restingmotion

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving!  I hope you are all having a wonderful day filled with family and friends and good things.

 

I am dancing in the kitchen, er I mean I am cooking. I am always happy when I am always cooking, so I think we should all give thanks for the good times, for the times of trial, and all the blessings that make up this world, even when they don't particularly feel like blessings.  And most of all I hope that we all can share the things we love with others, and the things that make us cry, and together we can heal the world.

 

 

Paris Shopping

There were no plans for shopping in Paris.  And yet, shopping occurred.

Following the Dior exhibit, we stopped in the museum store.  As in the museum itself, the lines were long and there was little which attracted me enough to brave the line, at least until I saw a pair of gloves.  I was attracted by a pair of long burgundy gloves with interesting braided and twisted leatherwork.  Alas they were too small, and they were the final pair in stock. After a brief google search for other vendors we were off, but were ultimately unsuccessful. I sent an inquiry off via email and the designer replied that she had the gloves, not in the color I saw originally, but in this deep gray, in my size, and they could be shipped to me.    And so, the day after I arrived home, a package arrived.  I wore the gloves the next day with a grayish green sweater.  You probably can't tell much detail in the photo below.

But although I had no plans for shopping, things change.  We were in Paris.  It seemed our visit could not be complete without a stop at Dior Perfumes.  After all Christian Dior had said "A woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting".  We each sampled a fragrance or two.  Liana adored hers and we went back so she could buy it.  The perfume I tried, Bois d'Argent was lovely and soft, woodsy with a bit of leather and incense, but basically too soft and sweet for me.  I apparently have trouble describing what I want in a perfume.  Perhaps I should have gone back after we went to Serge Lutens, where we were both successful.  I took a quick photo as I was leaving the store, bag on my arm.

Lutens' perfume Gris Clair had been one of my favorites for a long time, and it was the perfume that I had been wearing most days since I began wearing perfume again this past summer.  In fact it is a perfume I have loved in summer heat, and Tennessee has a long hot season.  It opens with a icy dryness that just makes me fee cool as I wear it, but there is also a smokiness, and a softness to it.  If soft gray could be a scent this would be how I would imagine it, or if fog could be captured. But it is not a cold perfume, it warms into something soft, on me at least, maintaining that edgy mystery of lavender and a subtle warm smokiness.  It lasts a long time on my skin, and at the end of the day the soft caramelized smoke remains, reminding me of that feeling of being cuddled up, wrapped in cashmere in front of a dying fire, warm and safe, enveloped.  In that sense it is working well for me now for in this stage of autumnal weather, where the cool lavender echoes the cool crisp foggy mornings, accompanied by a hint of decaying leaves, warms in the afternoon sun, and fades softly into the evening.  

Not surprisingly I bought another bottle of Gris Clair.  But I also sampled other things.  Gris Clair is not, to my mind, a winter perfume, but we don't always have severe winters here.  I did not take it with me to Paris because I expected cool and damp, and it is not what I wanted to wear.  So we both tried other things.   The perfume I ended up surprised me initially, but not really, it was really a question of accepting multifaceted aspects of my personality.  Like Gris Clair, there is a hint of darkness, of decay, but it is not decaying leaves.  Muscs Kublai Khan is a different perfume altogether, much warmer, more animalic, definitely sensuous and sexy.  It opens with an initial whiff of barnyard, but it is a whiff that quickly is enhanced and subsumed by rich warm and even soft aromas, yet it never completely goes away.  I'm not sure this is a perfume that I would wear on a hot summer day, it would get out of hand quickly, but on a cool crisp day in paris, for a nice evening by the fire on a chilly night.  I felt like myself wearing this perfume, just as I feel like myself with the scent of Gris Clair, but in a slight different way.  I think that is what I have learned. I've learned I am very sensitive to and particular about scents, I like a little dirt and depth in my fragrances, some sense that there is more hidden beneath the surface. I need to like the person I become when I am wearing them, and I am not naïve enough to believe that the scent I surround myself doesn't subtly affect my sense of who I am, or what aspect of who I am I am inhabiting at that moment.  I don't know if I need to indulge my inner Kublai Khan, but perhaps I do.  

