Bonifacio 

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 Music, Cyrrca, Portrait, 

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Seoul, spring 2019, somewhere near Itaewon.

It was the last day of the Seoul fashion week. In a sort of hangar where a brand called Iise was having its after-party. Iise, explained a girl working at Prada who already had too much to drink, meant “the second generation.” The brand was founded by second generation of Korean-American. No wonder this crowd seemed different to me, it was the first time in all my travels to Seoul that I had been in a room with so many English-speaking people. 

At some point during that evening, a white, very blonde man with a bob was introduced to me. He seemed quite close to one of my good friends who also works in the field. After exchanging a few formalities, the bob guy caught me off guard when he asked if he could say something  without causing offence:

– You look so parisian. I had guessed you were French before you even told me, explained the American boy. – I hope you don’t mind…

I laughed. I wasn’t offended but rather, quite surprised. As a person of color born to Moroccan immigrants in the suburbs of Paris, what annoyed me the most since I began working in the fashion industry was the very well-marketed illusion of the “Parisian girl”, which, ironically reflected the French fashion industry so perfectly in that it completely ignored Paris’ cultural diversity. Ever since Caroline de Maigret’s commercially successful book “How to be a Parisian”  came out in 2013,“Parisienne” it-girls sprang like mushrooms all over the city of lights. They all looked quite the same, white, tall, skinny and slender girls with greasy bangs with Jane Birkin as their role model. Nothing like me. Nothing like a lot of us. Yet, thousands of kilometers away from home, in the eyes of this American boy, I was a Parisienne; apparently my red lips, all-black outfit and the « way I carry myself » (his words, not mine) were what struck him as Parisian, things I wasn’t aware of.

In a few seconds, he had enlightened me about my self-perception. This was the beginning of my friendship with an incredible high-spirited and talented artist named Cyrcca. 

Cyrcca is first and foremost a person who has chosen to be free. I respect that-no, actually I envy that. When most of us try to live our lives by respecting the legal meaning of freedom: one person’s freedom ends where another’s begins, he’s one of the fortunate few who has chosen to also live by its philosophy , to be free is not doing what you will but willing what you do. A privilege, I insist he’s taken not inherited. 

However, a few days after our first meeting, while I was waiting for him at Anthracite café in Hannam-dong’s posh neighborhood, second thoughts were submerging me. At the party, carried away by his creativity, projects, and different hats, in the moment, I felt ten feet tall and blurted out the writing project I’ve been mumbling about for years. Unless within my inner circle, I usually never speak about it. Saying it out loud might mean acting on it,  and it’s so much more convenient and glamorous to hide behind my glitzy tedious fashion job in the most elitist Parisian department store. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, it was his turn to talk about a concept album he was working on and his plans of promoting it. And as if it was the next natural thing that evening, he gushes: 

 – We should work something out together!

He trusted me, a pure stranger after a few sentences exchanged in a loud environment with what I would later learn, was the most significant and elaborate project of his life so far.  While waiting for Cyrrca at the café, I fidgeted with my americano which I had to insist a couple of times be served hot (South Korean have a passion for ice cubes in their coffee). I had no idea how to « work something out. » What did it mean? What shall I do? Shall I write things down, shall I record the conversation, shall I ask some basic questions, and if so, which ones. Shall I google it before he arrives? Thousands of questions were shooting across my mind and simultaneously murdering whatever little confidence I had. Thankfully, my hopes were resurrected the second he came in and greeted me. With a broad smile on his face and enough positive energy to feed the entire three-storey café and its sippers. I soon learned, talking with Cyrrca, « working something out » meant no pressure, no deadlines, no obligation but an open and honest discussion about life that would eventually take the form of the dearest mediums  to our hearts, music for him, writing for me. 

We started discussing what he called the art of traveling. Yes, traveling is an art, a talent he thought quite rightly, none of us were born with but we could all master if only we wanted to. We discussed the magic of being “lost in translation” and Sofia Coppola’s movie that goes by the same title, which I hated but, he loved for different reasons we ended up understanding. 

Behind one’s artistic journey usually is a mentor, a master. Cyrrca tells me about his. The life-changing friend and older brother he never had who taught him how to look at the world properly. From Europe to the far East, he recounts with nostalgia the most enriching period of his life.At this point, he introduces a song he’d like me to write about, titled Bonifacio; like the southern city of Corsica where he traveled many years ago. 

– The song is about him. Do you want to listen to it?

Bonifacio, is a bilingual (Korean-English) song with vaporous and moody guitars that serve a minimalist, straightforward beat where Cyrrca delivers an almost unspoken flow and melodious chorus. I listened to it twice in a row and almost forgot about my surroundings. I got into the zone and  let slip the first question on in my mind.

– What happened ? I asked, immediately regretting my intrusion. Before I say so he replied smiling with a lot of serenity:

– I don’t know exactly, I was young and I screwed up. We live in different countries now, this song is my apology to him.

I nodded. I didn’t need to hear more as I deeply felt what he meant. When the time had come to bid farewell, Cyrrca offered me this beautiful white covered book that illustrated his full album that he intended to sign for me upon realizing none of us had a pen. Without missing a beat, he teased the fact that I wanted to write and didn’t have a pen with me. Ever since then and each morning, the first thing I put in my bag after my wallet is my pen. In fluent Korean, he asked the father-daughter table by our side  for a pen. I was amused by the man’s startled look. The pen wasn’t writing properly, but Cyrrca managed to scribble something.

Upon his leaving, I chose to stay in the café, waiting for a friend with whom I had dinner plans. I shifted to a seat by the windows to do what I love most, people-watching. Giving the song another listening, I tried to picture the person to whom it was dedicated, the mentor, but I couldn’t. I could only see her. My mentor, the one I had also lost for pretty much the same reasons as Cyrcca, except that I wasn’t ready to admit it. A painter, a few years older than me, who had renounced the privileged life set out for her. We would talk for hours, and if there is one thing I will forever be thankful for, it’s the way she taught me that one should not only love but unconditionally cherish and value his/her singular mind, as well as the spirit, and body that come with it. 

Why, how, is it possible to lose such a friend so easily? No drama, no betrayal, no fights, no shouts but a heavy and crushing silence. Phone calls I didn’t pick up on time, a cowardly explanatory text I sent too late which was never replied. I had to call her back. I did once. I had to call again. I knew I did, but somehow I kept on delaying it, and the more I did, the more I feared her resentment. Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years. 

I snapped back when Cyrcca had sent me a dm video of him laughing and apologizing for the “pen situation” for which he felt bad. I laughed.

A year later, the music video directed by Jonah Whip was released, Cyrcca contacted me and asked if I was still interested in “working something out”. While I’m doing so with the gifts of reflection and contemplation afforded by Paris’ lockdown, I realize I’ve never gotten the chance to ask him: Why me? Why this song? Why this song for me? 

The album is made of 13 tracks, yet from the very moment we met, he brought up Bonifacio, like he somehow foresaw my need for the apology I was never able to formulate.

And this, I know, will also be something I’ll be forever thankful for.

Lana.

Aknowledgments:

Inès, Maggie, Manavi and Yann.

venusparmercure.wordpress.com/portrait