Merci beaucoup. Merci.

Having had the pleasure to avoid what passes for cinema despite an occasional foray to the theater every now and then for going on fifteen or so years now, I haven't the slightest idea of what went on at the Oscars last night.  Not having a television also helps with this.  That being said, I do watch films when there happens to be something that catches my attention. More often than not, it is a period piece or some foreign affair, or a period piece about an affair.  The King's Speech in particular is something I've been meaning to see, not just because it won (as that would make no difference) but because I have a weakness for English films and Colin Firth since his turn in Tom Ford's A Single Man was so extraordinary.

To make a short story (or, in this case, a brief blog post) even shorter, I thought of one scene from a documentary on Robert Bresson that was particularly attractive.  It was at Cannes, in 1983, and unfortunately I was not among the audience.  Thanks to the camera, there is a record of the incident.  Given an award for the film "Nostalghia", the master Andrei Tarkovsky approaches the podium and his entire speech consists of "Merci beaucoup. Merci," which says it all (and twice, in fact).  Most interesting is that another master of cinema, Robert Bresson, is already on stage, and he leaves with Tarkovsky after the award is presented and that's that for that.

The master directors Andrei Tarkovsky and Robert Bresson.

The Wrath of Aftermath

Although most of the listening in house and studio is of the classical music variety, interlaced with a healthy dosage of Loren Connors, sometimes the ear and eye deviates a little bit towards other genres.  It is true that many years ago, while based temporarily in the West Coast (Los Angeles) and Europe (Switzerland and London), I was quite keen on listening to rap (as it was not termed Hip Hop until recently).  Well, one of the albums which I still consider superior is "The Chronic" by Dr. Dre- it is hard not to let down one's guard and start bobbing one's head to the beats of that album.

Years passed, and I turned my back on the rap scene, while keeping an eye and ear to what has been going on.  For the most part, the old guard (if they still exist) has been reduced to farce.  Those in the limelight now are so produced that they are akin to the worst in Pop, and the ear bleeds upon hearing such nonsensical noise.

Back to Dr. Dre, whose album "Detox" has been under production for over a decade now, and which has been looked forward to by so many (including myself).  The first single ("Kush"), released a few months ago, was of the weed smoking variety that it seemed it should be tossed off the album tracks.  It was a bit of a heartbreaker to hear such typical commercial work by Dre so when I found out a new single was released yesterday ("I Need a Doctor"), I did not expect much in the way of greatness.

I was wrong.

The cinematic video, the flashbacks to the old days of N.W.A. and 2Pac, Eminem coming out of the shell he has somehow been in for the past few albums and tearing the mic up, and Dr. Dre seemingly coming back from the dead with potent and furious lyrics.  It looks like Detox is well on its way.

"Like it was yesterday though..." (screenshot from the video)

"It literally feels like a lifetime ago but I still remember the shit like it was just yesterday though...went through friends...but they just left, they said they was riding to the death, but where the fuck are they now, now that i need them, i don't see none of them...fuck all you fair-weather friends...when the chips were down you just laughed at us, now you bout to see the fucking wrath of Aftermath..." 

Bring it on, Dr. Dre.  Bring it on.

"Now you about to see..." (Dr. Dre in a screenshot from the video)

Rainy Day Blues Blues Go Away

It particularly being a rainstormy kind of day, I thought I would cast my attention towards a sunny good time place (New Orleans) which I have come to grow increasingly fond of despite only having been there twice.  While my companion was busy tempting Lady Luck (and failing miserably) at the casino tables,  I decided to venture far out far from the tourist circuit/circus towards Magazine Street.   It was mentioned in guidebooks and the such that there were many antiques and such such to be found there, and following my interest in such things (though not necessarily the desire to acquire them), I set forth.  Well, it was a very very hot day, and it was almost as if a mirage when I saw the storefront of Jim Russell's Records.

No mirage.  It was really Jim Russell's Records.

