The Museum of Broken Relationships

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I am donating my fetish red Chanel lipstick to the Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb.

I recently heard about its existence. α7, my flatmate in Berlin, visited me upon her return from Croatia. She said it would be the kind of place I would love, because it is full of anonymous human stories.

I’ve decided to submit an object for their collection because I want to leave a trace of my late love story somewhere outside of me. I am donating the gift that my ex-woman got me for my 30th birthday, both to unload my emotional burden and to raise awareness on contemporary homophobia. I want people to read about it in a museum. Sometimes, I realise that some people don’t really believe me when I mention homophobia. They imagine that everyone’s cool with gayness in the Western world because they are. No, everyone’s not cool with it. It might sound redundant, but it is a forever useful reminder to say that there’s a long way to go (and I won’t shut my big fucking mouth until I die).

I had to write my story in the donation form:

“That was it, we were breaking up over fucking homophobia and its mindfucking side effects. All that happened a month before my 30th birthday. Although we were in the process of breaking up, we were still loving each other, living together, doing everything together and having passionate sex. We decided to celebrate my birthday in style.

My 30th was the apotheosis of our life together. She threw me an awesome party, invited my sister as a surprise, paid for everything. There wasn’t an ounce of sorrow or regret that night. I was ecstatic. She got me a red Chanel lipstick to welcome me into womanhood. The shade was called ‘Pirate’. It was my first piece of Chanel make up. A revelation. I was feeling empowered wearing it. That’s almost the only item that I’ve kept from our life together. I donated most of her gifts.

After my 30th, that was it, things declined, we parted to our own individual path. That’s over a year that I haven’t seen her. I cut off every communication. I never want to see or hear of her again and I struggle to forgive her for all that she did. A friend of mine ran into her on the bus a few months ago. She finally came out to her parents. They reacted awfully. They told her not to come back to their house until she had changed.

She turned 30 this year, and because 30 is a special number in our story, I wrote her a letter to acknowledge her coming out and tell her I was sorry about her homophobic barbarian parents. She never replied. Our love is old history now, but she sometimes still visits me in my dreams. I want her to be fine. I know things would have turned out differently between us if same-sex love was more acceptable. We were a disastrous waste.”

Everyone is welcome to submit an object and tell the story that goes with it to the Museum of Broken Relationships: https://brokenships.com/en/join/send_your_exhibit

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Paulette

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This is the portrait of my grandmother Paulette – “Mamilette”- painted by her father in the early 30s. It really captures her expression accurately. She never changed much. That’s one of the only objects I really care for. I carry it religiously with me at every house moving.

Paulette got admitted in hospital on Tuesday. She died yesterday, Saturday 7 March, around 4pm. My grandfather found 3 pictures of her garden in her handbag. It was her favorite place on earth.

I always believed she was immortal or would at least be a centenarian.

I only realise now that she’s gone how much we were of the same breed, the breed of women that people secretly want to grab by the hair and drag onto a stake because “nous faisons désordre” (“we create disorder”). If we had lived in another era, we would for sure have been burnt together. I am feeling like a lonely witch now. There are no witches in the generation above me, and I am the only witch of the family in my own generation.

So much she passed on to me. First, she gave me my huge wild hair, and those who know me in real life know that my hair is not a detail. Hers was as dark as mine is blonde, but it is the nature of the hair that tells the nature of the woman. She taught me how to look after it, brushing it from underneath so it can breathe. She also gave me my bright blue eyes. I am the only one of my siblings who got them. We had the exact same astrological signs: Cancer and Pig in the Chinese zodiac. We liked grunting at each other as a sign of recognition.

Paulette really was a a rare and extraordinary woman. She was unusual, original and atypical, therefore she had to deal with criticism and jealousy all her life. Most people enjoyed talking bad about her, because she wasn’t square-minded one bit and there was so much to say.  But the people who knew her very closely worshipped her for her personality and knowledge.

Paulette was a witch, but a benevolent one. She was coming from a family of mediums. Her dad was a physician and a medium, which is the most improbable combination ever. She used to do table-tipping with her sister when they were young. When my grandfather talks about that, he becomes very pale and says he regrets ever joining a nutcase family. Paulette was always receiving signs from the Great Beyond, she was communicating with the dead. I grew up with her stories of people asking her for help to make it to the other world. I remember a story of a spirit moving the hands of the clock while she was casually playing cards in her living-room. It was freaking me out. I really didn’t want the dead to manifest to me. We had this talk one day. She asked me “What is it that scares you about the dead?” I said that I had no control on them and on what they could do to me. She simply replied: “The only thing you can control in life is your breath. You can’t even control your thoughts.” Now that she’s gone, she may give my contact to the lost souls. With age, I think I am more ready for it.

Paulette was very good at doing things the way she wanted and telling everyone to fuck off. She was a dragon. One day, she threw slices of lamb at me and my cousin, right in our face, because we were refusing to eat meat. She was badly perceived by the men of her generation, and by the others as well. She was generally a nightmare to most men and a heroin to most women. For instance, she would refuse to cook or to serve people even if she had guests or family visiting. She was making herself a plate and say: “I am eating, you guys do what you want.” There was nothing docile or obedient about her. She taught me that. High five.

When she got really ill in her 50s or 60s – I never really knew what she had – she refused all kind of treatment from traditional medicine and healed herself with her knowledge of plants and natural remedies. She was mostly self-taught. She knew acupuncture, Chinese medicine, homeopathy. She once showed me a specific spot to massage on my finger in case of painful period, instead of stuffing myself with pain killers. She was saying that this is how she lived so long and healthy, and that if she had listened to the doctors, she would have died decades ago. She always was physically glowing and magnificent. Her only beauty products were Marseille soap and olive oil.

She wanted to transmit all her tips & tricks and knowledge of plants. I said I would record her teaching and make notes for all the grandchildren, but I didn’t. I didn’t take the time to do it because I always had another trip planned. She passed on a lot of it to my big brother who also is a natural healer, so it is not entirely lost. I am going to search her notes and her belongings to see what I can put together. I should have stopped everything and be her secretary for a week while she was still here. I was planning to go and visit her next month. Tickets were booked. She didn’t have the patience to wait. I think she decided that she was done.

She was extremely funny and she was a drama queen. She taught me not to take myself seriously. She was an irreverent clown. It was sometimes embarrassing to take her to public places, although I am the one of her descendants who’s the closest to her irreverence.

Despite our mutual love and similarities, we had huge disagreements on a number of subjects including feminism, abortion and homosexuality. She was a strange combination of Christian conservatism and witchcraft avant-garde. She was a feminist in her own way but could also say awful things about women having sex, wearing trousers or working whilst having kids. She always tried to suppress my body and my femininity. She was also openly homophobic, because she was in love with Jean Marais when she was young, and the day she found out that he wasn’t really kissing the girls on screen, she got all offended. Over the last years, I was taking my distance because it was too painful to hear her obsessive gay-bashing rants. She never knew about me. I never said a thing because I otherwise adored her. I hope she’s seeing me as I am now. I hope she’ll send me a sign, something funny, to tell me that she knows and that she likes it. I doubt she will apologise – not her style.

I am the second generation of women now. Both my grandmas are gone. They were born the same day of the same year – June 30th, 1923. All day yesterday before I got the news of Paulette’s death, I was invaded by an irrational urge for motherhood and transmission. I even picked a name for my son-to-be.

My turn to bring witches into this world.

Mamilette Noir&Blanc

Paulette gave me that picture taken at the beginning of the 50s. I assume the baby is my mother.