Not that “obvious” had stopped her from buying a dozen Eiffel Tower keyrings from a Senegalese tchotchke seller at Trocadero. At least she then had something for everyone on the field hockey team. But she still needed gifts for her three best friends. Larger Eiffel Towers? That was my immediate suggestion. Her response was beyond “obvious.” She lifted her eyes, heavy as bowling balls, and rolled them my way to convey the message “How could you possibly understand my life?”

I understood her life well enough to know that well-timed pastry stops would keep the souvenir conundrum at bay for a time. It had been easy enough on day one to say that she’d surely find something in the next neighborhood we’d visit but first she just had to try a spectacular chocolate éclair. But the Latin Quarter, the Saint Germain Quarter, Montmartre, the gift shop at the Louvre, Rue Saint-Honoré, and the Champs-Elysées had all come and gone, and the sweet distraction of pastries, crepes, chocolates and macaroons now barely lasted beyond the final bite.

Here we were on day three, their last day in Paris, and the need to find the perfect Paris memento for her friends had reached fever pitch. She would never go anywhere with her mother again. If her mother had any friends of her own, she’d understand. Her mother, Paris, the entire world had all conspired to make her miserable. She spared me in her diatribe other than to sigh loudly every time I spoke.

The woman was doing everything in her power to stay calm, mixing reprimand with sighs of her own with ignoring the girl, and confiding in me that her daughter had had a “monthly visitor” the other day. A few times that morning we’d stepped into boutiques so that the mother could soothe herself by caressing the sleeves of high fashion, only to be pulled from her fantasy by the sound of her daughter declaring, “That’s ugly.”

Finally, I said aloud what I’d been thinking all along. Actually, I’d already said it on day one, when neither mother nor daughter was ready to hear me then. When I’d said it again on day two, during our visit to Galeries Lafayette, the mother had paid attention and said, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” To that, the girl spat back, “He doesn’t know my friends.”

I was now about to give it one final try. I’d been biding my time for the past 30 minutes of misery until we were just several steps from the shop I had in mind. I consider good timing one of my best qualities as a guide and I was prepared put that to a test. We turned onto Rue Vieille du Temple. I stopped in front of the Labonal shop, positioning myself so that she would see the shop window. I steeled myself against an eventual rebuff. And I said it again, in a gentle, inquiring tone: “How about socks? French socks.”

“Everyone has socks,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

“But not everyone has French socks,” I said. “I bet your friends don’t, and they’d love them. See all those chic women and girls walking around?” Good timing again, three cheerful young women were strolling past us on the sidewalk. “They’re all wearing French socks and tights.”

I pointed at a colorful pair in the window. “Look at those. They have a little French logo on them. You and your friends will be the only girls at school with French socks. It’ll be like your own private club.”

She actually looked. She wiped her tears. She raised her chin to a sock on display and said, “That one’s cute.”

We went in. We came out, bearing gifts, happy. I knew the perfect place nearby for ice cream.

10 French Sock Brands

Nothing says “I strolled through Paris” like tri-color socks (blue, white, red) or a discreet French logo above the ankle or on the toe, or much more that you’ll find in the ten Made-in-France brands that I’ve selected here.

While so much textile manufacturing has moved overseas in the past 40 years, France continues to produce a surprising amount fun, funky, chic, sports and workaday socks and hosiery.

I’ve selected a mix of well-known, lesser-known and little-known sock and hosiery brands that will add a hop to your step, or a loved one’s, when you get back home. Some of these brands also extend to underwear and other knitwear. Several have their own shops in Paris and elsewhere. Those and the more widely distributed brands can also be found in department stores and sock shops. Still others are largely only available through the brand’s website. Orders from overseas are likely to be cost-prohibitive, so order them to be delivered to you in Paris. In all cases, be sure to look for Made in France or Fabriqué en France on the label.

You’ll find your French socks and underpants vocabulary at the end of this list.

Labonal

The brand of the shop of my happy tale above makes good quality socks for men, women and children with a mix of lively designs and solid colors and a variety of fabrics. Labonal Pulse is their brand of sports socks while La Frenchie by Labonal is a lower quality range.

They have a number of branded boutiques and reseller displays throughout France. In Paris, the Labonal shop in the Marais is located at 11 rue Vieille du Temple. That shop also sells Garçon Francais briefs, described below, along with other French-made knitwear. Labonal is one of a handful of shops selling made-in-France products in the area. On the nearby street Rue du Bourg-Tibourg, L’Appartement Français sells sock brands Broussaud, Bonpied (1 pair purchase = 1 pair given to the homeless) and Royalties, along with other French textiles and footwear. Labonal, based in Alsace, celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2024. Their factory, which can be visited, is just off the picturesque Alsace Wine Route in Dambach-la-Ville, midway between Strasbourg and Colmar.