Now, having become a record collector of sorts in the last decade or so (with decreasing frequency, actually, having reduced the number of vinyl records from over 2,000 to now a steady lot of around 400 to 500), I was quite sure that I had stumbled upon some goldmine. That it indeed was, from the very get-go, as the sight which greeted my heat haze eyes of a store packed to the rafters with records, tapes and all kinds of record related paraphernalia was surely quite wondrous.

The store in some of its glory (more not shown) and with Jim Russell's kin.

Well. to make a long story short, the most excitement was in actually seeing a place like this still exist, in an age where vinyl has (except for the so-called alternative music scene) all but disappeared.  I tried very hard to find something to buy here, and it took a lot of effort to make my way through the unsorted boxes (in particular, I was looking through the "After Katrina, people donated those" boxes as the many other categories of jazz, blues, rap and et cetera turned up empty for me.)  Finally, I was able to find a mint copy of the world premiere recording of Shostakovich conducting his final symphony, and inside the sleeve of which there was also a newspaper clipping from the Times-Picayune (New Orleans, LA) August 11th, 1975 edition of the conductor's death.  This attractive piece, being played now as I type these lines, came out to be a dollar and change. In addition, I was given a free keychain ("the last one") by the owner, the daughter of the record store as an added memory of the lovely experience.

Jim Russell Rare Records keychain ("the last one")

Come to think of it, writing this made the rainy day blues go away.

Books, Bookshelves and Information

Books being somewhat of  a preoccupation of mine, I thought that a breezy topic today would be on bookshelves.  Whereas, initially I had but a large bookshelf in which to store my books and the remainder of them were unhappily stored away and forgotten in numerous boxes, my environs has been over the years gradually increasing in the number of bookshelves.  One in the bedroom, one in the studio room, and a grand total of five (two sets and a lone one) of varying proportions in the living room!  This includes having to custom make a bookshelf in order to accommodate the one being used initially, which was a task in and of itself.

A pleasure and a burden is how I've come to think of them, and perhaps more of the latter than the former.  Although I have been quite consistent in my appreciation of the master architects (as can be seen in the following photos of the bedroom bookshelf, aka the most serious one):

The so-called serious collection, top two shelves.

And the lower shelf, aka the coffee table books not on a coffee table.

Yes, it is true that in a wild moment, I decided to sell and donate many many boxes worth of books accumulated over time, but for the most part I did not regret selling but three of those many hundreds.  Anyway, they are easy to buy again, as most are still very much available. And it is also true that every few months, I select a few that no longer have pride of place on the shelves and off to the charities they go!  It is an absolutely lovely experience, to be relieved of a book that one no longer needs.

But, tell you what- information- especially the transparency of it- that is extremely important to have.

Fading From Views

The ups and downs of everyday life, not to mention life in general, sometimes does take a toll.  A brief respite from tempestuous existence can often be found in the form of a very good book (or, at least, sometimes it does).  It can draw one away from the here and now towards something that one wishes deeply to achieve and help better visualize, or even better draw one far deeper into the here and now and become alive.  A book I had mentioned earlier, Wabi Inspirations by Axel Vervoordt from the Flammarion press and which had its release date yesterday in the States, is on the surface such a book.

The arrival of any Vervoordt book comes with equal measure joy and disappointment.  The joy is that one is able to see some very beautiful arrangement of objects and luxurious spaces photographed with just the right amount of delicacy and shadow.  One wonders how one can arrange one's own life in an environment which caters exclusively to the aesthetic.  One looks around and perhaps sees what one is missing, or better yet, realizes what one has and how utterly dear it is.  And other thoughts- the daydreaming kind that this sort of beauty for beauty's sake conjures.

On the other hand, repeated viewings of the same photographs that one fell in love with show that they are just two dimensional representations.  They are the exact same photographs, perhaps sometimes giving rise to a detail that one missed, but essentially they are the same.  Photography loses its luster and the book itself which freezes moments is perhaps the antithesis to the theme of wabi (simplicity and elegance in things rustic, and often possessing a transient quality). The beauty which one surrenders to initially begins to recede with repeated viewings, until the book becomes just another book on the bookshelf.

The American edition of the book.

Evoking the usual memory of Sen no Rikyu.

The most mysterious and lovely spread in my view.

