The Little Things

Gift from my sister: bronze purse locket from her trip to Paris.


Another charming little gift: Daisy solid perfume and locket by Marc Jacobs. It's hard to describe scents, but I'll happily agree with the description of the violet fragrance as capturing an "eclectic, vintage flavor.")

I love the times when I'm not rushing and going and doing or trying and fighting and searching. I love the times when I can acknowledge and appreciate the fact that it's the little things in life that matter: a touch of the hand, a knowing look, a handmade card, a piece of chocolate on the pillow at night, a cup of tea in the morning, a kiss on the cheek, a squeeze of the arm. These are the things that I enjoy and remember most. More than big gestures or grand parties or huge vacations.

Of course in the literal sense, it really is "the little things" that matter. My little ones are everything and the world to me. They are small packages of joy and wonder. They are life itself, brimming with love and meaning and purpose.

But in another literal sense, I simply love little things. Small packages delight me in the same way that they have since I was--well, little. Shiny stickers, lost teeth, coin purses, tiny trinkets, charms, feathers, and marbles--wrap these up and they become instant treasures, ready to be stored away in a collection of their own. So when I recently received two small packages from my dear sister Lila--one containing an antique locket in the form of a tiny bronze purse, and the other containing an actual tiny purse which held its own locket necklace (filled with MJ's Daisy perfume, no less!), I got that heady rush of exuberance that comes with the firm belief that an entire universe of loveliness can be stored in the littlest, most unassuming objects. Either that or this perfume is really working its magic.

Maybe I'm stuck in my childhood, unable to see the big picture and obsessing over the little things--maybe everyone is and does to some extent. It's no wonder why I like to steep myself in children's books--where it's the Charlottes and Despereauxs, the Very Hungry Caterpillars and the Poky Little Puppies who comfort and captivate and shine. Adults can seem so strange, intimidating, all-powerful, and just plain wrong sometimes. Even at my full, overgrown adult size, when I'm not busy being a strange, messed-up, all-wrong adult, I love to just admire and take in the little things.

Vintage Phil

It has been half a year since the passing of Phil Wood, the founder and publisher of Ten Speed Press. Like the books he published, he was original, impressive, charming, whimsical, often irreverent but always compelling. And like many others, I'll always remember him for his signature Panama hats and bold Hawaiian shirts and larger-than-life personality. When I think of Phil Wood, I think of the man and the books and the personality and the perfect embodiment of the man: his shirts.

So it was entirely appropriate and touching that at his memorial celebration this past weekend, Phil's eclectic collection of pristinely kept Jams World shirts--some of which still bore their original sales tags (that habit being just one of Phil's many idiosyncrasies)--were gifted to guests, lovingly folded and awaiting their new owners in sage-green gift bags. The crowd was a sea of florals, palms, chilli peppers, abstract geometrics, and psychedelic splashes of color galore. Though the donning of shirts was a celebration of the man, I still found myself choking back tears when I saw a Phil look-alike (and there were many)--the jolly girth, the white beard, the kind, sparkly eyes. Yes, Phil was very much like a Santa Claus: in his frame, in his sense of pleasure and indulgence, in his ability to give so much to so many. And here we all were, giddy with the excitement of our gifts and a bit in wonder over the closeness of something extraordinary just beyond our grasp.

A few women wore their shirts with a sash or belt. Some men, as noted before, channelled Phil almost too well. His adorable granddaughter wore her shirt beautifully as a comfy dress that reached her ankles. I loved my shirt for its rich imagery of temples, romantic figures, and pilgrims embarking on a journey. Also, the shirt was as soft as the human touch. Looking around the room, I felt as if Phil's XL frame were a considerate, calculated part of his legacy. The old, the young, the large, the small, the wildly successful, the wide-eyed up-and-comers and everyone in between...Phil made room for all of us.

Auto-Biography

Once upon a time I thought I had no use for biographies, less they served me in the writing of a term paper. Fiction was always and would always be my true love. From the works of Shel Silverstein to Beverly Cleary, Shakespeare to Beckett, through storytelling and characters would I safely revel in the humor and tragedy of the world around me, glimpse into the darkest and most transcendent aspects of the human condition, feel always as if I were inching increasingly closer to understanding the essential and universal truths about war and peace, love and loss...and every human emotion, really.

So when my dear friend Abi lent me her copy of The Power of Style, featuring iconic, stylish, and fascinating women who set the standards for the world of fashion during their time, I was surprised to find myself instantly hooked to the genre. I've never been much of a reality-television watcher or People Magazine reader (though I do recall some bored childhood afternoons watching "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," from which I've gained some faint recollections of glittery chandeliers and gilded wallpaper and the notoriously nasal-y British accent of the sunburnt host)...and I have long held the misconception that biographies were boring and indulgent or technical in a decidedly non-literary way. How wrong I've been!

