distance = speed x time

How fitting that I write about vintage, because my head seems always to be stuck in the past. Not only the distant past, but the still-smell-it-and-taste-it-on-your-tongue past of the weekend.

This morning when I woke up I was feeling quite moody, a bit romantic, exceptionally gloomy and dreamy and sad...morose even. So it's no wonder that as I got dressed I found myself drawn to this soft, vintage velour bolero of bruised turquoise blue and dusty pink paisleys. The last time I wore this somber yet subtly audacious spectacle, I paired it with the shoes in this post--making a definitively different statement than the dusky gray flats I'm wearing today.

It's been years since I felt inclined to slip on this tattered homespun bolero. Maybe because it feels frivolous, or maybe because it is falling apart in places, with its exposed, unfinished hems spilling out from beneath an otherwise haughty, somewhat imperious facade. Every time I see it patiently hanging there in my closet, I think of the fashion-design or art-school student who labored over the details and construction of it. Who no doubt spent hours on it, and whose earnestness and sartorial aspirations were likely abruptly abandoned in favor of a more practical yet fitful career in retail or waitressing or accounting. I wonder about the choices she has made after that day when she dropped off her unfinished sewing project, and where her path has taken her since.

But mostly, I find myself wondering about time, change, and distance; about bridge crossing and recrossing and the lengths we will go to seek out that which we desire or believe in; about the expectations, hopes, fears, and surprises that come with arrival; and about the many circumstances out of one's hands that ultimately lead to departure. And how the speed of fleeting moments can create a universe of distance between two people.

I think about all the events and emotions that fell into place in order for me to obtain this sweet little handcrafted bolero. And I can't help but wonder whether it was a choice or an inevitability that I would wear it again years later, on such an appropriately beautiful, gray, and bittersweet day.

The ground beneath my feet

This post began with many fits and starts, with a million themes and events racing through my mind but not one that I could focus on as the dust hasn't yet settled. So I will safely retreat to writing about fashion and fantasy.

Earlier this month I had the pleasure of watching Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel, an inspiring, visually rich documentary of the former fashion editor of Harper's Bazaar and Vogue and, in her later years, an unconventional, ground-breaking curator at the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Vreeland was a lover of nostalgia. She loved beautiful things and extremes--nothing ordinary would do. She loved Russia but claimed to know nothing of Russian things. What she loved was the idea of Russia.

Which got me thinking about reality and fantasy. I think the film spoke to me at a time and place where so much in my life was (it still is) in transition, so much of my reality was quickly crumbling beneath my feet, and any steps toward the future fueled by uncertainty...and here I was watching a manifesto for a pleasurable life worth living as much as a celebration of Vreeland.

But back to the idea of Russia. Vreeland was infatuated by Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes. She considered herself an ugly duckling who loved the language of dance. Through dance, she shed away inhibitions and fully immersed herself in movement, wordless expression, storytelling. It's no wonder that, as a fashion editor (a role that she defined and heralded), she turned the spotlight on performers, musicians, and artists; in so doing, she seamlessly fused emotions, desire, theatricality, and fantasy to capture and shape the collective imagination of her time.

In my day-to-day life, I find it so easy and pleasurable to escape in a performance, book, or magazine. In that safe space anything is possible and fantasy is unhindered by reality. Loose strings are neatly tied up or, if they're not, they are left beautifully--not dangerously--tangled. But what I felt strongly that night when I left the theater was that fantasy is not the antithesis of reality. It is a totally valid and perhaps even a reverential interpretation of it and its endless possibilities...if we only had the freedom and the courage to pursue what is possible and not to stagnate at what is.

I love the idea that the eye has to travel, from one point to another and from one chapter to the next. Sometimes I wish that in life as in art I could step back and see the bigger picture. But as I cannot, I will continue to let my eyes travel, and attempt to make sense of the path they take as I follow along, exploring what is possible.

From Ashes

Since last Sunday, I've been feeling the tremendous push and pull, unbearable weight and lightness of the past. As the anniversary of 9/11 approached, I knew that I would have to reflect on that day, but I resisted it. To think about all the lives lost, all the children grown up, all the families affected, a scarred New York...and the passage of time, for better or worse...it was all too much.

But my sister and her boyfriend were covering the 9/11 stories and events for Yahoo, and they told me about all the personal accounts, photos, documentaries, and memories that were being featured, all the lives--of those living and gone--that they were shining a light on, and I knew it would be necessary for me, for us, to honor those who lost their lives and to reflect upon how the world is a changed place.

Like many others, when I think of that day I feel vulnerable and helpless. Unlike those who lost a loved one, I was a mere witness. That day ten years ago I walked away unharmed save for the image of the towers on fire, in smokes, crumbling, and then completely, utterly, hopelessly gone. The sense of disbelief and shock and horror has over the years been replaced by something else--something more vague and nebulous and foggy. Could that really have happened? Is this how we heal, by forgetting?

As I made my way through the horrific images and heart-wrenching stories, it all came flooding back. When memory fails or words are lacking, the visual, like this photo of a woman in shock, seeking shelter in a building, can scream the truth. It reminds me of our fragility and our beauty, of destruction and resurrection. And eventually my mind wanders back to clothes--clothes as an expression of ourselves and our aspirations, as a representation of our frail armour against the world, and clothes as a means of reinvention. From that day ten years ago, we have all shed our clothes and dressed countless times. We have put away the past and carried on. Even in the wake of tragedy, let's never forget who we are and what we are. And let's continue to get dressed, and to not take each day for granted.

***
I'm back again. I reread my post and it just felt so sad and depressing to share this entry during Fashion Week. To see how New York has risen from the ashes of 9/11 with brilliance, check out Tommy Ton's inspiring street fashion photos here. Color! Beauty! Skin! Life!

(Photo: Stan Honda/AFP/Getty Images)

All the world's a stage

I've been horribly, horribly busy this month. A good busy, but still horribly so. This month my daughter started kindergarten and I started a new job. Needless to say, my thoughts have quickly shifted from my post-laid off existential dreaminess to the practicalities of packing lunches, emergency-pack packing, backpack stuffing, BART riding, traffic cursing, multitasking, and getting getting getting things done. Though, I must say that I love my new job. I really do--it's almost embarrassing to admit this but I swear I think there's a spring in my step when I walk down the halls.... But I can't help but think with sadness and fondness of my poor, neglected sewing machine and all the patterns and fresh cuts of cloth sitting there, waiting to be dusted off and made into something. What happened to my dreams of creating and defining my own path and literally wearing my heart on my sleeve?

Then I re-watched this video of Isaac Mizrahi on TED and I was so comforted. How true that "Style makes you feel great because it takes your mind off the fact that you're going to die." Really! It's not depressing--it's true! And just listening to him ramble on about staying up at night and the beauty of mistakes, and color, puppetry and fighting boredom...he is such a creative genius you just have to smile.

But back to his morbid assessment of style. Why do we have a personal style--whether we make our own clothes or go thrifting for perfect sweaters and boots and purses or head to the mall for something we saw in a magazine? With clothes, there's the making and tinkering and the observing, or the trying on and fitting and purchasing.... And then there's the presentation. We all want to be observed. Even the most timid among us...need, want, desire to be observed. We wear our clothes and present ourselves to convey, to connect, to communicate. It's true that style is an extension of ourselves. With style, we display our emotional selves. Style is expression, and expression is a fleeting moment that is all we can do to defy death.

So all of this is to say that I've come to the conclusion that it's okay for my machine to sit idle for the moment. After all, what is the point of clothes without a player and a stage?

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?