It's summer. I'm so busy. So many birthdays to celebrate, so many people in and out of town, so many pregnant friends to visit, and so many beautiful babies being born. It's a glorious, colorful time of year. And the kids and I are literally basking in the sun, enjoying ourselves in that happy-go-lucky but insanely packed with activities summertime way (in between fights and meltdowns and long lines for gelato). My life right now is feeling a bit like this collection of shoes--jam packed, delightfully varied, verging on chaotic, and remarkably sublime.
(marble bust of Mary Robinson by David d'Angers, 1824)
Nearly fifteen years after I first read about the sprawling concrete museum at the top of a hill, vowing I would visit and anticipating the six-hour journey down, the ritualistic tram ride up, I finally found myself at the Getty, under circumstances entirely unanticipated but filled with that sense of deja vu that strikes me when it's warm with a light, cool breeze; when early evening holds on tight to that last, sumptuous light of day; and when architecture, sky, land, and water come together harmoniously to inspire and reassure. It might be awe, love, reverence, illumination, joy...maybe all of the above. Whatever it is, it makes me hyper aware of the present while vaguely recalling memories or imaginations of the past.
Fifteen years--studies and travels, marriage and children, love and heartbreak, sickness and health, dissolution and resurrection--how quick the passage of time. At nineteen, "thirty-something" sounded eons away. At nineteen, who would have guessed that life could possibly ever do anything so mundane as to get in the way? But here I was, finally, for the first time, nearly fifteen years later, at the monumental Getty Center, with company that was new yet strangely and exceptionally familiar. Despite change, some things stoically and reassuringly stay the same, and we occasionally find ourselves reawakened to a part of us that has never really gone away.
What I'm getting at really is a roundabout intro to discussing fashion's revival of the updo. Gorgeously carved into marble almost two centuries ago by Pierre-Jean David d'Angers are the likenesses of Ann Buchan Robinson and her daughter Mary, both sporting breathtaking updos that, according to the Getty's accompanying object labels (and not off the top of my head--absolutely no pun intended), demonstrate the stylized refinement common to early-nineteenth-century Neoclassical art.
And today, when the trend is full-force long, wavy locks or sleek, ironed straightness (my own locks are at their very lengthiest, unruliest, and, admittedly, all-too-often subjected to a scorching hot iron) some of us would like to go against the stream and bring back the elegant updo...at least in an ironic, early-twenty-first century Postmodern sort of way.... W just recently wrote about the phenomenon here. I'm all for it. In fact, what better way to get that long, unruly hair out of my face but to put it into a strategically (or, in my case, an inevitably) tousled topknot?
(bust of Ann Buchan Robinson, 1831)
I loved coming across this mother and daughter sculptural duo. As Mother's Day approaches and I think about my own daughter's lovely hair (it is soft and silky and the polar opposite of mine), and this day two centuries ago, and this day another century from now...I am reminded of my six-year-old's preoccupation and coming to terms with the cycle of life and death and my own view of the cyclical nature of life and emotions and fashion. In an effort to comfort my daughter, I liken the end of life to roses wilting and making way for baby rosebuds. But I realize I've only been painting part of the picture, entirely neglecting to acknowledge the decomposing petals, the roots, the particles of water mixing with the air, sun, and dirt. Like roses, like topknots, like the sentiments of our nineteen-year-old selves, everything comes back eventually. Or perhaps nothing ever entirely goes away, instead waiting for the right moment to resurface.
I feel I could launch into a pseudo-serious lecture about our perceptions of good karma and justice and bad karma and blame, and how that all relates to the current state of my life and, of course, to fashion, but that's a topic for another post.... For now, let's just leave it at the cyclical (figure "8" even!) nature of The Hair Bow, courtesy of the talented ladies at Vena Cava.
polka dot 1. one of a pattern of small circular regularly spaced spots on a fabric 2. a fabric or pattern with such spots
spot 1. a rounded mark or stain made by foreign matter, as mud, blood, paint, ink, etc.; a blot or speck. 2. something that mars one's character or reputation; blemish; flaw.
spot·ty 1. full of, having, or occurring in spots: spotty coloring. 2. irregular or uneven in quality or character: a spotty performance. Synonyms 2. erratic, random, sporadic, episodic.
