"Wedding Season" (or "Wedding Decade," since it feels less like a season and more like an endless stream of save-the-dates) is said to either induct you fully into the church of the Big Wedding or cure you of it altogether, leaving you with dreams of a courthouse ceremony, a small dinner, an elopement, or none at all.
As a 27-year-old, I (Chloe) have been to my share of weddings the last few years, from coast to coast and across the Atlantic and the Pacific! And every one of them was so picture-perfect and logistically planned to a T. Impressed would be an understatement. The orchestration looked Herculean, made possible only by a retinue of professionals fluent in the language of nuptials and good taste.
So when I was invited to a childhood friend’s wedding this summer, I expected something in equal (or greater) grandeur than the ones I’d been to, given that 1) the bride is French, 2) her family has ties to fashion, and 3) the wedding was to take place in the south of France.
Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly?), the wedding was subdued and intimate despite the size: 400 guests. In my experience, a larger guest list often called for bigger gestures, grander entrances, and a celebration spread over multiple days. I was expecting an arms race of elegance. Instead, where Americans might have zigged, the French zagged.
The entire wedding, from start to finish, felt more or less the inverse of the American wedding-industrial complex, where everything from the dress to the decor is expected to be new and single-use, not touched again after the big day.
There's a certain je m'en fous attitude that keeps the French from taking convention too seriously, as I was reminded at this wedding. Skeptics from outside might look at this and think the French are just trying to pull off a laissez-faire for its own sake. But I don’t think so. What struck me wasn't the absence of effort, but the absence of any desire to advertise it. The result is accidental elegance that feels super authentic and free of performance.
Same for the guests. They will not go out of their way to broadcast warmth. You have to earn your place in the circle...The easiest way may be to literally speak their language and mirror their energy. Very little small talk.
NOT à la Michael Rubin lol. The festivities began with a soirée blanche, an all-white welcome party the evening before the wedding, to help guests get (re)acquainted. Completely disarming. Everyone in white, including the bride.
Ok, full disclosure. I agonized over this event, trying on a gazillion permutations before leaving for France. When I got there, I immediately realized I had overthought this entirely. The guests wore linen and cotton dresses! As for footwear, flat sandals, espadrilles, and even canvas slip-ons (!) for the most part. Not a lot of stilettos, if any, now that I think of it.
Was this the norm?? I was curious, so I launched a small-scale investigation. Why would you buy something new if you already had something in your closet? — was how some women responded. Several confirmed that it’s not uncommon for even the brides to just rewear something from their closet. Unlike American brides, for whom forethought is of utmost importance and every outfit and accessory needs to be new, unique, and procured ahead of time, French brides often double/triple/quadruple dip into their existing arsenal. Unfathomable but so practical? Perhaps a part of their "buy less, buy expensive" ethos?
The entire wedding, from start to finish, felt more or less the inverse of the American wedding-industrial complex, where everything from the dress to the decor is expected to be new and single-use, not touched again after the big day.
Outfit rundown (check Selleb to see all my purchases with prices):
Ferragamo white tank top
Bottega skirt I snagged at Woodbury Commons
The Row heels I found on Vinted
As seen above, even as a guest, I felt compelled to pull out my newest pieces! So un-French of me 🫣
Europe is notorious for hot, smelly summers, and the south of France in July was no exception. Think paper fans, no deodorant, and spending several hours in a church.
I have to say the French (Europeans in general) have a high tolerance for discomfort. I get that suffering is romanticized in their literature and philosophy (lol), but it spills over into everyday life. Case in point: Tolerating extreme heat! It was probably 100 degrees in that church, and we were there for HOURS. This priest kept cracking jokes, and the guests were eagerly singing (countless) hymns they knew by heart! Time stopped for them. No one looked around or wondered when it would end.
Church ceremonies in the States, in my experience, have often felt like a toll you pay to get to the party; a formality you sit through to get to the best part: the reception itself. Here, the ceremony felt like the main event. No complaints, all smiles.
Ok, let’s go there again. The fit. The white party being a bit more casual than I had anticipated — I chalked this up to a small miscalculation on my part. But for a nation known for its fashion prowess, I expected fireworks. Like, show me the haute couture.
Everyone at this wedding was dressed classy, don’t get me wrong, but I was kind of surprised it wasn’t fancier. And there were no bombshell curls, blown-out bounces, or professional makeup in sight.
I definitely didn’t get the sense that the French women were pulling out all the stops. The women I talked to were all wearing whatever they had in their closets. Mind you, they were very nice pieces because, again, buy less, buy expensive…
As for me, I wore a black lace Ferragamo dress to the wedding. I found this one at Woodbury this summer, and yes, it was my first time whipping her out.
The post-church fanfare continued till dawn. The French have stamina that I wasn’t expecting. They outdid and outlasted me. When I told my mom, she confirmed that it was a thing amongst the French. During our lycée years (my siblings and I all went through the French school system), when our parents were invited to French homes, the dinner parties rarely ended after the cheeses. In fact, the party went on into the wee hours of the night…
No such thing as a smoke break because the entire party was a smoke break! Chainsmoking Vogue Bleus or Marlboro Reds. Instead of Wanna get a drink?, it was Wanna have a cigarette?
Instead of towering tiers, the wedding cake was a giant raspberry tart. It sat on the table all evening for anyone who wanted another slice, and by 4 a.m, there wasn't a crumb left, which strikes me as the highest compliment about your wedding cake.
A magical weekend that felt intimate, chill, but most importantly present. The French really know how to be “bons vivants” and take “joie de vivre” to heart.
Chloe xx
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