Perhaps it is better not to document things and to experience them just the once, just in the moment, and so have and lose them at the same time.

Despite Everything

Following on yesterday's post of Adam Purple, I came across the story "The Man Who Planted Trees" by Jean Giono, a very simple and lovely story.  In it, a man in the French countryside lives by himself (his wife and child having died) and works on the land for himself and possibly for the unknown generations after him.  He plants trees daily, not knowing whether they will grow or not (they do, many of them).   He does this before, during and after the two World Wars.   War, destruction and the world around seem to have no outward bearing on his behavior, and he continues on, as he needs neither the love nor the attention of the world.  In time, his actions bear fruit, as what were ruins becomes alive, water runs again where once it was dry, a ghost town becomes revived, and people actually live and flourish there in joy amidst the blossoms.

At the end of the piece, the narrator comments:  "When I consider that a single man, relying only on his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite everything, the human condition is truly admirable,"

In small things too, I believe that actions are powerful.

The orchid that is blooming now after a few months asleep.

All Action No Talk

Today being President's Day, I thought I would celebrate by writing a little about someone who actually does something instead of talking all the time.

Very luckily, I made it yesterday to the last hours of the exhibition held at FusionArts Museum covering the environmental handwork of Adam Purple that was called "The Garden of Eden".  Consisting of the photographic documentation of Henry Wang, it displays quiet and joyous snapshots of an act which seems impossible today in the hustle and bustle of an increasingly materialistic city- the creation of a living, workable garden for all people that would grow exponentially.  Spanning five city lots (abandoned at a time when property in the Lower East Side was essentially worthless), it is an absolute wonder how one man (with the help of others) did backbreaking work because he felt a compulsion to do so- without the use or need of technology.  To see these photos- especially the ones of fruits and vegetables growing in what one would suspect non-usable land, is to have quiet elation, but is also a stark reminder of what one is not doing (and could be doing) all the time while trapped in the daily hustle of this "world".  The final photos show the demolition of the Garden of Eden (under court order) by bulldozer, and looking at it, one knows why people would do it (economic and political motivations) but really it makes no sense (especially moral sense) at all.

Adam Purple and photographs of him as he creates the Garden

The Garden of Eden in a state of growth and expansion

January 8, 2011 would mark the 25th anniversary of its destruction.

It took two days to destroy the work (but not the heart) of one man.

It was Fashion Weak Again

The small spectacle that is New York Fashion Week being over and carefully avoided with few notable exceptions (one clown in particular painted his face all white and I thought him to be a sidewalk performing Pierrot until I saw the rest of his outlandish hobo meets high camp attire), I had to breathe a sigh of relief until the next circus comes to town. Alas, in the downtown environs in which I make my rounds, one comes across too many of these characters strutting around like peacocks but without the beauty part and more like chickens with their heads cut off crying for not help but attention.  I find it best to have a good laugh and cross the street.  Usually, if I am in the presence of one friend in particular, I say one comment which reduces us to tears but which I cannot for politeness' sake share here.

With that being said, I must admit, and the reader must surely realize, that I am in fact not so much adverse to fashion as I am to the peculiar denizens who inhabit that world.  Perhaps it would be best clarified if I say that I am most interested in a certain kind of style that a journalist at a loss for words would consider to be "classic," although the breadth and width of what can be covered there is anyone's guess (and usually is).

One book that is in my rather miniscule fashion collection happens to be the Victoria and Albert Museum reissue of Sir Hardy Amies' "ABC of Men's Fashion" in which he aptly states that "A man should look as if he had bought his clothes with intelligence, put them on with care and then forgotten all about them" and which pretty much says it all.

A last word, though, should one be interested in the aforementioned book.  The original English edition (I believe in paperback from the early 1960s) has a dated cover but has retained the element of the fellow for the new issue, which with a splash of aqua blue is much more subtle.  The current American edition, with a grey cover and sporting an illustration of three buttons, is hardly fashionable at all and one should by all means pick up a copy of the English reissue if and when one visits the V&A.

The much preferable English edition of Sir Hardy Amies' book.

An illustration from said book on the occasion of wearing a bowler hat.

