![]() Later, when he was awake enough to receive visitors at the hospital bed where he spent 68 days – on the good days, the ones when he wasn’t in a coma or anaesthetized from one of 10 (seven brain three spinal) surgeries, the ones when his cognitive impairment made for hours of loopy fun – he’d kick the sheets off and let his mint-green geometric-print gown splay open. Not long after we first met, I watched him stand unclothed before a large window in full view of downtown Los Angeles, sipping cognac and blowing smoke from a Marlboro Red out the cracked opening, and I understood I had finally met a man, one who lived fast and could die young, one who stirred the sort of emotional electricity I’d known existed from moodboard photos of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin at the magazines where I’d worked, but had never experienced firsthand. When Francois saw the first glow of phosphorescence, he immediately stripped off his clothes and dove in. ![]() ![]() One American friend of his spoke at the LA memorial about a boat trip they’d taken. I had nowhere else to be but there.įrancois enjoyed being naked more than most people, even French people, not all of whom, contrary to popular assumption, enjoy public nudity. Soon after the ceremony, the people who’d grown up surfing with him at the French nudist colony decided they wanted to paddle out, too, and though I’d met only one or two of them once or twice, I wanted to be there.
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