Bleuforêt

Bleuforêt is a major brand of French-made socks and tights made by Tricotage des Vosges on the opposite side of the Vosges Mountains from Labonal.

Though not luxury products, the Bleuforêt range includes some excellent quality socks using pure and blended fabrics, including cashmere, silk and alpaca, known for comfort rather than fantasy, with many solid colors. The Vosges area of northeast France is historic home for the knitwear industry that began to dry up in the 1970s before this and other companies rekindled the knitwear flame in the 1990s. The company also produces some underwear. The brand is sold in many stores including their own. Among their Paris locations, there’s a tiny shop at 20 rue des Francs Bourgeois in the Marais, and another at 101 rue de Rennes in the Saint Germain Quarter.

La Chaussette de France (LCF)

Troyes, the former hosiery capital of France, 95 miles southeast of Paris, once employed up to 25,000 people in the knitwear industry. The town’s Musée de la Maille, Mode et Industrie tells its rich hosiery history. Despite the decline of textile production throughout France, Troyes has managed to hold out with about 3,500 employed in the industry. (Troyes is also known for its factory outlets.) LCF is especially noteworthy for its sporting socks—running, hiking, skating, cycling and mountaineering, and most particularly skiing, with a variety of graphics and colors. LCF is the sock brand of the Manufacture Tismail group, which has been knitting in Troyes since 1961. Among other places, some LCF products can be found in Paris at Au Vieux Campeur, a mountain and hiking specialist with shops concentrated in the Latin Quarter.

KlaK 

KlaK used to be call Sorry or Not Sorry, which derived that playful name from its message socks with half of the text above the heel to the left and the other half to the right. The messaging, mostly in English, continues under the catchier brand name KlaK. For example, Just + Married (perfect for the Paris honeymooner), Girl + Power, I ♥ + Apéro (for those who celebrate wine o’clock), Best + Friend, Need + Love, Sexy + Runner, Champagne + Please and Need + Coffee, among others. Founder Alice de Guyenro says that she launched her products in 2019 in her own image, as a shy gal daring to draw attention to herself, or at least her feet. Her products are most in black and white. The full range of KlaK socks can be read and purchased on her online shop, which also indicates the locations of physical shops that carry KlaK.

Label Chaussettes

Xavier Sauzay and Guillaume Deniau date their interest in entering into the sock trade to a semester abroad in Asia, where they discovered the popularity of socks as fashion in Shanghai, Seoul and Taipei. Returning to France, they also noticed that the Made in France textile trend was then underway. At the age of 26, they launched Label Chaussettes in 2019. Their brand has two major elements: on the one foot, cheery and colorful socks designed by artists, and on the other, logo socks for which they partner with such brands as La Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow processed cheese), France Rugby, Asterisk, Monsieur Madame (Mr. Men), and the French Navy. Their socks are made in the Limousin region of France, specifically in the factories of Broussard Textiles, a major player in Made-in-France socks. Broussard also produces for Slip Français and Klak, among others, including their own namesake brand.

Garçon Français

Garçon Français means French boy, so this is a brand for the boy or man in your life, or, guys, for yourself.

Socks represent a small portion of the brand, but here you can match your briefs for those special occasions when showing a bit of ankle is just the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Impress and attract Francophile friends in the locker room with Garçon Français written above your ankle, at the base of your foot and on your waist band. Founded by (Mr.) Vicky Caffet, the brand is headquartered in Troyes and knitted 20 miles northwest in Romilly-sur-Seine, a town whose sock manufacturing stretches back to the 19th century. As many on this list, a visitor will primarily find the socks through their direct internet shops, though French resellers, indicated on their website, can also be found throughout France. In Paris, Garçon Français briefs and socks are both available in the Marais at Les Dessous d’Apollon (Apollo’s Underwear), 8 rue de Moussy. The brand’s briefs (not socks) are currently sold in the Labonal shop noted above.

