Everything I’ve just poured onto this page is the fruit of my mind, and its constant, unpredictable wanderings. I first sat at my desk intending to begin a deeply personal story: that of my emotional heritage, the one my French grandparents, and their ancestors before them, bestowed upon me.

 

Let’s begin.

 

Pfffffiou. Breathe in, breathe out. I carry an especially strong emotion toward my name: Moréteau. Not because of its pleasant, unpretentious, and classic sound, nor for its perfect ability to transform into a Louisiana name, "Moréteaux"… But because, in my daily thoughts, it acts as a symbol, almost as a logo.

 

MORÉTEAU! Like a bold, authentic stamp for which I always want to ensure there’s enough ink in reserve. I want this name to live, at every moment, as I’ve known it alive, as I’ve witnessed it.

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It comes from my grandfather, Jean-Jacques Moréteau, a general practitioner, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and guardian (among other things) of his adopted heritage: Sainte-Foy-lès-Lyon. I could adorn his name with gold leaf for all the love and respect I have for him, that many have for him, but it would have deeply embarrassed him; he would have seen no point in it. So let us begin his eulogy with simplicity: Papy indirectly gave me one of the greatest gifts in the world, the taste for beauty. It is through the pursuit of beauty (at least, my definition of it) that I move through every stage of my life. I must be brief, or else I’ll drift into a novel.

 

Beauty, my kind of beauty, was born in my grandparents’ house. It lived in the red Japanese honeysuckle tapestries of the living room, accompanied by two armchairs, half brocade and half velvet, gracefully framing a Louis XV console table that stood discreetly at the back of the room. That piece always intimidated me, for I had been told that, long ago, it had furnished Les Délices, a beautiful Genevan home once inhabited by Voltaire…

 

Every book had its purpose, and its clippings on the same subject tucked inside. The less precious ones were still reverently inscribed with their provenance and year of acquisition, usually on the title page.

 

My sense of beauty was, in the end, everywhere. Every piece of furniture, every shelf was adorned with small or modest objects full of humor and refinement. Each had its story, its life. It would have been unthinkable for Papy, or his son Claude, not to know the origin of a single one! Even the most forgotten treasures retained the eternal merit of their history. We all played, in our own way, the role of troubadours, telling, with passion, the stories behind what formed the soul of that house: the house of Sainte-Foy.

 

Papy naturally taught us the art of memory. It’s an art I live as a duty. If beauty is the compass that guides my life, then I must also honor the family duty of keeping his art alive, the art of remembrance I call Moréteau.