Sorry, but everything's suuuper busy this summer. I'll actually update something worthwhile soon to my two readers (hrumph, Jessica and Tyler).
Just some quick things: Vogue goes shopping with Michiko Kakutani and Maureen Dowd? Whaa? Two of the most respected/feared women in journalism? Hilarious. But refreshing, at the same time; feminism finally lets its hair down.
Also, this: Amazing, right? Stefani Tonchi already seems to be flying out of the gate at his new post. Unstoppable.
BTW, I changed the color scheme to something a little more summery/I'm super into forest green thanks to this dude (my new favorite blog!).
I am here: Which is to say that I am in Morningside Hieghts. Which is to say that I am in New York.
I guess I have a backlog of explaining to do (not that this blog is much for explaining any particular element of my life). After fake graduating in May (I'm going back for a victory half-lap in the fall), I've flown out here to begin an internship that begins tomorrow. I'll be interning at the Bronx Museum of the Arts through the Arts & Business Council of New York. Most of my feelings about this internship involve rapid fire excitement and vague, haunting fear. It's enough to say that I am, as always, worried. But I know it'll be fine. Even if I know nothing about art.
It's nice to be back in the city, even though, as I told my friend John, I'm still trying to adjust my gaze from a touristic mode to a residential one. It's strange living in Manhattan and having Zabar's a couple of subway stops away. It feels, one could say, empowering. I could be Woody Allen and Meg Ryan. (Is it sad that those are the only two people really conjured up when thinking of the Upper Westside? Yes.)
For the first time since I've been here, the heat haze has temporarily lifted off the city, but only because of the threat of thunderstorms and hail. In fact, walking back from the bookstore, I was almost cold; a funny sensation that nevertheless made me wish I had changed out of my shorts.
I am someone who sweats. A lot. And not anywhere strategic or unnoticeable. It seems like most of my sweat comes from my head and lands directly on my face, where it becomes mired in my eyebrows, above my lip, or right around my nose. It makes me look like I am an oily, ghastly brute. It makes me feel like one too. I hate it. I realize that I'm going to be feeling like that a lot this summer with an apartment that isn't air-conditioned. But never mind that for right now. I'll have plenty of time to complain.
Back to the bookstore. I love how bookstores seemingly are just in constant supply in Manhattan. On Friday, I picked up a book at my favorite bookstore, McNally Jackson Books. It's called Dancer and it's by Colum McCann. It's a fictional retelling of Nureyev's life. If anything, I am a very specific fan of this very specific genre. Non-fiction sometimes gets stuck. Fictional retellings of non-fiction people flows, particularly this example. It flowed so well that before I knew it, I had read a third of the book. Now I arrive at a quandry. Today, I went to another bookstore and spent an hour and half deciding. Do I purchase the book that I really want to read, but have already read partly through? Do I buy his other book, which I hear is also fantastic but might be too much McCann for one person to read in such a short time? Or do I go with something else? I went with an art theory book, which also made me really worried that I wouldn't read it because I would be tired from thinking about art all day with my job. Though it will be great for dropping little factoids.
Once again, this is to say, Oh well. I am happy. I am spending lots of money. But right now, feeling the breeze whirl around my room and threaten to push over the box fan, it's good. Now I have to try and remember how to tie a tie.
I love this thoroughly romantic portrait of Tristan Knights by famed photographer Paolo Reversi. Doesn't it look like something Elizabeth Peyton would've done? Images from here and here.
Proof that good design isn't always sparsely printed in Helvetica, the iconic blue and white cardboard coffee cup associated with New York diners and street stands has an almost mythical quality to it. For me, it brings up ideas of intellectualism, tradition, and speed. Imagine a tall man, hunched over against the wind, wrapped in a tweed overcoat with the steaming cup in his hand. Although the coffee inside wasn't always very good, the cup itself was always just right.
The inventor of the "Anthora" died this past week. Leslie Buck was an immigrant who somehow utilized Greek imagery to create an American icon.