Berthe aux Grands Pieds

If you’ve ever strolled in the Luxembourg Garden in Paris and admired the statues of Queens of France and Illustrious Women on the terrace above the central basin, you may have noticed among them a certain 8th-century Frankish Queen Berthe (Bertha or Bertada in English). She was the wife of Pepin the Short and mother of Charlemagne. More importantly for this brand, she is said to have had one foot larger than the other (or perhaps a clubfoot), earning her the nickname Berthe au Grand Pied (Bertha with the Big Foot or Bertha Broadfoot).

Someone was bound to use that for a brand of socks, and that someone is Régis Gautreau. His company makes playfully sexy and chic socks, tights and tabis. While primarily a women’s brand, Berthe aux Grands Pieds also has attractive collections for men and children. Here’s an idea for a single souvenir from a London-Paris trip: BAGP’s men’s or women’s “God Save Berthe” Union Jack/The French Queen socks. BAGP has its own shop in Nantes, a tiny boutique in Passage Pommeraye. Additionally, the BAGP website indicates the addresses of resellers in Paris and throughout France, including at shops operated by Manufacture Perrin. Manufacture Perrin, located in southern Burgundy, is the producer of BAGP socks. Founded in 1924, Perrin also knits for La Chaussette Française and Le Slip Français, among others. The factory can be visited.

Missegle

Rather than coming from the world of finance or fashion, as some of those noted above, Myriam Joly, this company’s founder, comes from a rural farming background. She raised a troop of angora goats for their mohair for a decade before turning to producing high-comfort textiles with natural fabrics—mohair, merino, yak hair, camel hair, organic cotton, silk, mercerized cotton—for socks (nearly half of sales), as well as sweaters, scarves, gloves and bonnets.

Durability, sustainability and comfort are Missegle’s watchwords rather than high design. Myriam created the company in 1983, at the age of 26, and is still at it, though her son Gaëtan now oversees the operation. In 2007 she bought a knitwear workshop in Burlats, 50 miles east of Toulouse, deep in the rural department of Tarn. Missegle is one of only several workshops in France to loop-stitch by hand to create seamless socks for happy feet. Though not all of the natural fabrics come from the region (e.g. yak hair from Mongolia), Missegle production is firmly planted in the region, with the dyer and spinner workshops within 12 miles of the knitwear workshop. Other than a shop at the workshop site, Missegle products are only available online.

Le Slip Français

“Slip” means briefs and “français” means French, so underpants in French flag colors are naturally the flagship products of Le Slip Français, a Paris-based brand founded in 2011 by Guillaume Guibault. While primarily an underwear brand, the company also produces sock. Le Slip Français products are widely distributed, with over 150 resellers throughout France. It has branded boutiques in Paris, Nantes and Toulouse. The Paris boutique is located in the Marais at 137 rue Vieille du Temple.

Kindy

Kindy is an old brand for rather basic cotton socks that has been in and out of bankruptcy over the past decade but continue to sell French-made socks with little French flags above the ankle. The company is headquartered in the village of Moliens, between Amiens and Rouen in northern France. While the French-flag socks are made in France, not all Kindy products are. Be sure to check the label.

Your French socks and underpants vocabulary

Socks = chaussettes
Ankle socks = socquettes
Tabi socks = chaussettes tabi
Knee socks = chaussettes hautes
Stockings = bas, collant
Tights = collant
Underwear = Sous-vêtements (for all); lingerie (for women)
Briefs = slip (typically designating underwear for males)
Panties = culotte (typically designating underwear for females)
Boxer shorts = caleçon
Long johns = caleçon long

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

As mother told daughter, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” Planning to travel with your beloved teen? See here.

The post Made in France: Socks, the Gift That Saved Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

… you’ve looked in many stores for a new armchair and finally select one from BHV Marais, the department store located across the street from City Hall. You choose the fabric and the color. It’s Oct 22. Delivery is promised in handwriting by the mannerly floor section manager: Délai : +/- 19 Janvier 2024 ou AVANT ! LE PLUS TOT POSSIBLE !! – [Delivery] Date: +/- 19 January 2024 or BEFORE! AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!)–capitals and exclamation points in the original. You have the choice between pick-up at the store or, for 115€, delivery chez vous. The delivery fee seems exorbitant. You’d rather ask a friend with a car to help then take him to dinner. You pay for the chair in full (717€), without delivery, and go about your Parisian life.

Six weeks later, you receive a text message from BHV announcing a delivery delay. The new date is 31 January. You respond that the delay is inacceptable. Your message is ignored. Mid-February, you receive a message announcing that the armchair will be available as of 28 February. This time the message promises, as compensation (dédommagement) free delivery/assembly (livraison/montage), “[normally] billed at 139€.”

