Wave Hill

Just a few tiny windows into what this season has brought (like that cast away table I rescued for our living room). And a hint for those of you in New York: go to Wave Hill! Now! If you don't know, it's a house, gardens, and gallery overlooking the Hudson just north of Manhattan, twenty minutes from Grand Central on the Metro North. It's incredible and bursting with things, live and unalive, you've never seen or don't often see in the city. I went with my Mama (that's her in a photo taken on the High Line) when she was visiting earlier this fall.

The gallery had up, and still has until December 1, an exhibit on armor and ichthyology - perfection in a combination theme! A variety of artists, most unknown to me, all exciting. And all types of media: fishbone corsetry, suits of armor, a fish lamp by Frank Gehry, and some quite beautiful line drawings of slender and hairy woman warriors.

Beyond the gallery, which is small, are the gardens, which are expansive and sloping toward the river. Our day was sunny and warm and popular, but there were quiet places .. near the succulents and the greenhouse, and the fig trees in a patch that reminded me of Tuscany though I've never been there. Also the water garden, with its masses of lily pad and lotus, was quiet. And actually, even on the lawn, where a crowd gathered on benches and chairs looking at the water, it seemed like no one was in anyone's way. It felt very synchronized.

Wave Hill is not a seasonal attraction. Even the gardens are open year-round, so you can see them frosted over and cast in that special light that only comes from the shortest days. I'm planning a February visit with my hat and camera.

WAVE HILL 

Hours for November 1–March 14 :

Tuesday–Sunday   

Grounds open 9AM–4:30PM

Gallery open 10AM-4PM

Free admission Saturday mornings!

camera obscura

Someone took my picture last week on the train. He did it more carefully than quickly, on an old fashioned kind of accordion camera with a box. He didn’t want me to notice him, and when I did notice him because he was fiddling with the accordion, he put the camera down and pretended not to be doing anything, which looked silly, but I allowed him this. I went back to staring at someone’s knees, like I was doing when he decided he wanted to photograph me, and he took my picture.

After he had put the camera away, I still didn’t look at him. I waited a few stops, after he was sitting down (he was standing before), looking innocently like any other passenger on that evening train home. He was younger than me, wore a cap, thick glasses. He may have been in art school.

For a second I imagined talking to him, but I quickly made a firm decision not to. He may have found my voice irritating, like lots of voices I find irritating on the train, especially female ones, I hate to say. I couldn’t do that to him, and I liked the way I’d already been formed in his mind.

But I did wonder why he took the picture, just that one in the thirty minutes I was with him in that car. I’m never photographed. Even at fashion parties, even in neighborhoods heaving with street photographers collecting visions and faces. Once when thrift-shopping in Paris with a beautiful friend, a style blogger stopped us and politely asked me to step aside so he could get a better shot of her dress.

Maybe it was the book I had in my hands, forgotten and suspended in the air. It was Alice Munro’s Dance of the Happy Shades, which you should read, which I had picked up from a display on Bleecker Street when I was looking for flowers and not books. Or possibly it was the sunflowers, attention-getting, that I had bought for Andy, my super, because he had moved the sofa into our apartment, though I never would have asked him.

But mostly I thought, because I tend to get fantastical in these situations, that he sensed that what had taken me off somewhere far at that time, leaving the book, the flowers, the train, was something important, which I think it was.

When I stood to exit at Clinton Washington, I glanced at him quickly, and he didn’t look up.

And unrelated, but I love this winter-made Fleet Foxes video. Top image from The Sartorialist.

1, 2, 3, 4

A one, a one, a one, two, three four! Get ITE rings on Etsy today! Crowns and necklaces to come soon, so stick around.

Calder's women

I've been avoiding this web-space for a long time, a couple of you will notice. Only because there are so many projects in my hands right now, big ones and time-consuming ones, and it feels indulgent and almost ridiculous to finish something here (even a something as small as this) without finishing anything in the material world first.

But I'm on vacation now, in a land of slippery words that won't stick to my tongue, and everyone, they're so beautiful and kind, speaks sweetly to me in English as I fumble along with my camera and granny sunglasses. So, indulged and ridiculous, here I am now giving you Calder's women, who have been waiting in my queue of unfinished posts to be revealed for some time actually.

Did you know Calder designed jewelry? I didn't until I visited the Met once as a college student escaping the anonymity of the great world outside and looking for something small and speaking in a whisper to only me, the way art does. And then there was Calder, who I thought I knew because of the mobiles (which I love), but here were these pieces I'd never seen, being worn by some of my heroes.

First is Anjelica Huston looking formidable (in the French and English senses) in The Jealous Husband, that's the name of the piece (a bit literal, but still I like it). Next is Margaret Schevill in another piece whose name I don't know. But it reminds me of music somehow, maybe because she's wearing it the way I would position my violin for a gypsy song. And last is Georgia O'Keefe wearing a brooch and looking gentle and knowing in front of those rough rocks.