Several years ago, the Anthora was revitalized when shops began selling a witty ceramic version of it. I have one sitting on my desk; it's much too cherished for everyday use. You can get your own here.
There are so many great things about this video: 1. Patti Smith on a kids' show? Yes, please. 2. Her considerate and insightful answers, all spoken with that drawling Chicago accent. 3. Patti Smith earnestly singing "You Light Up My Life", the Debby Boone that is considered one of the sappiest ballads of all of time. Confession: I secretly love that song and Patti totally rocks it in a weird, "can't really sing" sort of way. 4. Her performance is to be followed by an appearance from Count Dracula. Awesome.
I've been feeling it for awhile, but last night's Beach House concert cemented it for me: I'm feeling for California.
Okay, so this band's wispy musical stylings are based in Baltimore. Nonetheless, they reflect an on-going resurgence in the dream-cool that's taking place on all fronts.
For me, it started last fall with the collections of cool kid designers Proenza Schouler and Thakoon. Their Spring '10 collections showcased surf-inspired looks that had just the right amount of long-limbed insouciance, messiness, and gracefulness. Proenza Schouler from style.com Thakoon from style.com
I love the electric blues and yellows that they showed - enough to reconsider a diversion from my normal black, gray, and dark blue. Maybe this summer will have me sporting vintage Oakley's and one of those bright pink swimming shorts so popular in the nineties?
But my obsession with California has less to do with most American's associations. In fact, I've always been kind of disgusted with the reality of California, especialyl SoCal. Instead, I've meshed a sort of laid-back utopia out of the surf culture and Laurel Canyon-era electic bohemianism. Imagine waking up in a house with white-washed wood floors surrounded by lush trees (something like this), driving barefoot to some shack to get fish tacos, and getting stoned by the beach while wearing an oversize t-shirt with holes in it. Sort of Joni Mitchell on a surf board. Privileged, a little bit unthinking, and young.
Anyway, I've already been listening to them for awhile, but I'm going to soothe my California-less woes this summer by listening to the Girls while driving to the lake. To follow up, I'm temporarily changing the colors of this blog.
Proof why you should be afraid of neither MSG or, for that matter, Chinese food. All you health nuts can safely focus on growth hormones or whatnot instead now.
I think that too much space makes me nervous. That's why the idea of these tiny little apartments, like this one owned by a young designer, are so appealing to me. They're intimate, quirky, manageable, and reachable. It's hard to achieve perfection in a huge house, but it's a whole lot easier when your whole living space is one room.
This weekend I'm back home in Manhattan. My sister's turned sixteen, which means I'm giving up my Honda Civic for a (comparatively) swanky Mazda M3. I mean, c'mon - it has a CD player.
But in a sense, I'm not quite ready to give up the Civic. It drives me crazy that the only music I can listen to is either NPR, Top 40, or my slightly melted Blue Oyster Cult and Psychedelic Furs cassette tapes from high school. Still, cars become such an attachment in Kansas; they're like third legs (and not in a dirty way). Plus, I can't help but think that my silver Honda's a little less tacky than a sporty bright blue Mazda.
I wasn't in the greatest mood driving back and I dug out one of my oldest friends that I've been neglecting for awhile: Joni Mitchell's Blue. I don't think that anyone can fully understand me unless they've carefully listened to this record, through on through. Call me girly, call me uninspired, but it's true.
I don't remember when exactly I purchased it for the first time on CD. I think we were on a family vacation somewhere, maybe San Francisco. At that time, I think I was a freshman in high school, give or take, and had been discovering all this great folk music that I liked to listen to alone in my room with the lights off. I'd seen the lovely Joni pop up on recommendation lists in magazines like Spin and Rolling Stone but I'd never heard anything besides "Both Sides Now" and "Big Yellow Taxi".