A week later, you’ve received no further news of the actual delivery date. It’s now February 21, four months since you paid for the armchair. You’re in the area of BHV so you enter the department store to find someone to speak with. You’re pleased to come upon the same floor section manager who sold you the promise of an armchair. She’s chatting with a colleague.

You greet them kindly: Bonjour. They turn to you with wary expectation. Looking only at the floor section manager, you calmly explain that you’ve received several (plusieurs) delay notices for an armchair that you purchased from BHV Marais four months ago and counting, and still no armchair. She leads you over to her desk and looks up the purchase order, the one with the buoyant and promising capitals and exclamation points, in her own hand: Délai : +/- 19 Janvier 2024 ou AVANT ! LE PLUS TOT POSSIBLE !!

She immediately blames the delay on the supplier, with whom “we always have problems.” Annoyed by the immediate deflection of responsibility, you ask why she kept that detail from you when you purchased the armchair. She says that she didn’t know at the time. You tell her that you have no direct relationship with the supplier, only BHV, so that for you BHV is responsible. “It should arrive next week, monsieur,” she says. “C’est comme ça”—That’s the way it is.

There’s no greater sign of your acculturation in Paris than feeling properly self-righteous and seizing the proper moment to râler (grouse, gripe, grumble). This is it. The battlelines are drawn with a c’est comme ça. Her why-are-you-still-here expression tells you that she thinks that should be enough.

You hadn’t actually intended to râler, you’re not a râleur (grumbler) by nature but by cultural adoption. The floor section manager’s rigid refusal to acknowledge the store’s responsibility is a sign that the moment has come. If you don’t start now, you’ll find yourself wondering while in the metro or in bed or trying to work what you would say or write to best express your frustration with BHV. So you begin with the word that signals to all within hearing distance—the floor section manager and her colleague who is standing nearby. You look the floor section manager in the eye and tell her that the situation is inacceptable. If you’d known it would take so long for the armchair to arrive, you say, you wouldn’t have purchased it.

She returns your square look in the eye as her colleague moves a step closer. She looks to him, he looks to her, they both look to you.

“Un instant,” she says, a sign that she will look on her terminal for proof that the situation is more than acceptable because it is what it is. Indeed, she points at a spreadsheet on her screen and says, “They say it will arrive in one week.” She repeats the offer for free delivery or, she now adds, an 89€ refund. Her tone in presenting the choice is like that of a bored waiter proposing pommes frites or haricots verts. It also bothers you that she’s offering 89€ when the last message spoke of a 139€ delivery value and four months ago she’d offered delivery at 115€. You call her on it. She has an immediate answer: 115€ was an old price. It’s now 89€ for delivery and 139€ if the deliverymen mount the piece of furniture and dispose of the packaging. You tell her that the only mounting required is screwing on the legs.

You’re not sure what to say next and you don’t want to repeat inacceptable so you chose another missile of a word from the râleur’s handbook—you tell her that this is inadmissible.

“I explained the situation,” she says. “Do you understand?”—Vous comprenez? She may or may not be making reference to your accent, but leaving it at that she remains within the rules of engagement. Her colleague inches closer. He can’t seem to focus on his own job until the situation is resolved. You can tell he’s dying to get involved, and he does as he, too, says, “Do you understand?”

What you understand is that you are now culturally obliged to râler further.  You say, “I understand that delivery of my armchair is so long overdue that I’d like to a refund.”

“I’ve given you a choice, Monsieur,” she says. “Delivery at home or an 89€ refund and you pick up the merchandise.”

Yes, you know that you’ll presumably soon have your armchair, whether picked up with your friend’s help or delivered with the legs screwed on and the box removed, and that you can then decide for yourself if you ever want to shop at BHV again. So even though you’re unlikely to make any headway against a business as detached, in your experience, as BHV Marais, and a salesperson as doctrinaire as this, with a workplace rubbernecker by her side, you proceed to tell her (you don’t acknowledge him) that she’s presented you with a false choice (un faux choix), one that is intellectually dishonest (intellectuellement malhonnête; it’s an expression that would get you laughed out of Walmart, but here the number of syllables alone signals that you’re a worthy Parisian adversary) since any reasonable choice would involve a full refund (remboursement total).