Making Scents or Not

That I am not much of a cologne person is pretty evident by the scarcity of material evidence in my collection, there being only one regular sized bottle and some small sample sized ones picked up on a whim in New Orleans after reading a guidebook description that it was the original formula or some such used by Napoleon.

And, that I did not know that the cologne which has graced my neck for quite a few years had ceased production is the point of conversation today.  Of course, how was I to know?  Looking for a replacement bottle being somewhat difficult, if not impossible (possibly not impossible, but definitely difficult), I started looking on-line for the ingredient list.  Perhaps delving into the world of parfumerie might be an interesting adventure, but looking at the components which make up the concoction is heady indeed.  The mix of the chemical and floral, in layers of scented appearance, are surely not in the spectrum of my desire to have a replacement bottle.

Thus, the need for a replacement.  Truth be told, I have followed on the sidelines the various Private Label scents issued by the Tom Ford collection, but none of them struck me as The One.  A few of them were possible contenders- maybe even three of them.  But the idea of having all three seemed a bit too much, because it would show that I hadn't the discipline to choose the one right one.   So, the search continues.  Fortunately I have enough of the old bottle to last me maybe half a year, maybe a little more, but then I really have to make sense (not scents) of the situation.

This is the elusive, discontinued eau de cologne.

Because of Your Smile

Recently, I was given an opportunity to travel far and away for a few months for work.  As interesting and fearful as this may seem for one who is almost absolutely content with one's routine, I have been mulling the idea over again and again in flashes and have not come to any conclusion as of yet.  What I do think about often is one scene in particular from a 2008 documentary on tea (The Meaning of Tea by Scott Chamberlin Hoyt) that I saw about two weeks ago where Mr. Lu-Feng Lu of Wu-Ling Tea Farm describes his experiences related to tea and his utterly inspiring joie de vivre. His words quickly cut to the chase and it was pretty obvious that this fellow had to be one of the happiest, if not the happiest, guys alive. And this was all related to his work and the life that he chose.  It is perhaps for this reason that I am not quite ready to leave, at least not for this chance.  I do wonder, though, as always, about all the inherent possibilities...

Mr. Lu-Feng Lu amidst the lovely tea fields of the Wu-Ling Tea Farm

No marketing department could replicate the truth of this smile.

Requiem for That Dream

Every few years or so, my wayward interests become diverted back to the Whit Stillman film Metropolitan (1990).  The first time I saw it, admittedly quite some time ago (twenty years now?),  I caught it on public television on a particularly dull Saturday evening while home from college.   I remembered how I had no idea what it was about, but kept watching as the conversations (of which there are many) drew me in and I was quite sad for it to end.  Even more strange is that I remember wondering why most of my friends and acquaintances did not speak or act the same way despite their being in pretty much the same milieu (or not).

A decade or so passed, and I had not thought of the film at all.  Or much anything else, to be quite frank.  While waiting for the subway to arrive (I was with someone from Brooklyn who was much younger than me and full of genuine curiosity), she asked me whether I had ever seen the film.  I replied in the affirmative and she was quite astonished.  I guess I can understand why.  Maybe a viewing of the film makes one feel a bit privileged, by which I mean lucky, to have seen it.  When days and nights come and go so swiftly, and in so dull a manner, anything a little different could be quite brilliant.

I thought of her again, years later after that person and I were no longer on speaking terms- maybe five years or more later- and I watched it, and again I was mesmerized, in particular by the Nick Smith character.

And, again, years later (it was once more five years)- I watched it.  While doing so, I kept seeing the past (my real and imagined ones) come and go, and begin to understand why Whit Stillman put in one character of a different generation who appears near the end of the film- the one who says "We simply fail without being doomed"

Maybe five years later, this film would seem even more elegiac. As a postscript, the place where the tuxedos are rent and/or bought, A.T. Harris, also no longer exists.

A screenshot from the film as Nick Smith waves goodbye.

And as Nick walks away, but not before a final adieu.