Blue was different from anything that I'd heard. The reason I'd been so into folksy sorts of music was because it seemed to express all the deeply melancholy emotions I'd been experiencing in a truer, more connective way than the mope rock like the Smiths, which up to then had been my favorite band. And that was especially true for Blue, which contained the voracious heights and the lowest lows to which a hormonal and precocious teenager could really grasp on. An immediate sense of connection, like the music was being pumped straight into my veins. Since then, the love affair's only continued.One of the greatest and most thoughtful gifts I've ever received is from my fantastic friend Katie. We geeked out over our mutual adoration of the album in trigonometry class junior year and when she returned from winter break, she presented me with Blue on cassette tape. Because there really was nothing else to listen to in that Civic, it became the de facto music. That's when Joni and I really got to bond.
I have literally listened to that tape over and over again, countlessly, endlessly. There was a time when I knew exactly how long to fast-forward through sections of the tape to get to the song I wanted to hear. It was the tape that I would listen late nights in high school, when I would drive my car out into the country, lonely and depressed, and gaze at the stars while Joni sang softly in the background. It was the tape that was in my car every time I drove back home from Mizzou, feeling the unending urge to make a break for it all.
I guess I haven't really talked about the album or its songs specifically. In a way, that feels too personal (as if this post weren't embarrassingly already). Now I can see some of its flaws and there are definitely songs I love more than others: "California", "A Case of You", and "All I Want" come to mind. More than anything, that tape has demonstrated emotional dependability, in a way that not many things have in my life. I'm not always a very good person, but it's nice to know that Joni's always going to be there, feeling the same things that I'm feeling when no one else is around - I just have to pop her into my tape player.
So in a very tangential way, this is my tribute to Joni Mitchell and my ol' Civic. It feels kinda silly writing it now, but... Well, I don't know. Let me just leave you with my favorite song off of Blue. Don't just listen to it absentmindedly while perusing Wikipedia or anything. Save it for when you're feeling washing the dishes a little down or the weather outside is slushy and grey. Or you could be like me and just listen to it again and again... and again.
These were on the same roll as the Seattle/Vancouver photos. Looking back, high school probably wasn't as bad as I thought it was. I'm still surprised, however, that people were willing to hang out with my buzzed hair cut.
Like everyone else in the world (okay, maybe only those really into figure skating), I'm incredibly excited about the Winter Olympics coming up. I've been sorting through iPhoto and came across some old photos taken on a family trip to Seattle/Vancouver way back in my high school days (ignore the shaved head; I promise it was really hot that summer in Kansas).
I have to say, my favorite thing that I saw on the trip were the Prada/toxic green bathrooms of the Seattle Public Library, which is shown below. Well, the Rem Koolhas-designed library itself was, of course, astounding.
As for Vancouver? More than anything, I remember the feeling of cleanliness that pervaded the city.. I know, it sounds lame, but there's something indescribably crisp. Also, I remember the Chinatown (supposedly one of the largest in the world) being absolutely deserted when we went there for dinner - strange?
This pictures make me miss and appreciate my trusty old film SLR, which has been broken for the past few months. I love my new digital SLR, but its photos don't produce the same vibrancy that film does. I have to admit, however, it's hella less expensive.
I just got back from Taiwan a couple of weeks ago and last night I found myself talking to someone who has family there. Now talking about Taiwan would provoke emotions about family, etc. in, I dunno, most nice grandkids, but most of all I found myself rhapsodizing about the food. Call me an uncaring bastard, but when you have such goodies at hand, it's hard to think about anything else.
Pajama sets usually make me think of fifties Hollywood, but not usually in a wearable way. However, I've become completely obsessed with these pjs from J.Crew. The piping is to die for. I'd love a cream linen set with navy piping and my initials monogrammed. It's more French than Cary Grant. It's Jane Birkin waking up in the morning, throwing on the pajama shirt, and sitting on the balcony and smoking. When I spotted this image of Claude Chabrol in his personal best, it all made sense. I still don't know if I can personally pull them off, but don't they look great? image from here.
Amazing, right? Stefani Tonchi already seems to be flying out of the gate at his new post. Unstoppable.
