The first time I heard of Jean Cocteau was when I moved to The East Village in the 90s.

My favorite bar at the time was across the street from the JC Theater, and I’d walk by it as much as I went out, which was, um, a lot.

During this time I moved to Paris for a while, and leading up to the move I felt attracted to the little theater. It was so rundown romantic, and seemed so French.

There was no Wikipedia then and I never bothered to find out who he was, but I always had a feeling of who he was. Someone I wanted to be like.

I don’t think his name came up once in the six months I was in Paris.

A few years later we were street shooting  in the South Of France for Town and Country Magazine, and one of our days was spent in the little village for which he was famous.

We saw some of his sculptures and ceramics, some writings; that was cool.

I remember sitting in the little square, drinking rose, realizing again how little I knew about him. I didn’t really care, my feeling about him was enough.

Then today, while cruising around Twitter, @TheKarin turned me on to Cocteau’s surrealistic version of Beauty and The Beast. I haven’t seen the full movie, and I probably never will, but the clip is enough, it’s so him, so romantic and rundown. It’ such a wreck in the coolest way.

You know, I used to be a wreck in the coolest way. Then it wasn’t cool. And now I’m not a wreck.  But Cocteau kept the magic til the end.

@TheKarin