Happy Valentines Day, or, Whatever

The tradition of Valentine's Day has always struck me as a bit of a fraud filled with unnecessary expectations and tinged with materialistic overtones.  So, rather than indulge in such, I am pleased to share the following artistic creation which caught my eye over the weekend which was prominently displayed in the show window of Partners & Spade for the occasion.

A most appropriate sentiment for this ever so unlovely holiday

A Life Not in the least Drifting

The day before, I decided to immerse myself in the massive semi-autobiographical tome that is A Drifting Life by the artist Yoshihiro Tatsumi.  Although it would be considered a graphic novel, I would not put this (or any book) in that category, as that term has been often been merely a replacement for the old-fashioned comic book meant to be seen as something grown-up (when it is still the same old good guy versus bad guy funnybook).   What it is is a whole lot more, developed inside and outside of the comic (or, more correctly, manga) genre.

The book as published in English by Drawn and Quarterly

Caught in the whirlwind of its 856 pages, and read at one go, which is perhaps the author's intention, this is no comic book.  While on the surface, it is the "drifting" existence of the thinly disguised author/creator as he makes his way through the ranks of manga and his struggles to establish a new form of art within his chosen medium, there are subtle and more obvious reflections on the changes inside the country (Japan) during the Post War period. That the main narrative begins with the "Surrender" of Japan in 1945 and ends at the point when the suspect "Security Treaty" was ratified is further indication that very near the surface of this book is a kind of subconscious anger at things as they were, are, and will become.

Most interesting of all, the reader is often jarred from the sequestered life of comic making into realizing the world around and the world outside, and that the creation of a comic can itself be a political act.

After all, and the Past

Earlier this week, over whiskey on the rocks, I had the chance to view upon recommendation the film Glorious 39.  Usually not the sort to take recommendations, nor to frequent the cinema often, I was quite pleasantly surprised to witness the transformation of a movie that I had first suspected to be a period piece with little substance to blossom into a thriller of sorts with political overtones.   Not to give away the plot, but what I took away from the film besides the usual appreciation for the English countryside, lush sets and sartorial flair of the characters (as is often the case) was a heightened appreciation of the need for individuality and strength in the face of family expectations.

"It's not always a good place to go...the past," as the character Walter muses.  Perhaps so, but it is so hard to resist when one gets a chance.

 Romola Garai in her role as Anne Keyes (still from Glorious 39)

Christopher Lee in his role as the older Walter (still from Glorious 39)

Carte Blanche

A bit of exciting news just came my way this rather stressful and so far quite uneventful morning- the appearance this May or June (depending on where one resides) of the newest James Bond novel (Carte Blanche) by Jefferey Deaver.

Having just finished re-reading one of the old classics (The Man with the Golden Gun) by the creator Ian Fleming, I was wondering about all the other Bond stories that have come out after his death by different authors which were never quite up to par.  The last one in particular (Devil May Care), while sporting a good cover, was so bland and predictable that it must surely have followed a worn out formula and was definitely not worthy of the Ian Fleming centenary.  

The announcement of a new one, based in dated Dubai of all places, leaves one wondering exactly how Bond will be updated.  Hopefully, of course, for the better.  Although, judging by the American book cover design, it looks like someone already did a number on James Bond. Best stick with the UK design, whether one or not approves of smoking (although it may be a smoking gun).

UK edition and the amateurishly designed US edition

In an interview with the writer in The Express, he allows the following thought:  "That's what makes a spy.  Most of us wouldn't want 'carte blanche'.  We wouldn't know what to do with it.  Most people like being told what to do."  

Another Look at Glenn Gould

Although I listen to Glenn Gould playing piano quite frequently on CD, LP and digital format, in particular his renditions of the Bach repertoire, every so often a documentary or sort of documentary comes along that focuses on a new aspect of his life.  Having seen the scant few available thus far, the most current one (Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould) is a mishmash of the previous ones using the same old footage but incorporating some new ones and interviews with former associates and friends.  Quite a bit of the work seems to focus on the supposed and real love lives of the artist, which had been covered in some detail in last year's book by Michael Clarkson, The Secret of Glenn Gould: A Genius in Love.  While this is interesting for voyeurs, it seems but an unnecessary side note to the work of the artist and in my opinion should have remained secret.