 

 

 

 

Christian Dior: Couturier du Rêve

I can't even begin to describe, or share the wonder that was the Christian Dior Exhibit.  It was by far the most spectacular and magical fashion exhibit I have ever seen and I am very happy that I was able to go.  If you have the opportunity to be in Paris before January 7th, I highly recommend it.

We went during a holiday in France.  Would I have changed my mind had I known?  Probably not; this, after all, was the weekend I had.  But the lines were long even though we had purchased tickets in advance, and the crowds were thick, especially during the early parts of the exhibit where there were drawings, pictures, accessories and a wonderful collection of miniatures of the gowns, many of which we would see later in the exhibit.  Those rooms were packed and barely moving.  I'm not particularly claustrophobic about small spaces, but the pressing crowds, the inability to move, and the fear of stepping on someone after I tripped over a couple of people who were crouching down to take photographs were not happy-making, and I progressed through those sections quickly, finding a nice open, quiet, corner, to watch the crowds (endlessly entertaining) and wait for Liana, who has far more patience, and who glided through the space like an island of calm in a sea of turmoil.

Luckily however many others have gone to the exhibit as well, and Susan has just posted a wonderful review of the exhibit, far more comprehensive than I am likely to write, with great photos, including much from these early rooms.

Mostly I just wanted to look at the clothes.

I admit to being shallow that way, but it is more than that.  With infinite time, and quiet and space, I would love to pore over the details, but I don't have the patience for the crowds.  So I'll simply share a few photos, a small hint really of what was there.

I loved this embroidered raffia dress, and especially the detail at the bottom, the areas without embroidery, which gives the dress a very modern feel, a nod to the truth that our work is both always unfinished, but also just a whisper away from decay.

Although work by the various designers for Dior was mixed with the originals to suit the various themes of the exhibit, there were also rooms dedicated to each designer who has worked for the house.  

 

I have always been particularly fond of Gianfranco Ferré, both his work for his own house and when he was at Dior.

But each designer has brought their own stamp to the tradition.

But these segments were very congested, and often dark as well.  My photographic successes are merely snippets here and there.

By the time we reached the magnificent final room, I was worn out and tired of the crowds.   This final photo of the dream finale is Liana's.  

 

 

Quick Weekend in Paris

I am flying home today from Paris.  The whole thing was kind of a lark, a decision made on about 12 days notice.

The reason I decided to go to Paris was to see the Dior exhibit, and I did see it.  It was worth the trip despite being horribly crowded and hot,  it was worth the trouble despite the fact that there were a couple of rooms from which I desired nothing except the opportunity to flee.

But I persevered.  There are no photos from the Dior in this post.  My friend Liana joined me, and posted lots of photos on facebook, if we are connected there, you may have seen them.  But I will get around to posting my own photos and sharing my thoughts in my own time.  I am still more or less slow to adapt to the idea of instant access, although travelling with more connected friends does push my horizons a bit.

I had no other real plans in Paris, rather than to walk where we felt like walking and do whatever we felt like doing.  I've been to Paris before.  I've seen the major sites, and I'll probably see them again sometime, but frankly I was happy just to walk.  I may have told friends I would go to the Gauguin exhibit at the Grand Palais, but it didn't happen.   

We did go to the opera, where we saw a fabulous production of Falstaff, with Bryn Terfel singing the lead.   Paris and Dior and Falstaff, lots of walking, and a few good meals is enough for any weekend.

October Reading

For the most part, my October reading was mosty light and fun,..  

The Elizabeth Peters was read on the flight home from Scotland, and discarded.  The 2nd Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace, was read on the same flight and not discarded.  I've enjoyed reading the Gamache novels.  I find them charming and entertaining, and yet they always also trigger my reflective instincts; they form a nice balance between something I just simply enjoy for its own sake, like eating a really good meal, and yes the descriptions of food help, as do the personal relationships formed between Inspector Gamache and the Three Pines Community,  while at the same time satisfying some elemental craving for something more.

 

Cormac McCarthy's novel, Suttree, was the most difficult novel I read. It may, in fact, be too sophisticated for me.  The prose and the simultaneously wry and achingly sad portrayals of citizens on the margins of society were powerful and occasionally wrenchingly beautiful, but I struggled with the straightforward story line which was at times seemed lacking in narrative complexity, treading as it was some intellectual and moral space between autobiography and fiction.  Perhaps I just wanted more of a "read, read", more Gamache, a change of voice, but something I could still curl up and get lost in.  Suttree did not really offer that kind of enveloping narrative, but what it does offer is something that I believe reveals insight into McCarthy's later novels, and may in fact be the kind of novel that reveals itself slowly, opening new vistas with each reading.

