Julie Menuge according to Rebbeca B.

Mona Chollet wrote 'Someone's appearance is always complemented by a large part which is left to their discretion and which has to do with their presence, the way they behave, speak, move, smile – or pas-, to act, to let his personality , his story, his attitude towards life shine through.”

And words are just words until reality makes them sound. And what a resonance! What a reality ! Otherwise that of this piece of woman who sometimes has the accent of the North of France, sometimes the spoken word of white women who are nostalgic for Bled. As if they were born there. As if they had grown up there. Neither good or bad. Like the people who love the elsewhere and the other indefinitely until they lose themselves in him. To bring it back to life differently, differently. With memories of travel, marriage, weaving and interbreeding.
Julie Menuge, a mixed race, a defector, an exile. The good friend but above all the sensitive artist who creates the link between basin and wax.
Mongolia and the Western second-hand shop.
Pakistan, India and Mali.
His shop has this something exotic and familiar. Located on rue Blaes in the Marolles district, you won't find “bizarre” pieces there, as those who don't know, say, “singular” as those who know too much say. But whether we like it or not. Whether we want to castigate her work with “cultural appropriation”, we remain softened by the sincerity with which she conceives the encounter of one fabric with another. And each of his unique and bizarre pieces takes on a plastic dimension and inspires the beautiful, the good and the true.
Because it's real what she creates, that girl!
It requires everyone to ask themselves if yesterday, when Africa was chic but not expensive and not yet a victim of fashion, we felt with the same violence the humiliation of a spoliation of know-how? No thanks! Regardless !
But Julie doesn't just say “Thank you”. She doesn't just say “I don't know if I deserve everything that's happening to me”. She experiences in her flesh the fate of the metic. Of rejection. Indifference. And what she does with this ordeal is nothing but jewelry.
And one would have to be without faith or law not to accept that a young woman from the North of France whose arm is tattooed by Madame Thérèse's fingernails recounts globalization, identity , plurality and the love of craftsmanship.
And because she's a woman. And because she's white. Lost. Distraught. Sensitive. Laborious. Studious. It offers an essential look at what the world still has to offer. And she invites us to travel.

Rebbeca B.