La Seduction: How the French Play the Game of Life (18 page)

On the day I met the queen of French lingerie, I didn’t expect her to show me her bra. But there I was, with Chantal Thomass in her boutique on the fancy rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré when show-and-tell seemed like the right thing for her to do.

We were in her private pink-and-black boudoir on the second floor, sitting on soft pink love seats and armchairs. Thomass was wearing a high black turtleneck, a long black ruffled jacket, and black bolero pants. Her black bangs fell into her eyes. Her only color was a slash of crimson across her lips.

Our subject was style, that renowned specialty of the French, as interpreted in the garments closest to the skin. When outsiders focus on French fashion—a multibillion-dollar contributor to France’s economy as well as a pillar of its mystique—underwear is rarely the first subject they consider. But lingerie is important in France, as foreigners realize when they walk French streets and see how many shop windows are filled with elaborately constructed and decorated panties and bras. Lingerie is central, too, in the psychology of French seduction. It exists at the nexus of the two great themes of the personal presentation of the body: enhancement and revelation. Or, put another way, artifice and nudity.

As a young fashion designer in the mid-1970s, Thomass started playing with lingerie as a sideline, slipping tiny, bold-colored confections of lace, satin, silk, and wiring into her runway shows. Her “boudoir” revolution clashed with the wave of feminism that was sweeping France and bringing liberties to women, most notably the legalization of abortion in 1975. Her early creations were ignored by the mainstream women’s media but picked up by magazines for men like
Lui
and
Playboy
. The approach worked, and now hers is the go-to shop for wealthy and stylish Frenchwomen in search of underwear. Her motto is “Hide to show better,” an expression of the French idea that partial concealment enhances the erotic.

As my interview with Thomass progressed, it occurred to me to ask about her own preferences. What did she wear?

“For lingerie?” she asked.

“Yes. Today, for example.”

She smiled. “One that I like a lot.”

She gripped the top of her stretchy black turtleneck and pulled it down almost to her navel to reveal a masterpiece of engineering: a body-hugging structure of black lace with a high collar and a circle scooped out of the front that showed off her cleavage.

“There you go!” she said. And then she asked me what I was wearing.

I gave her a brief peek. I’ll say only that it was sporty, a neutral color, and without lace.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “Well, it’s very American.”

The Ipsos polling agency found in one survey that 91 percent of French women and 83 percent of French men believe that lingerie is important in life. Another survey indicated that French women aged fifteen and older spend nearly 20 percent of their clothing budget on lingerie, more than in any other European country.

Thomass had recently coauthored a book on the history of lingerie that came wrapped in black tissue paper and set in a pink box. So she led me through the evolution of the undergarment in France: how several centuries ago when the French were afraid to wash for fear of catching disease, they wore loose white
linge
(underwear) to allow their bodies to breathe; why women dared to show more flesh in the eighteenth century but that modesty returned in full force in the nineteenth; how until well into the twentieth century, black lingerie was worn only by prostitutes and widows. In World War I, women were thrust into the workforce and needed to move freely, so petticoats and corsets went out of fashion. Decades later, after World War II, came the return of the bra. Couturiers like Coco Chanel and Pierre Cardin hired and trained their own staff
corsetiers
(corset makers). Lace for their creations was specially made in Calais, silk in Lyon.

Thomass knows a lot about the bodies of the rich and famous: that Arielle Dombasle (a client) could not have had work done on her breasts, that Carla Bruni (who once modeled for Thomass) was a size 32B.

I visited Thomass with a pretty, fresh-faced American woman of twenty-three who wore simple clothes and little jewelry and had grown up in Wisconsin. She had been quiet throughout most of the interview. But she had a French boyfriend and a burning question.

“For someone, for example, an American, who knows nothing about lingerie, where do you start?” she asked. “With all the different colors, different styles…”

Thomass began to show her various bras. One was white and very lacy, another was black, very lacy, and very racy.

“Umm, it’s maybe a little too sophisticated for her,” I said about the black one, trying to be helpful. “A little too showy.”

They both ignored me.

“In white or in black?” Thomass asked.