Just as fiction leaves ample room for interpretation, real life truly is filled with limitless space between the lines. Space for breathing, pausing, reflecting, growing, and dreaming between the limiting lines of circumstance, title, fame, age, location, date, or time. Not sure that made any sense...The point being there is a tremendous amount of fantasy in reality. I suppose right now I'm looking for a direction, maybe a template for an accomplished, adventurous, fulfilling life. No, I know there's no such thing, but still...the following biographies are absolutely captivating and must-reads for anyone with a love of fashion or who simply enjoys a great read.

The Bolter, by Frances Osborne. Wonderfully engaging narrative about Lady Idina Sackville, a woman who scandalized Edwardian high society with her many marriages and affairs and general debauchery...all in quest of love.



Idina, the ultimate flapper girl.



Idina with her third husband, 1923. (I adore that they are glamorous in bare feet, he in silk pajamas.)

Jackie as Editor by Greg Lawrence. JACKIE - AS - EDITOR. The title itself is sexy. An enlightening read for any Jackie O. fan, but a delicious one for the nerdy, bookish type.



Jackie looking elegant and understated at Viking Press, 1977.



Jackie, ravishing in gold.

Fragments by Marilyn Monroe, edited by Stanley Buchthal and Bernard Comment. Marilyn's poetry and diary excerpts are familiar to any girl...and breathtaking in their intensity.



Marilyn reading Joyce in a bold striped swimsuit, 1954.



Marilyn with Arthur Miller, 1956. (The black mesh makes this dress stunning and memorable. It being worn by Marilyn helps, too.)

Mistress of Modernism by Mary V. Dearborn. I've just begun this one but already identify with Peggy Guggenheim's self-professed inferiority complex, and her feeling of always being an outsider. Also I'm mesmerized by the photos of Peggy's daughter, Pegeen.



Portrait of Peggy Guggenheim by Man Ray, 1924.



A seated Peggy, 1942.



Her daughter Pegeen, center (Samuel Beckett, right).



Portrait of Pegeen. (The hair, the blouse, the gesture...simply a beautiful portrait.)

I suppose now it's time to close the books and shut down the laptop...back to making and living and exploring our own life stories, yes?

Transparency

Don't you sometimes wish that things, concepts, people were a little more transparent and easy to understand? Why is it that we hide behind closed doors and computer screens and put up so many protective barriers?

I've always instinctively felt that my most private, petty, awful, or trivial thoughts were transparent to others. Surely my catch of the breath, my twitch of the eye, my biting of the lips, or my nervous finger-twirling of hair will reveal my inner-most thoughts and darkest demons. My awkward bangs betray my insecurities. My frizzy ponytail announces that I don't have much time for myself. My rayon-polyester blouse whispers that I don't quite fit in here, though here I am. My skirt reveals that I am practical yet by nature a romantic, a bit of a head-stuck-in-the-clouds kind of person. My shoes broadcast the fact that I have a ton of responsibilities, walk way too quickly, step into dirty puddles, have wide feet, headaches, and children, and still try to carry myself with some amount of grace...comical though that attempt usually, inevitably turns out to be.

And when years go by and a person suddenly strikes me as incredibly un-transparent, impenetrable, unknowable...I wonder why things couldn't be easy and clear and simple.

I'm not the nudist type. I don't think it's appropriate or necessary to always wear one's heart on one's sleeve. And though I appreciate seeing raw emotions on stage and screen, I relate more to nuance, double entendres, the act of hinting and guessing, the freedom of interpretation and the allure of the unknown. I wish we all could face our demons, let others in on our secrets, learn to accept ourselves fully so that we could fully invite others in--instead of forcing the door shut on those who care the most. I guess what I'm saying is that I wish there could be a little more transparency in this world. If only life could be so simple.

Photos: Coco curtain by Creation Baumann; MIA jelly shoes; jelly flat by Melissa.

Mother's Play

The big glasses and bolero jacket are in honor of my mother on Mother's Day.

Hope you all get to spend time with your mother, enjoy being one, or remember the good times. Sorry about the poor photo quality...I actually like the blurry effect. It's like really cheap and easy airbrushing.