One small gem is revealed in visual form by Ruth Watson Henderson, who had studied under the same teacher at the Toronto Conservatory of Music, whereby she demonstrated the technique of fingers bouncing off the keys, allowing it a high degree of independence.

Another is a scene most likely from the 1950s where a photographer asks him to put his scarf and gloves on (as people have expected him to be this unique character) and Glenn responds, "I've had quite enough of that kind of picture,"

A viewing of the film is not entirely wasted, though, as one gets to relive the life of Glenn Gould anew.  The essence of Glenn Gould as a creative artist comes through first and foremost, and the many pathways in which he sought to realize his dreams is always a source of genuine inspiration.  That he was able to turn his back on the world but still be in it, and achieve a most likely lasting place after he left at the early age of fifty (the age he said that he was going to die), is nothing short of remarkable in an age which increasingly focuses attention on meaningless actions, even more meaningless work, showmanship and marketing gimmicks.

The artist, alone (still from Genius Within)

Bookish Talk

Looking at books, rather than reading them, seems to be the order of the day recently. Bookshelf space being somewhat at a premium (in order to maintain a minimal and ordered atmosphere),  it is always with a certain care that I select which book to purchase.  I often ask myself, do I need this, by which I really mean, do I really need this?  Quite often, the initial thought is yes, but this quickly turns to no, but often a weak willed one as I ask myself the same question about the same book a few times (on different visits to the bookstore).  Nonetheless, I have stayed quite firm in buying only those which are absolutely essential and which can brighten up the collection.

From the small selection of last year, as opposed to years prior when books kept coming in like unwanted junk mail,  I most looked forward to, and enjoyed the following three (at least, these are the ones that pop into my head):

Bespoke: The Men's Style of Savile Row (James Sherwood)

Our Kind of Traitor (John le Carre)

The Noel Coward Reader

As for this year, so far the only thing on my list is something first leafed through at the International Fine Arts and Antique Dealers Show last autumn in the Axel Vervoordt booth, Wabi Inspirations, which will be on the shelves (quite possibly including my own) later this month.

With that said, I do always remember the words of one of my friends, who is minimal to the extreme.  "One in, two out" is his motto when it comes to buying books.  And the best thing is that he actually does it!

All the same

The other day, I was pleased to find a wallet that I liked.  While, in much earlier years, I would buy things on a whim and replace them just as quickly, I find that nowadays I like to stick to a certain type when it comes to the wardrobe.  I realize that this is but an accessory, but an important part of it.  Never having gotten accustomed to using a money clip, perhaps having seen it waved about too crudely by the nouveau riche (who usually stack the inside with dollar bills, a trick of the grifter trade), I've always opted for this particular type of wallet.  Anyway, I thought of how I often regret not having bought more of the same once it is time to replace it, as the style has ceased production, been "improved upon" or the label has folded (or been bought up in some takeover).  In this case, I decided I liked it enough to buy another five.  It should last me quite a few years, and thank goodness, as I needn't worry about sourcing another wallet anytime soon.

sextuplets.  same color, same design, same everything.

Dear Helene,

The other day, while out and about, I happened to chance upon a historical marker on the side of an apartment building on the Upper East Side.  Often, it is somebody whose name may ring a bell, or more often not does not, but this one of Charing Cross House (where Helene Hanff lived from 1956 until her death in 1997) definitely struck a chord.

I remember quite distinctly my first visit to London in my pre-teen year in search of things English and happening upon the book 84 Charing Cross Road at WH Smith.  I remember reading much of it in the store, so captivated was I by this book detailing the exchange of letters between an American writer (Helene Hanff) and a bookseller (Marks and Co., or more specifically, Frank Doel of Marks and Co.), most all in relation to tracking down certain editions of literature, it has stuck with me over the years and through the ups and downs of my book collection.  

Seeing the plaque on the building was like meeting a dear friend whom one has not seen for the longest time on the street.