“Well, I don’t know,” the young woman said. “The white is a little more innocent, but the black is more…”

“Yes it’s more…,” Thomass replied.

“If I’m going to take the risk, I’m going to go all the way,” she said.

“Straight to the black,” Thomass commanded.

Then Thomass shared with her the secret of a successful lingerie seduction. “The game of seduction is to let them think that there are pretty things underneath,” she said. “It is above all not to show everything. It’s either wear a miniskirt or reveal a décolleté. Never both. A miniskirt plus a décolleté, it’s a little frightening.”

The young woman seemed surprised. “We don’t have this same idea of ‘hiding,’” she said. “It’s really all about showing; it’s sort of the opposite.”

She bought the racy black bra. What did I know?

The human body is the basic tool of seduction. And as seductiveness is a cultivated art, personal appearance can’t be left to nature unassisted. In France, the enhancement and adornment of the body is a matter of careful attention and enduring interest. What you cover yourself with—and how much you choose to cover—is crucial to your success.

The vastness of the lingerie universe helped me rethink a phenomenon I had noticed in the late 1970s the first time I reported on the Paris fashion shows. The refined appearance so often identified with the Parisian style, for both men and women, projects a kind of cool seductiveness. Fine materials, exquisite detailing, a put-together, intentional look—all contribute to the message:
I am on a high plane, in control of my destiny and my beauty. I am not easy to attain. Do you think you are up to my standard? If no, stay away. If yes, come and try to get me.
Ideally, the body must be adorned, scented, nourished, but in a certain way.

On the flip side is the hot, universal seductiveness of bare skin. And here, the French exhibit another kind of intense interest and expertise. They like to play with the skin, frank and yet teasing. The bikini (invented by a French man), the elaborate lingerie, the unembarrassed fascination with fetching body parts, the partially concealed nude bodies shown routinely in advertising—all are part of a national game of peekaboo.

Of course, not everyone is equally adept at physical allure—or equally fit for it. Like people everywhere, the French are heterogeneous in style and body shape. Contrary to the stereotype, most French women wear sizes larger than 2 or 4, and many are badly dressed. Indeed, on the escalators of train stations at rush hour, in the classrooms of working-class public schools, and in bars, bistros, and boutiques throughout France, I have seen women who wear mismatched clothes and who by any standard would be considered fat, often paired with men who stray equally far from the ideal.

That said, I agree with all those authors of books on French elegance that there is a certain type of woman, plentiful on the streets of Paris and sometimes seen in other pockets of France, who projects the much celebrated French sense of style. The look appears effortless, but it is strategic and deliberate, achieved by following tacit rules. These women are looked at and appreciated by both men and women—and of course, they know it.

For Vanessa Seward, the artistic director of the fashion house Azzaro, whose natural beauty is matched only by her generous spirit, one basic rule might be called the “old Chanel factor.”

“People always ask me what makes a Parisian woman different, and I say they have a very good way of balancing,” she said. “It’s very snobby to do maybe, but I never wear a new Chanel bag. I love wearing a battered one, because it doesn’t look so glitzy. It is probably much more chic. Then I can wear something new. And I won’t wear any makeup.” The result, she said, is “a kind of balance and it all looks completely normal, without any effort.”

The former supermodel Inès de la Fressange had a slightly different take: “A Parisienne won’t wear a handbag, pants, and a sweater all from the same designer,” she said. “Never. And she won’t wear only new clothes. The French think that style is what you create yourself. Maybe that’s the difference from an American, who says to herself, ‘I have to have the coat of the season.’ And when a German walks down the street, you can tell right away.”

The younger French women I know have refined that thought. They say they sometimes wear all-new clothes; they just make sure they don’t all look new. New clothes can’t look flashy. They have other rules. Less is more. Dangly earrings and a big necklace aren’t worn at the same time, even if they match. Zara, Mango, and Maje all make fun, well-fitting, and affordable dresses but not for a wedding or a big party because at least one other young French woman is likely to be wearing the same dress.

A French friend told the story of an American who visited her country house outside of Paris. “In two seconds, we knew she wouldn’t fit in,” she said. “She was overdone. She didn’t have the right shoes. She was wearing too much makeup for the country. Plus, she was boring. We never invited her again.”