(Jacket: vintage "All that Jazz" from Down at Lulu's in Oakland, CA)

Two Shoes

Thanks to Ms. Casey, my English teacher from 9th through 12th grades (her motto was: "All educated, literate people know this!"), and my generally brooding nature, while shopping for shoes the other day and contemplating which pair to settle on, I thought of "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

You see, I am at a crossroads of sorts. Not that the choosing of shoes would determine my next step, so to speak, and seal my fate--the shoes being on clearance and non-returnable--but in the midst of (kind of sort of) job hunting, anticipating interviews, awaiting the assumed desire of a positive outcome or bracing myself for the expected rejection, I am secretly harboring dreams of taking the road less travelled by. Certainly commuting on Highway 4 during rush hour is most definitely NOT the road less travelled by. And creating my own path, however meandering and impractical and unrealistic, will almost definitely lead to many sighs in the future.

But back to the shoes. So I had on one foot an "interview" pair: black and sleek and with enough of a heel to exude that extra boost of measured confidence; on the other foot was a "mom" pair: suede loafers that were comfy enough to wear to the park and during endless trips to the grocery store...pretty much identical to two other pairs that are sitting in my closet--stained, permanently embedded with sand, reassuring when I slip them on but also annoying in that sandy-shoes way. It was a decision that I resented having to make, and yet it was painfully obvious that I had put myself in the position of standing there at the shoe store, choosing to make it. And now high school physics came to mind, and I felt like a ball of potential energy just seconds from shooting off a cliff (What have I done? I don't even like heels! Why am I doing this?) and conversely like a steady stream of inertia moving continuously and comfortably yet uncertainly (This is natural. This is easy. Is this all?).

It turned out that the decision I made was the best choice of all. I know it is because instead of buyer's regret I am still euphoric and scheming to buy every single pair that I can afford, in my size, in every color (easy to say even for a brooder like me as the shoes only come in tan, black, and gray--my favorite colors after navy blue). I chose the path that for me is most definitely less travelled by. I stepped out of the clearance section and straight to the pair of trusty leather oxfords that caught my eye on the way in. I would stop asking the shoes to define me, stop letting the anticipation of the future define me. I would define myself.

Uh, oh...and now the line "and miles to go before I sleep" keeps repeating in my head....

Landscapes

Maybe because I'm listening to Brian Eno, and Brian Eno (plus David Byrne) were playing today while I was at the always-inspiring Stonemountain and Daughter Fabrics (you know it's a place you'll love and cherish forever when they have tons of gorgeous prints, knits, wools, silks, velvet, furry-monster fabric; vintage patterns; lovely quilts and quilters everywhere; highly-knowledgeable teachers and assistants; a purple, paisley restroom; and a sign behind the counter that reads "Unattended Children Will Be Given an Espresso and a Puppy"), but this image--this landscape comprised of Danskin tights-clad legs lined up simply and beautifully--leaves me pondering space, existence, the weight of our bodies, rest, change, growth, time, movement, beginnings and endings and all the stuff that happens in between.

I've been mulling over how to adequately describe the impact that this image has on me, but sometimes (most of the time) the visual speaks for itself, and words simply fail. All I can do is list the many impressions and memories that flood into mind: Gudrun's emerald-green stockings in Women in Love, holing up with classic tomes in a small apartment in a foreign country, old blue tights, dozens and dozens of leotards, a cozy studio in Germany, Greek tragedy, lost worlds, walking across Canal on a wonderfully warm night, seeing the familiar in the abstract, making friends with a stranger, becoming soulmates. I can't seem to get past the individual impressions and episodes to find the unifying thread in all of this. Perhaps the thread is the experience itself, of being triggered into recalling a slew of events and emotions that are forgotten...but matter.

Okay, yes--I should turn off Eno, but now that I've managed to not make any sense but at least got to post this amazing Danskin poster, I'll end with a few more images also found in the book Dance Posters (which I am sure--cliche as it sounds--"found me" in the overflowing treasure box that is the Russian Hill Bookstore; not to imply that I am one of those treasures, but you get the idea). Anyway, I felt compelled to share them because I am currently obsessed with costumes and costume design and costume design blogs and the idea of costume designing, which is kind of exciting.

Mark my words: I am going to make this Siamese unitard/duotard!



BARYSHNIKOV.



Feet in five positions by Edward Gorey.



A "modern" foot.



Tableau from a piece based on Aesop's fables. So right and so wrong.



I love this poster for the same reason that I love Richard Serra sculptures and ipad billboards (damn marketing to my demographic!)...subtle simplicity manifested larger than life always works on me.



Stunning American Ballet Theater dancer and costume.



All images from Dance Posters by Eleanor Rachel Luger, Simon and Schuster, (c) 1979.