Little Mo.

June 14, 2020.

I split my bread in two. I've been splitting everything in two since it first appeared. On French television, it's the same as on Polish television; a multitude of silly series, cartoons, of course, and facts on every other channel. I'll leave the cartoons. After all, my child needs some entertainment.

And today I'm doubtful. Doubting. And I shouldn't be, because the sun makes me optimistic. I pour it into a cup. After all, my little one loves oranges; he'll surely be happy with what I've prepared.

Tea wakes me up. In our apartment on Marbeuf, the sun dances every morning, especially in the summer. In our apartment on Marbeuf, there are fresh flowers every day and the window is wide open; from here, you can hear the Champs Elysees raising its daily bustle.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I hear my little one falling in the hallway. His laughter. When Michał enters the kitchen, he smiles broadly, rubbing his eyes. His dark blond hair and blue pupils. He turns off the TV. Well, it was predictable; I should have gotten used to him not liking it. He asks for placebo songs. I laugh because, after all, it's so old it should be forbidden.

We plan our day. A painting exhibition, my studio, an evening opening. I carry it with me everywhere like a handy world map. I'm a photographer myself. It's funny, because when I was still a minor, I wanted to work as a singer, and later, it was more of a high-end career: a journalist. I also remember working at a travel agency because they paid well and you could see a lot. As the years passed, my ambitions diminished. My last plan before leaving, and before him, was to work as the wife of a famous designer/football player/presenter. It didn't work out, because, as you can see, I ended up in Paris, and as a photographer at that. Well. I guess I wanted all of that, because, as my grandmother used to say, that was my goal, the one I was striving for, subconsciously.

The funniest thing is that [as if that weren't enough], everything I do is the subject of paparazzi attention. Well, I can't say it's pleasant when my son complains about these vultures who rob him of his privacy and make his entire body glow with their flashbulbs. The question is: what wrong have I done to the French that they want to look at me so badly? In retrospect, I'm beginning to think it was political suicide to bring them all those paintings and photos, and especially to let them live there. They seem to have a tendency to adore anyone who's ever appeared on a cover. If I'd known a few years ago, I never would have agreed to Vogue's offer.

Paris sucks in general. I always thought it would be so beautiful and colorful. My plans always included—probably like most of Polish society, especially my generation—wonderful studies passed without a hitch, student life, or lack thereof, and marriage to the now-cliched One. How one learns from mistakes. Now, when I look at it, it's so uncomplicated and yet so unrealistic. None of the points in my wonderful utopia for advanced students have a place in my world today. So,

as I said above, Paris sucks. Old companies of dead designers come with a quality guarantee. And 90% of the population still dresses in such banal Polish second-hand shops. Art is dying; people like me are even stigmatized, yet Paris's advertising materials say it's such a sweet city, full of artistry and beauty. Oh, and find me some beauty in this sea of ​​consumerism, and I'll gild you.

But most of all, I enjoy giving interviews. This woman comes to our apartment and can't even make it to the kitchen on her own; they all have the same syndrome, melting like warm dumplings at the sight of our interiors. Some are even afraid to pick up a cup, while others – brave ones – ask why there's an identical photo of the same man hanging in every room. They ask questions. Why art, how, when, where. When they ask about my son, I'm almost ready to spit in their faces. And they're even surprised. Most of all, they want to know how I feel and how I manage to be so happy. Which surgeon did I see to get such a porcelain face? I laugh. It's kind of pointless that they come. After all, they could all ask that one question on the doorstep. You probably want to know too, just like they do. "Where the hell is your husband?"