I've been longing for a way to write about polka dots, a way to express their visual impression on me, without sounding frivolous and silly and childish. Polka dots evoke youth and a carefree beauty reminiscent of flamenco and 80s prom dresses (adorable and coveted items in my book, by the way). But there's also something more about polka dots that is pleasing to the eyes in the way that looking out at a beautiful landscape or staring up into the night sky filled with twinkling stars is. Which brings me to my dreamy and moody take on polka dots....
Leave it to me to take something simple and cute and girly and make it serious, weighty, and sad. (I'm such a damper sometimes, I know.) A special, sweet friend of mine whose command of English is sometimes more endearing than accurate referred to polka dots as "spots." They are spots, really. Many of them and in uniformity, usually. And so, naturally, I looked up the words in the dictionary to search for their antonyms and synonyms. To my heavy heart's delight I am now able to "connect the dots" between my obsession with polka dots and my damper's view of the world as irregular, unreliable, flawed, and random. Sometimes life can be so consistent and good, or consistent and mundane but reliable in a good way. Other times it is erratic and messy and episodic. One day we are innocent, childish, beautiful, and worthy. Another day we might feel flawed, insignificant, unreputable, and small. Someone lovely who is here today may be gone tomorrow. Such is life. Such is polka dots. Beautiful and spotty and reassuring and mysterious as the night sky.
(Photos: YSL shoes from Treasure Island Flea; 1930s polka-dotted red bolero from Roads Less Travelled; 1940s peter-pan polka-dotted blouse from my favorite sellers at TIF.)
Like certain people, there are those special places you come across in life that hit you in the heart like a ton of bricks (in the best possible sense) and leave you bleary-eyed in love, in lust, and in awe of the unbearable beauty and simplicity of good things. And when that happens, when that first impression is made, it's like walking on air, bathing in sunshine, feeling ticklish inside from a glass of champagne. I recently experienced this giddy head-over-heels crush over a venue at the inviting little gem that is FOOD+LAB in West Hollywood. The heart-fork-plate-knife-happy face logo pretty much sums up the vibe of this place, and the vibe you get upon leaving it. Not to mention the delicious food. Mmmmmm, the food...and the sweet teas and chocolates and homemade caramels.
But perhaps what left the biggest impression on me was, upon my exit, coming across the b&w photo postcard of the mother-and-son owners. He as a wide-eyed infant and she as a stunning, smoky-eyed model and new mom. The photo said everything: it encapsulated beauty, love, life, and time. It made me think about what remains despite the passage of time: style, grace, and passion. And I left with a postcard and my bag of goodies, thinking about this treasure of a place and motherhood and infancy and food and love. I knew I would not be back for a while, but I was comforted just to know that such a lovely place exists.
Coming back home to Berkeley, I continued to visit my favorite local spots. This one in particular had charmed its way into my heart and pulled me back for more...
and more...
and more....
Until it closed its doors two days ago and left this devastating note for its many lovers:
Cafe Fanny--also something of a mother-child affair as twenty-eight years ago Alice Waters named both the cafe and her newborn daughter after the heroine of Marcel Pagnol's Marseilles triology--with its intimate space, delicious poached eggs on toast, the best granola on Straus Family Creamery yogurt, and, of course, the cafe au laits, was a treasure trove of yumminess and warmth and fond memories that held a special place in my heart. Most recently I've been bringing my daughter there for cocoa and a bite of muffin or cookie before school. Her favorite treat was the lavendar chocolate chip cookies. My favorite treat: the time spent there, in cozy quarters and good company.
It's hard to say exactly why I feel the need to write about this--about my new cafe love and my former one--here in this place dedicated to clothes and vintage. Surely it has something to do with the arresting photo of Esther Linsmayer looking like a chic Madonna figure in a black cashmere sweater, with her darling baby, Nino, leaning into her cheek with total abandon. And the thought of Alice and her own daughter, and the influential role of Pagnol's epic tale of desire and romance on the foundation of a beloved cafe that is suddenly and tragically no longer.
Mostly, I'm reminded that nothing we love is forever. It's such a hard lesson...knowing that something exquisite is gone, accepting that temporal pleasures pass. In a way though, isn't every act of love and falling in love a belief in the good things that are and that might be, and a testament to the good things that have come before?
