An Ode to Orangina

And Bernard Villemot, an Orangenius.

Several days after publishing my First Date Questions newsletter, I realized I left one of my favorite questions off: “If Christ’s body and blood are bread and wine, what are your body and blood?”

My answer, at present, is matzoh balls and Orangina. Interestingly, I don’t consume either more than twice a year, but I think together they effectively encapsulate who I am as a person (or rather, who I’d like to be).

If you did not know this about me, I positively looove Orangina. It always felt like a special treat growing up; a light, citrusy beveragino served in what can only be described as a curvaceous glass vase (not vayz, vahhz).

The very name “Orangina” connotes femininity, grace, sophistication. Crush is the name of your uncle-in-law who wears faded Hawaiian shirts and calls a toilet the “crapper.” Orangina is the name of your infuriatingly kind Italian cousin who you jealousy-stalk on instagram once a month. Her eyes are the color of the Mediterranean Sea, and freckles blossom on her shoulders every summer as she picks lemons barefoot on the Amalfi coast.

Orangina is not served just anywhere; you will never find it at a fast food chain. But it will pop up in exotic, unexpected places - a bodega by the beach, a startup office’s mini-fridge, a mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant.

Fanta is a neon Shein tube top. Orangina is a vintage sarong your impossibly chic friend Colette purchased at “the cutest little shop in Porto.” The portion size is just a littttle too small. As Colette might say to you at a bar, after abruptly ending a conversation with the hottest man you’ve ever seen: “You must remember, my dear, to always leave them wanting more.”

Anyway. You can imagine how I felt when, at a café in Valley Village, I saw this gorgeous poster on the wall:

I couldn’t look away. It’s rare to see advertising that could stand on its own as art, and rarer still to see advertising that feels warm. Everything nowadays is shiny, glossy, clinically clean. I love how imprecise the lines are, how warm the sand looks, how you can almost hear a marimba playing in the distance. Oh how I long to be a part of this mysterious clique of Rubenesque women, sipping their ice-cold Oranginas under their glamorously gaudy matching sun hats (or are they umbrellas?). Pepsi will try to convince you that her red-blue swirl is perfect, but these hats haunt her dreams every night. She will never stack up. Pepsi chases with a desperate hunger; the Oranginettes attract with an effortless smile. (Okay, that’s enough Orangina Lore/Lorangina.)

After finishing my Americano and reconsidering the choices that have led me to being a “writer” at a “coffee shop” in “the San Fernando Valley” instead of an Oranginette, I did some research (by which I mean one Google search, then clicking on the first Wikipedia result, the end) and learned about the artist, a French painter named Bernard Villemot, who I previously knew nothing about. I expected him to be an acclaimed portrait artist who briefly dabbled in advertising, but instead found that he is heralded as “the painter-laureate” of commercial art and poster design, and that the Orangina campaign is his most widely known and respected body of work.

Villemot’s legacy reinforces my belief that it pays off to find your niche. It’s impossible to be the next Van Gogh. It’s a lot easier to attain the title “the Da Vinci of carving tiny castles into pencil graphite” or “the Frank Lloyd Wright of bicycle lane design.” I think, personally, I would like to be remembered as the “Walt Whitman of mediocre poop jokes” – Walt Shitman, if I may. (I will.)

All this to say - I want to thank Bernard Villemot for giving glamor to my blood, for adding obscene amounts of Charisma, Uniqueness, Nerve, and Talent to the otherwise soulless world of advertising, for having a clearly legible signature, and - perhaps most importantly - for having a very short Wikipedia page without a section titled “Controversy.”

I will leave you with a gallery of Villemot’s Orangina paintings. May they serve as a reminder that a legacy is merely a task that you put your entire pussy into.

Ciao,

Johnny