As her colleague watches, ready to leap to her defense, she tries to goad you into insulting her personally by asking if you thought she “lied” (menti) when she gave you the original delivery deadline (délai de livraison). You know how this works: Calling her a liar (une menteuse) would label you an aggressor and allow her to call victory and store security. The rules of an in-store râlerie require steadfast concrete reasoning. You won’t fall into her emotional trap. So you tell her that you aren’t here to discuss her feelings. You tell her that you were “duped” (dupé) into buying the armchair, with her own handwriting as proof (la preuve). Four months after the original order, you tell her, the honest choice is between a total refund and, you now add, appropriate compensation.

She says, “Do you want to give me a delivery address or not?”

You’ve had your say and there’s nothing more to do here. Despite your elevated heartrate, you coolly give her your address for delivery, should you decide to accept it. Her colleague walks away. Obtaining an 89€ refund sounds too complicated and isn’t an acceptable number anyway. That thought leads you to declare one more time that the situation is inacceptable and to ask now for the contact information for the complaint department.

She writes down the customer service email address.

One might think that any store salesperson properly trained in customer service would know that few clients would bother making a complaint at that point—after all, the chair is due to be delivered in one week and you’ve apparently accepted free delivery—and so would revert to the customary etiquette of farewell, perhaps with a kind assurance that you’ll be happy with your beautiful armchair. If so, one hasn’t shopped in Paris. As she hands you the slip of paper with the email address, and apparently feeling the need for a final power play, the BHV floor section manager says, “Whatever you send will be forwarded to me and you already have my answer.” You now have no choice but to formalize your grievance (réclamation).

At home, you write to BHV Marais customer service. You keep your message short and direct, just the facts of the delay and the unacceptability and inadmissibility of the offer of simply free delivery. You include a scanned copy of the invoice with its capital letters and exclamation points. You make no personal comments about the floor section manager other than to note your incrédulité regarding her parting shot about this réclamation being dead in the water (lettre morte). You conclude by requesting a full refund for the as yet undelivered armchair.

You’ve done your Parisian best. You’ve presented logic, you didn’t once lose your temper, and you’ve made proper use of two of the three most important words in any proper râlerie: inacceptable and inadmissible, using them sparingly, while throwing in an incrédule and an intellectuellement malhônete to let customer service know that you’re no stranger to complaint departments in France. For the time being you’ve refrained from using the third important word, scandaleux, so as to deploy it at the appropriate time with the appropriate interlocuteur.

Two days later you receive a message signed with a guy’s first name inviting you to please be assured that your request is being treated by the head of the concerned department so as to provide you with a response, and thanking you for your understanding. Business-speak for good luck (bonne chance). Since you’re also invited to rate and comment on his response, you give it a 1 of 5 and comment that the client is only reassured when a matter has been fully resolved, and you thank him in return for his understanding.

Several days later, on a Sunday afternoon, you get a phone call from BHV customer service. The female voice is young and sweet and her words are spoken with a smile. You’re offered free delivery (with the legs screwed on and the box disposed of) plus a 60-euro refund. You comment on the strangeness of that number, 60, remarking that it seems to be resting on its way somewhere. She explains that that’s the amount the manufacturer is willing to reimburse and they won’t give more. Since the number is clearly n’importe quoi (rubbish), you tell her that it is inacceptable for BHV to deflect responsibility in this manner. You further tell her that the so-called free delivery isn’t truly a gift because you had planned on picking the armchair up yourself at the store in January. She responds that delivery nevertheless costs BHV and that you could be reimbursed 89€ if you still wanted to pick up the merchandise. Actually, you would like it delivered but are still annoyed that she’s using 89€ as the figure for dédommagement. You tell her that 89€ is n’importe quoi given that BHV’s text mentioned a delivery value of 139€. She says she doesn’t understand. She says this with such innocent-sounding sincerity that you’re about to lose your own thread of logic, when suddenly you remember that you’re the wronged party and have yet to deploy the most important term of any self-righteous râleur. You use it now.

C’est scandaleux, you say.

You take a deep breath then launch into a mild rant about being dupé by BHV from the start and the floor manager’s faux choix, which was intellectuellement malhonnête, and how your many followers, as they say in French, will soon know that this is inacceptable, inadmissible and scandaleux, until finally she interrupts.

Monsieur, she says, you didn’t let me finish my proposition. You’ll get free delivery and assembly of the armchair, 60€ refunded through your credit card, and a 50€ voucher for in-house purchase.

Whether or not the extra 50€ came from your excellent and emphatic use of inacceptable, inadmissible and scandaleux, you can’t tell. But you know that this is clearly the moment for you to stop de râler and to accept that the négociation has come to an end.