A cette pauvre, Cafe Fanny. Thank you for the opportunity to fall head-over-heels in love.
I so often dwell on the bittersweet or morose. For a change I thought I would post a few photos of some lovely items I saw today that are simply delightful--and not anything more to analyze or get heart-achy over. There's nothing like a gorgeous, sunny day, a view of the San Francisco skyline, all the time in the world to spare, lovely aunties to help keep the little ones (somewhat) at bay, and salivating over antiques and vintage to bring joy to the soul. Enjoy!
These past two months, if lacking in warmth and exceedingly cruel as winters can be (yes even in the sunny East Bay, winters can be excessively harsh for some of us, certainly emotionally), have at least been visually generous: Pina Bausch's Danzon at the Zellerbach, with its girls giddily sucking on oranges, dresses taken on and off and on and off again, and large-screen goldfish/male-dancer duets; Hugo and clock towers, trains and train stations and people in train stations...and, of course, Georges Méliès film clips and their stunning reproductions; the Francesca Woodman retrospective at the SFMOMA, and all the eerie beauty and the steely strength in the vulnerability of nudity, vintage dresses, the dead, decaying, and the ghostly. All of the beauty and sadness swirling around in my head but never landing, never really making complete narrative sense but all of it making an impression.
And as January is full of birthday celebrations--my mother's, my daughter's, my niece's, MLK Jr's (my daughter said that Martin Luther King Jr "was shot in the head by a bad guy" and that he "is the most important person in the world" and also that "he's lucky because even though he died we celebrate his birthday...when I die will you keep celebrating my birthday?"--god, she's morbid like her mom)--it is also full of commemorations (my mother's, MLK Jr's). And so I think about the potential of the present but also about the opposite of celebration and that is mourning. Mourning for the past, mourning for those we have lost and the things we are, maybe, at any moment, just about to lose.
So I take refuge in seeking meaning in art. And seeing patterns in art and in life somehow makes the unknowable more tolerable, because at least I know someone at some point must have experienced this very emotion and made something beautiful out of it, or at least expressed that emotion and so validated it. Like the V's in Woodman's photographs of bent arms and colliding stripes, my hand-knit (not by me) blue sweater reassures me with its tassels and "V" motif. I mean--tassels. They make life at least seem richer and more elegant. Even when they simply dangle on dusty curtains they instantly give the room a more regal/fancy air in their excessiveness and silliness. I guess with my head stuck in thoughts of the cycle of life, death, celebration and mourning, the frivolous tassels, like hiccups on the road, make life not so awfully serious for an all-grown-up person like me who deals with not very fun grown-up affairs on a winter's evening.
(Photo: Knitted by Hand Jamie Scott sweater from Mars Mercantile)
December: A time for lathering up with lotion, cozying up to the fireplace (or blasting the heat, in my case), and dressing up in layers.
My first blog post promised rebirth, reinvention, and a shedding off of layers. Today, twelve months later and as 2011 draws to a close, I find myself obsessed with layers: layered clothing for warmth and protection against the elements; layers of meaning and suggestion in our spoken and written words; the layers of myth and storytelling that hide or attempt to capture our versions of the truth; layers of chocolate ganache, buttercream, and amaretto-infused chestnut cake that blend together in my mouth; the swirly layers of rich yumminess in a buche de Noel; the pastel layers of a winter's sunset; layers of the metaphorical onion and the presumption of a spiritual nirvana at its center; and the layers of our skin, flesh, muscle, organs, bones, and everything in between that make our bodies function or fail.
It's hard for me to make sense of any of it. Sometimes I confuse transparency and the vulnerability of the naked body with the truth--they seem to represent the same thing. As if our flesh and body equate with a deeper reality while the layers we pile on are just dust in the wind. But the clothes, the representation, our actions, stories, and words...I think these are all we have in the end, or at least all we have some semblance of control over. While we ride the tide of time and witness the changes to our bodies, the comings and goings of sickness and health...all we can do is to carry on, to seek protection and comfort and meaning, and to pile on the layers and attempt to stay warm.
(Photo: wearing my grandma's sweater vest from Hong Kong circa 1980s)