What I loved about the jewelry, apart from aesthetically, was that Calder would throw these fantastic parties where guests would wear the pieces. Or maybe one of his rich socialite friends would throw a party, and some of the artist's besties would appear in pieces made just for them. Whatever the circumstances, just imagine champagne, cigarette holders, and characters literally making spectacles of themselves. I keep a collection of themed parties that I'll host before I die, and this is one of them, maybe the next housewarming (eh, Aubrey?)..

Also if you haven't seen it, next time you're in the UES, drop by the Whitney and have a look at Calder's Circus, it's joy.

Audubon Park

A little lunch break to show off New Orleans' Audubon Park, which I've always thought is the prettiest example of municipal recreational landscaping in the world (with perhaps some competition from Buttes Chaumont in Paris). It was, I believe, developed for the 1884 World's Fair or World Cotton Centennial, oh yes sir. It boasts swampy ponds traversed by stone bridges and stoic swans, islands now occupied by sunbathing turtles but previously inhabited by escaped zoo monkeys (true!), and grassy avenues flanked by hundred year old live oak trees that stretch their branches to the ground.

To clarify, the "live" oak is distinguishable from the ordinary oak tree in that its gnarled and weathered limbs have been smoothed and polished by children's bottoms sliding down them. The smoother the branches, the more aged, loved, and lived ("live") the tree. To clarify further, there may be some botanical explanation for the nomenclature that I don't really care to search for. But then, since this is New Orleans, probably not.

And thanks, Caroline, for taking the picture of me with my oldest (tree) friend in the world!

the moon

      

 

A cheating post today: some stolen photographs and derivative aspirations. Here I am now, on my balcony with far too much wine and perhaps far too much of a full moon (is it full? I don't even know..). And all I'm feeling now, or so much of what I'm feeling, is that there's so much to absorb here. By here, I mean of course New Orleans, New York, all of the places where I've been carried away, but more distantly I mean this entire co-existence we all experience .. like I said, far too much wine. But truly, there are so many incredible but true stories happening all at once in our lifetimes, and how lucky we are (storytellers, listeners, witnesses) to be touched by even one of them.

I'm thinking now of Didion (how perfect are those photographs with her car?), and a moonlight desert canyon drive, Thelma and Louise-like in that convertible, or one very much like it. One day I'd love to be sun-wrinkled and story-full like that.

These are my moon-thoughts.

My wonderfully wild and alive friend Liisi always says that the moon does things to her. I've seen the sorts of things it does .. she was my co-bad-girl in Paris when we both lived there (really lived I guess the way we do when we adopt new selves in new places), and I have in my memory in a special rendering-unforgettable spot those moments of utter release and abandon, some unmentionable. And here is the moon now, looking at me the way a stranger does in a room and you just know you are being watched.

I've planned a trip to the North to see this girl next month, and oh what joy. So, love to you, Lady Lii, as Cecilie calls you and as I have now adopted for eternity. You are both mine.

a few thoughts on hair

I've been thinking, in between heavy criminal-justice-related thoughts this week, lightly about hair. My favorite hair blog (I have yet to feel comfortable using the word "blog", though I am now, shudder, a blogger..) is She Lets Her Hair Down, which I found through friends at The House that Jack Built. Isn't it funny imagining how all of this would sound to someone out of the nineties? Like a real trip.

So I've decided to cut my hair. I know, you're obviously fascinated. The styles I'm considering are the ones pictured above. Two, of course, are French. As I am, in the soul, approximately two thirds française.  For those of you who haven't seen me let my hair down recently, it's long and wild. In the summer, I like to put it in perfectly arranged (but seemingly effortless, obvi) piles of tangles on the top of my head. Otherwise I wear it in a four-way braid, une tresse, as my French selves so elegantly call it.

My hesitation at letting it all go comes from insecurities about my facial structure. Am I pretty enough for short hair? And for short, untamed, un-styled, messy hair? What about my noticeable lack of chin? Go on, now's the time to tell me I'm gorgeous. I'm looking at you, Mama.

Insecurities withstanding, it's time for a change. Hair can be symbolic in that way, so full of story. Samson, Rapunzel, my orthodox landlord with the side ringlets .. our hair is conflictingly our power, our prison, our way out. I remember being tormented by my hormonal frizzy locks in my early teens. When I discovered salon-strength straightening irons, I thought God had spoken to me.

My friend Tom has written an illustrated novel that explores the power of hair -- I won't reveal anything because it should be coming out soon, but the images (both literal and literary) are positively Safran-Foer-esque. In other words, magical.

So in the spirit of the recent changes in my life, lawyer to journalist, New York to New Orleans, hapless internet wanderer to hapless blogger (ew..still hate it), I'm welcoming a new flapper era of dancing with my hair down and spending a great deal less on conditioner.

Also, while we're on the subject, thank you to my dear friend, Sofy, my everstrong defender of equal representation, who showed me this excellent video of hair tutorials for black hair.