While snapping a shot of the plaque, the amiable doorman opened the door and struck up a conversation with me about Ms Hanff who seemed every bit as lovely and vivacious woman as in her letters and writing.   Among the tidbits I found out was that Ms Hanff used to often sit outside on the improvised garden/bench and that she was quite friendly to animals!  How special this small space became with a little story.

Walking away a bit melancholy at the passage of time, I came home and in the waning light of day leafed through the pages.  On the last page, I reread those beautiful last words I had never quite forgotten but had been hidden in the recesses of my memory: "If you happen to pass by 84 Charing Cross Road, kiss it for me!  I owe it so much." 

Afternoon Nocturne

Taking the 54th Street entrance (the supposed true entrance according to the architect Yoshio Taniguchi, who should know) of the Museum of Modern Art to get to the ground level bookstore on the 53rd Street side, I was pleased to see that they installed a new piece that made me stop and look for a quick bit.  Two pieces, in fact, which are somewhat organic shaped terrariums, one a "slug" and another an "egg"entitled Nocturne of the Limax maximus by Paula Hayes.   Well, aside from the fanciful shapes, i found that a bit of greenery, a bit of real life, was the perfect pick me up for a somewhat sluggish (pun intended) afternoon.

By the way, no, I did not find anything in the bookstore, but this was inspiration enough for the day.

Falling Leaves

It was a bit of a quiet Sunday with none of the usual running about here and there.  Having taken a fancy to tea drinking recently, my attention was diverted (as it often is) from the book I was browsing through toward the transparent teapot in which was brewing some afternoon amusement.  I had the pleasure to quickly forget about the book and turn my attention to the leaves as they floated and fell, while the color transformed into a lush and dark amber.

The leaves as they fall.

And as they continue to fall.

While sipping the tea, my mind brought me back to the new exhibition of Chinese treasures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Emperor's Private Paradise: Treasures from the Forbidden City which I popped into for a quick gander the other afternoon.  With works donated from the Palace Museum, it was the usual mixture of quite ornate (read: gaudy) items done with no expense spared.  But, as is usually the case, there are one or two things which stand out.   In particular, I thought of the tea bowl set which was not so much spectacular as reflecting my current interest, and thought more so of the Scholar's Rock from the Garden which I thought would be more than delightful to admire and get lost in while sipping some delicate tea.  For, if an Emperor is not idle, who is?

Sometimes, to enjoy tea on one's own is not so bad at all.

Far and away from the Garden but still worth contemplating over.

Auspicious Beginnings.

Sometimes it takes a bit of time for things to be done, but, such is the idle life. Case in point, this project entitled "Auspicious" from 2002 (nearly a decade ago!), and here remembered only because of beginning of the Chinese lunar new year.  

In traditional Chinese households and businesses, there are put up posters with phrases on them foretelling good fortune and the growth of the family unit.  These often have red backgrounds, gold text, and are garnished with typical motifs such as the bat (fortune), dragon (male), phoenix (female) and other animals to symbolize prosperity and strength.  Every Chinese Lunar New Year, these posters are taken down and replaced by new ones to indicate a new cycle of hope.

More often than not, the phrases used are all based around material things such as gold and jade, or in support of the "traditional" family structure.  As a desire for something other, something different, and perhaps something better, I decided to post up posters emulating the usual ones, but with sayings which would reflect an other state of thinking.  Which which embraces subtle humor, but also one which urges the individual to stand on her or his own outside the false dreams of money and dependence.

On a freezing Lunar New Year's Eve, over a hundred of these posters were posted throughout New York City's Chinatown.  Just in time to greet the dawn, and the arrival of a new day and a new year.  Although a few of them were torn down by morning, most of them were still evident in the early afternoon when the parade was going full on.  The dancing lions were gracing the streets accompanied by the beat of the drums and clash of the percussive instruments, the Chinese crowd dressed in shades of red watched and furtively snapped photographs.  Quiet fireworks and red confetti scattered on the floor like leaves, my posters on the telephone poles suspended like wishes on Japanese trees.

Many thanks to Josephine for coming up with the clever sayings and Benson for braving the cold to make this project real, and a Happy Year of the Rabbit to all!

A New Beginning.

Years had passed and it was time to begin again.