The flip side of this kind of trial by fashion, of course, is the fear of being judged as inadequate. Parisian women inspire particular fear. “They have the ability to size you up, check your shoes, your jewelry,” said Celestine Bohlen, an American journalist who was born in Paris as the daughter of a senior diplomat and has lived there for many years. “You get the once-over, as if they are saying, ‘Which category should I put you into?’”

A cardinal rule of style for both men and women is that the elaborate effort behind a sophisticated look must not be apparent. It has to seem as if it simply happened.

“I know an American lawyer who has lived here for thirty years,” a friend told me. “He speaks perfect French. He is always dressed perfectly, with cuff links, and a monogrammed shirt, perfect suit, perfectly tanned. He can talk as easily about opera as about football. I was looking for the flaw but I couldn’t find it. I don’t trust him for a minute. I keep thinking, ‘Where’s the flaw?’ He seems to be too perfect to be honest.”

French men—especially those with wealth, social position, elegance, or ambition—wear their look with such seeming effortlessness that foreigners often assume they have some sort of natural knack. But their stylish air is, in fact, no more natural or unstudied than the carefully cultivated appearance of chic French women. A recent full-page article in the newspaper
Le Parisien
informed men of what errors they should avoid for the summer season. There were seven guidelines: do not fully button up your polo; do not wear shorts too short; do not perch sunglasses on your head; do not drape a sweater over your shoulders; do not tuck a T-shirt into your jeans; do not wear a “wife-beater” undershirt; do not wear oversized, short-sleeved, button-down shirts. Allowed were a properly tied small cotton scarf, a Panama hat, and flip-flops.

In pursuit of a better understanding of what gives some French men their polished look, I asked for advice from some of my male colleagues. Bertrand de Saint-Vincent, the style columnist for
Le Figaro
, walked me around the crowd at a champagne-filled awards ceremony for the “best novel of emotion” of the year. We happened on the former television anchor Patrick Poivre d’Arvor, whom Bertrand calls “Mr. Seduction.” Poivre d’Arvor is so famous that he once played himself in a French movie; a puppet with his face and voice is the television anchor on
Les Guignols
, the satirical political television comedy.

Poivre d’Arvor was wearing a well-cut black velvet jacket, pressed jeans, a white dress shirt, and black patent leather shoes. But his look was more than that. His shirt had been impeccably ironed, difficult and expensive to have done in Paris. Bertrand tugged at the bottom left corner of Poivre d’Arvor’s shirt to show me that it had been discreetly monogrammed with his initials. In doing so, Bertrand exposed the elastic waistband of Poivre d’Arvor’s checkered boxers. I presumed they had been ironed, too.

I got another, more personal lesson in how men cultivate style from Alain Frachon, a
Le Monde
columnist whom I have known for many years. Frachon is tall, slim, not at all classically handsome but with enough interest and darkness that he could play the Seductive French Journalist in an American movie, or at least look good in a beret. His French accent and liquid-chocolate voice fit well into his fluid and colloquial English.

In the early 1970s, Alain said, he donned what he called a “uniform”: a velvet jacket, tight jeans, and Clark’s desert boots. He chain-smoked Gauloises Bleues. He burnished his intellectual side and perfected a serious, thoughtful look. Then, as a young intern for ABC News in Washington and New York, he discovered that successful American journalists took notes in slim reporter’s notebooks and wore blue, button-down, Oxford-cloth shirts from Brooks Brothers. So he bought slim reporter’s notebooks and blue, button-down, Oxford-cloth shirts from Brooks Brothers. “I told myself, ‘I am going to be a killer in Paris,’” he said. “I came back, fully dressed to impress all the women, like an American reporter.”

Over the years, Alain said, his strategy was moderately successful. He played hard to get until he was in his fifties, when he married and became a father. He still retains some of the aura of the seducer-journalist. But the secret of his success lies in his French charm rather than his Americanized dress. “I have to tell the truth now,” he said. “If I have to give a priority to one of the weapons which helped me the most in my very modest career in seduction, it’s that the girls realized that the others might be much more clever, but that, okay, I am nice.”