 

The novel I enjoyed the most was Mohsin Hamid's Exit West; in fact I enjoyed it so much I read it twice. It is, in some ways, an odd little novel, told in a third person that puts the reader at some remove from the characters, and yet dealing simultaneously with struggles that are quite current and also quite personal.  At times, one perhaps wishes for a deeper emotional connection, and yet at the same time I think it is the absence of that connection that elevates the book into an almost allegorical state of reflection, a state that is enhanced in my opinion by Hamid's technique of using magical doors to replace the struggle of actual immigration.  He does this well, making the movement transitional in a way that reflects on more than just changes in physical space, mixing allegory with a story that is simply good, and engaging on its own merits.  Hamid challenges our preconceptions and reminds us that loss and change are part of the human condition, that we are all migrants, all find ourselves in places not of our choosing with no understanding of what will unfold.  Exactly through his prose, his scattered snapshots of a changing world superimposed on a story of a young couple as they move through massive change, the shared distance and tenderness he uses in his characterizations, Hamid is sharing with us the way “loss unites humanity, unites every human being, the temporary nature of our being-ness, and our shared sorrow, the heartache we each carry and yet too often refuse to acknowledge in one another.”  It is a book both melancholy and filled with hope.  

 

I reread Joshua Applestone's Butcher's Guide to Well Raised Meats when I returned from Scotland.  Applestone was once my local butcher, and I had originally read the book when it was published.  I reread it because I returned from Scotland wanting eggs with the deep orange yolks and firm thick whites like I had in Scotland, and which I still missed from my farmer in Hyde Park.  But while thinking about eggs, I also realized another farmer I had supported was closing and I needed to rethink and review my meat choices as well.  Thank goodness there are still farmers I love to support, but I need to also explore more options. I have not made much progress on that particular mission, and local farmer's markets will soon close for the season, but it is an ongoing process.    I'm currently in the middle of reading Big Chicken, on Lisa's recommendation, and that may add some refinements to my choices as well, but I haven't yet read enough of the book to access how it will affect my search. But of course I am biased anyway.  I want food that is humanely raised, and sustainable, and has good flavor, feeling it is better to pay more and eat less of something truly satisfying, a desire that also aligns well with my increasingly strong opinion that whenever we think we can get more for less we are bargaining with the devil. 

 

 

 

 

Edinburgh Photos

A few other photos of Edinburgh.

These first two are of Holyrood, the palace itself for the most part, not the Abbey, which is attached and integral, which I suppose makes me actually like the place more.  I  was mostly bored with the state rooms: the rooms where people appear or congregate to meet the Queen, both the practical places where ceremonies are held, and the more formal spaces, meant to impress one with a sense of history and power.  

Although I enjoyed going to the apartment of Mary Queen of Scotts, again, I grow easily bored with displays and all the historical stuff.  My father, the historian, would probably be rolling over in his grave.  I was much happier to be outside, to walk around the grounds, and to peer at traffic through the gate.

The remaining photos are just random snaps taken while wandering around town.  Most of our days in Edinburgh were dreary, drizzly and windy, fine weather for walking around, less conducive to photos.

But then, I'm not the best person about taking photos. 

If I am taking pictures, I am not really present in the moment.

I tend to spend my time just walking and watching, or simply lost in thought.

I'm just as likely to take a picture of pretty flowers as I am of anything unique to the place I am visiting.

Liana, took this picture of me on our last day in Edinburgh.  I was ready to say farewell.

I hope to return.

 

 

This Is Not The Post I Planned To Write

I am sporadically working my way through the photos I took in Scotland, but progress is slow. I am still working on photos from the third day of my trip.  The plan was that I would post as I sorted, a plan that was not, perhaps, highly focused and organized, but worked, given my over-extended fall schedule and the fact that I tend to keep adding things to an already full plate.

The second day we went to Holyrood.  Frankly I found the ruins of Holyrood Abbey far more interesting than in the palace itself, although parts of the palace tour were, indeed, fascinating.  