So, with the proper air of resignation, you accept her proposition. And like that, the unacceptability and the scandalousness of the situation disappear like vampires at sunrise.

Once you’ve accepted the offer, you and the customer service rep discuss how and when all this will occur. Her voice is even more soothing and reassuring than before as she explains the timing: the armchair delivered next week, the voucher from BHV within 24 hours, the refund from the manufacturer in 2-4 weeks*. You can nearly smell the floral scent of her perfume. Your own tone is melodious, with a hint of sandalwood, as you provide her with your email address and mailing address. When she says that she knows where that is, you tell her to stop by sometime to see your armchair. The banter is so light and cheery that you nearly forget that you’ll both be glad when the conversation is over. But the time has come for her to ask if there’s anything else she can do for you today, for you to say, “No, that’s all,” and to wish each other un bon dimanche, a good Sunday. She will then return to other dissatisfied clients and you can now decide how strongly you want to advise against ordering anything from BHV Marais.

Very strongly indeed.

© 2024, Gary Lee Kraut

*Six weeks later, when the 60€ has failed to arrive, you wonder if BHV has pocketed the refund from the manufacturer.

The post You know you live in Paris when… BHV Marais and the vocabulary of complaint appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Not to be outdone by the Christo-wrapping of the Arc de Triomphe, Bernard Arnault, chairman of Dior and LVMH, has had a monumental building on the Champs-Elysées wrapped following “Christian Dior’s original drawings of 1955 that were recently discovered in the Dior archives,” according to the Dior company’s press release. The release emphasizes that no public funds were used to wrap the building and that Dior will recoup the expense by selling products presented on the somewhat recyclable wrap. Nevertheless, public security forces were called in to control crowds dressed in the “new look” who attended the inauguration of the Dior wrap.

Only those showing a Louis Vuitton bag or the credit card receipt for an equivalently priced bag were admitted inside. Scanners denied entrance to numerous holders of knock-off bags. (Authentic LV bags were available at a stand specially installed next door for foreign visitors.)  Several anti-baggers demanding a free memorabilia Dior swatch were arrested.

In inaugurating the Dior wrap, Mayor (and presidential candidate) Anne Hidago said, “Arnault overwhelms us, prods us, makes us talk, so whatever he wants to do is fine by my administration.” She would neither confirm nor deny that François Pinault, another French billionaire, has recently applied for permission to wrap a building on Boulevard Haussmann. But she did say: “My friend François Pinault just finished unwrapping the Bourse de Commerce gift that Parisians bought for him for 86 million euros, so that will likely keep him happy until Christmas.”

Meanwhile, at the top of the Champs-Elysées, the Christo-wrapped Arc de Triomphe continues to dazzle.

© 2021, Gary Lee Kraut

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A public organization named La Réunion des Musées Nationaux et du Grand Palais (RMN-GP) is behind the commercialization of these products as part of their extensive mission within France’s national museum system.

The RMN was created in 1895 to gather and manage funds for the acquisition of works of art to enrich the national collections. Renamed the RMN-GP when the exhibition hall Grand Palais came under its wings, it now oversees 32 national museums including 20 in Paris and the Paris region, plus the Paris the Grand Palais and the Palais de la Porte Dorée exhibition space.

Commercial activities have long been a part of its mission. From its creation, the RMN sold products of the Louvre’s engraving and molding workshops. In the 1930s it began creating post cards, catalogues and guidebooks. Since 1993 it has taken on a more industrial-commercial approach as museum shops expanded in both space and financial importance within the museum system. While still tasked with making acquisitions of artwork as well as organizing temporary exhibitions, managing visitors and publishing catalogues, the RMN-GM currently oversees 34 museum shops.

And now, for your holiday shopping, you don’t even have to get near a museum to purchase some of the RMN-GP’s museum-inspired souvenirs, including items from contemporary designers and creators. In addition to an e-boutique, a selection of products from France’s national museums are available at a pop-up boutique in Paris at 9 rue de Rivoli (metro Saint Paul) until January 5, 2020.

Which bring us to Louvre Monopoly,

Marie-Antoinette and French princess beauty kits,

serving trays on which the Mona Lisa stands on a balcony with the Eiffel Tower behind her and Madame Récamier reclines on a Paris park bench,

Pompon’s panther,

Basquiat skateboards,

Liberté and 1789 t-shirts,

and I Louvre You teddy bears.

Don’t lose heart, art Louvres, the museums themselves are still there.

Text and photos © 2019, Gary Lee Kraut

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