a bakery confection, as lustrous as a pearl. Even the straps are meant to be seen, wavering scallops of shimmering gray silk. The French make lingerie with such attention to detail that it stands alone, a piéce de résistance, the sort of beautifully crafted object that makes one feel pretty even when worn under sweats and an old T-shirt.

How I came to possess this treasure is simple. Marc Chagall made me buy it. Well, Chagall along with a nudge from Constantin Brancusi. I was in Paris on a mother-daughter mission to see the Brancusi exhibition at the Pompidou Center. My daughter, Sienna, had just graduated from college. She'd heard all her life about Le Petit Oiseau, a sculpture Brancusi carved out of Sienese marble, and how, because her first movements inside me felt like a little bird fluttering, she got her name. I wanted to show her Brancusi's "Little Bird".

Setting off on our pilgrimage, we crossed the industrialized, postmodern threshold of the Pompidou and entered a world of light, sensuality, and poetry. We were dwarfed by BrancusiÍs svelte Birds in Flight, caught our reflections in the high-polish bronze of the phallic Princess X, and longed to touch the tiny, tenderly inclined Head of a Child. When we entered a third gallery, there it was: the exquisite caramel-colored sculpture. Sienna reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze, a gesture I will never forget.

 

Did I need Chagall to help me rationalize my own caprice? Maybe. But I prefer to think of his paintings as an appealing link between art and personal finesse. Perhaps I just needed Paris.

Everything about Paris makes you want to be beautiful. Its buildings, epitomized by the Louvre and I. M. Pei's glass and steel pyramid, pay homage to the graceful continuum of old and new, reiterating the turn-of-the-century, steel-and-glass passages, while spilling with timeless flower stands, patisseries, and boulangeries, as well as au courant boutiques like Gaultier in the Galerie Vivienne. Parisians exude a sexy grace. Even the street cleaners wear chartreuse overalls that, with a bit of accessorizing, would be to die for. Of course, the French language itself is seductive. Inside a lingerie shop, there is no escaping the voluptuous words that intimate indulgence. It is not underwear in French. Here, we say brassiére, collant, chemise, culotte —pour le trés jolie derriére. Never has language fit so fine.

Paris can free up even the most practical American mindset. Its joie de vivre dissolves taboos, guilt, and thou-shalt-nots. A moment of American temperance, in which I decided to forego the matching panties, at first made me feel responsible, judicious —a posture soon shattered when Siena and I later modeled our purchases for our French friend Elisabeth. "What!" she chided me. "You didn't buy the panties? How can one buy half of a set of such beautiful things? And the dollar is so strong now, what's the matter with you?"

Our last day in the City of Light, my more sensible, carpe-diem daughter waited patiently in the taxi for me outside Orcanta. I flew in the door and up the stairs only to find myself amid a host of giggling shopgirls, who guessed exactly what had happened. I floated out the door buoyed by mon belle culotte wrapped in clouds of pink tissue paper and weighing slightly more than a feather —the violins, birds, and flowers in indolent pursuit.

©copyright Mary Heebner 2001