And yet, as I was sorting through photos, thinking of how I would put them together, my thoughts went astray, wandering in a rather unanticipated direction, my mind fabricating connections between disparate and unrelated images.  .  

The above photo was taken at the fashion exhibit at the National Museum of Scotland.  I didn't record anything about its provenance because I was, and am still, attracted by the combination of pattern and texture.  Further, as I added this photo to my pending folder, muddling over whether I wanted to write about the Abbey or the fashion exhibit, the columnar nature of the pattern and the combination of smooth and shiny with the rough, fluffy and bumpy texture of the skirt reminded me of the abbey itself, with its soaring columns standing next to piles of stones and broken walls, visual reminders of collapse, as well as  the contrast of the grand and ambitiously uplifting design with sometimes very rough and uneven workmanship.   In some ways the outfit struck me as a modern interpretation, in fabric, of what I had seen in stone. 

But the jacket also reminded me of something else entirely, something unrelated to my Scotland trip.  It reminded me of this painting by Anselm Kiefer, Shulemith, which I saw in San Francisco in August of last year.  When I first saw this painting I thought of something sacred: dark and disturbing, yes, but also sacred.  Since then the photo has been sitting patiently  in my pending file, waiting for me to write something, and it seems odd that it would pop into my head now, drawn to my attention perhaps more by the colors of a garment than the nature of the work itself.  

 

The Abbey also had a sense about it of a being a sacred space, but my initial response to the abbey was not as visceral as my response to the painting. In fact, that palpable sense of holy ground initially seemed to have faded, trampled by thousands of feet.  But it still clung to the walls and the corners, the in between spaces, almost lurking, waiting to catch one by surprise and snap one out of oblivion. The abbey is filled with light, seems to masquerade as a place of light, a space settled into itself, almost where the cares of the world had been worn down and faded away. But that is an illusion.  Light and dark live together here, holiness and the ravages of time, etched into the stone with nearly nine-hundred years of human history:  love, loss, fear, joy.  Still, I cannot explain, perhaps I can't even fully comprehend, why these two things, the abbey and the painting, Shulemith, have welded themselves together in my thoughts.     

The Abbey was founded in 1128 and built over the next century.  It was also repeatedly destroyed by wars and mobs, vandalized, neglected, rebuilt, sometimes Ill-advisedly, replacing wooden beams with heavy stone work that the structure could not support, and in that sense it is a testament to belief and faith and humanity's need to build structures to honor and worship, to offer glory to our Gods (and yes, I am saying it that way intentionally).  And yet we often fail.  We humans cannot build without also destroying, we cannot rise above our natures, and our greatest impulses are always brought crashing down around us.  And yet we try again. The sense of holiness of a place arises not from lofty human ambitions, but actually from human failings, a testament to the struggle, a testament to our very humanity.  Yes, the ruins of the abbey are about soaring arches, actually both physical and metaphysical, our desire to reach for that which is greater than ourselves, our tendency to elevate ourselves too highly, and our tendency to fail in our efforts.

But how does any of that relate to the Kiefer painting?  I have read that the structure portrayed in Shulemith is a Nazi Monument, the Hall of Soldiers, by Wilhelm Kreis, except that Kiefer has altered the scale.  Rather than soaring, the arches have been shortened, and the walls are scored by soot and ash.  The monument, which was probably grandiose and inhuman in its original scale is, as portrayed here, still stark. But it is no longer a soaring monument but an oven, stark and dark and filled with death. The monument to the German soldier, the God of the Aryan ideal, has become a symbol of horror. In its heaviness and almost palpable sootiness, emphasized by the thick layering of the paint, the structure is both inhumane and because of its inhumanity it is horribly and unnervingly human.   And yet there is hope.  Deep in the center of the painting are the flames atop a platform of steps, a symbol of hope and transfiguration, a hope and transfiguration that comes only after acknowledging and facing our own denials and deaths, our own complicity in the human condition. The abbey as well is a symbol of hope, of our history with all its failings, and of our desire to rise above them.  But we cannot rise up without remembering the past, and making our peace with it, acknowledging the fact that we are complicit as a very fact of our being, and yet we can rise.  We traipse through life, and yet we too can rise.