Suiting Up, London Calling

Those who have followed me thus far, or at least recently, will have noted that I have been trying to do a rush rush on the bespoken suits.  And it is with absolute wonder and joy that I announce that I have three new suits thanks to my industrious and ever so talented partner, although I won't get into any conversation about wanting peak lapels, ticket pockets, a bouttoniere loop, silk buttonhole threading or some such as I am delighted to have them. (The next ones will have these, I am sure, as well as a venture into the territory of the double breasted).

The photos do not do them any justice- particularly the first one which is a cute light blue and white number.

And just in time, too, as I fly away and return to grand old London and lovely old Paris, two cities that used to be so familiar to me a decade ago-

My only regret is I do hate to carry luggage, and often just have one carry on bag because I can't be bothered.  But, coming back, I suspect I may well have to buy one or two pieces of large luggage and check in the many items on my constantly growing shopping list.  And, this is from a person who almost never buys anything except the every so often book and record.

With that said, I am off first thing tomorrow early morning and believe you me, I will hit the ground running.  For inspiration, not that I really need any as I have been doing research for the better part of a few years- an image from the book London Perceived by V.S. Pritchett with simply brilliant 1960s photos of the city by Evelyn Hofer.

With a whimper

With the exception of me taking down this circular object which was on my terrace which I have allowed to rust as an artwork (and only because the winds were blowing too hard and it made such a noise), the so-called hurricane came and went and life goes on in its infinitely merry ways.

then let the rain come down

Today finds me sort of trapped at home/studio, working on and having completed my second book (minus the epilogue, which comes tomorrow).  Quite an interesting weekend so far, although plans to drink with friends has been (possibly) diverted.  In the meantime, I am having end of summer/end of the world Campari spritzes, for whom I have J to thank for helping me get the Campari.

Also, today is the birthday of my friend S and also of my sister M, and let us not forget the death date of the great Le Corbusier.

As for this hurricane, which may or may not be the end of the world,

"First Murderer: Prepare yourselves.
Banquo: It will rain tonight.
First Murderer: Then let the rain come down"
-Shakespeare, Macbeth

the end will come and surely it must but as to when?

Let it come down If it must

The earthquake in Japan having wreaked havoc on that most beautiful of countries,

An earthquake a few days ago but a tremor in this city that I have called home for years and years,

and now the imminent arrival of this Hurricane showing that nothing is safe nor has ever been so.

Material possessions (my favorite theme), are increasingly worthless. 

That is the best thing that I can take from this experience, come what may.

And death is always around the corner, but I already knew that.  

In salute and in defiance of Mother Nature, I offer the words of Le Corbusier from his Poem of the Right Angle (the right angle is a symbol for life and death- when you draw a right angle, the first line is when we are alive and standing, and the second line is flat as in when we are dead)

one has

with a piece of coal 

traced the right angle

the sign

It is the response and the guide

the fact

a response

a choice

a 90th

Today was a day of running around in a bit of a daze, why with the oncoming hurricane rain threatening to pound down on the world.  My mind drifted in and out of randomness and for some reason I kept thinking back to the many places that were here but now gone.  Time being what it is, things slip through without our knowing, and even when they do not, we are helpless in the face of it.  The many stores of my neighborhood with such character are gone with the wind, and even their ghosts are now even ghostlier.

Well, some things are still around.  This past sunday was Winnie the Pooh's 90th birthday, and there is a lovely and public (though secret) display of the original dolls, and I pop in every now and then to see them.  Of course, I sent him a birthday card- as suggested by the curators.  After all, one doesn't turn 90 every day.

a small gathering of old and best friends

The end was near.

I didn't think that today would be that good of a day, but actually maybe it's not that bad at all.  After a hassle of a morning, I came back to the luxury of the studio and was arranging the new books on my bookshelf- you see, I bought another twenty books last week and I had to order them.  While I was doing so (seated on the ground), I felt some shaking, which I thought in silence must be me fainting.  Once and then twice, and my thoughts ran to:

All these material possessions around me are worthless.
This building will fall to the ground and with me in it.
Is this the end?  And, if so, I have not done much with my life.
Too late now.

After having these rapidfire thoughts, I then turned around to my partner (who was cutting a coat/jacket, the third such one in three weeks) and it was confirmed that I was not fainting and there was indeed something happening.  I raced to the terrace to see if anything was happening, but everything looked the same.  My neighbor, who happened to be at home today, checked the TV, as I do not have one and he reported back that it was indeed the aftershock of an earthquake some states away.

But how interesting it was, this being only the second time I have experienced an earthquake (the first, in Los Angeles many years ago, was nothing).  It takes moments like these to spring the mind and the heart into action.  Other thoughts along these lines.

I leave you with an image of the Stein (1 litre mug) of beer I had last week.  Cheers.

And might I add, "And one for the road,"

Victorious Garden

I cannot remember as a child any time when I was taught where food came from.  You could lump me with the variety of imbeciles who could not tell you that french fries were made from potatoes.  This is, I believe, a direct result of an educational system which is at best worthless.  All the time spent on memorizing nonsense, mathematical formulae and non essential things is absolutely astounding- but not so much when one thinks of education as a commercial enterprise (or scam) which grew for the most part in the last century.  I can say that despite graduating from one of the so-called best universities in this country, I learned close to zero from attending classes.  Years passed, and I began to love real food- and I remember it all starting from a two dollar tomato that tasted astounding.

All that complaint was but a prelude to the excitement of visiting my Aunt's garden out in far and away Long Island.  For ten years, I had not gone out there as it had no interest for me. But over the past year or so, I have been the delightful recipient of some of her vegetables and fruits- which taste better than those at the Farmers' Market and at those higher end establishments where the price is double or triple the norm.  So, I went out there as readers may remember during July 4, and happened to go there again (quite willingly, mind you) to see what new things were growing and ripe for the picking.

Of which there were many things- and all lovely.

a small area of the garden but such wonders

Light Knocks on the Door

I have been away for a few days, taking it easy in Long Island of all places.  A last minute thing, an invitation to a BBQ at my relatives' home took me away from the city, and it was gladly accepted.  What I did not realize is that I would stay there for two nights, which was all right by me as I hadn't any plans this weekend and I was surely avoiding finishing the second book.  Anything to avoid work- just like the average politician.

Within minutes of coming back, I heard the doorbell ring.  Thinking it to be my aunt (who had dropped me off), it turned out to be a duo of religious zealots.  Alas, one of them turned out to be attractive and I thought it would be positively rude to slam the door in their faces (or, at least in one of them).  So, I was told that there was a possibility of "paradise on earth" and was told that it could happen "in the future".  After hearing that, as much as it broke my heart, I knew that I could surely listen to no more and had to close the door but not before wishing them "good luck" (but not in a sarcastic way).

What follows are two images from a former church located not far from here, but which is deserted.  As it exists on a government owned island, it has not been redeveloped or torn down.  But, I find that it has even more interest and power when light filters in, sad but sure.

spiders living in the former house of god

cracked but not broken

Away from but still here/there

I've been living in the same place for well on eight years now, and it has begun to take its toll on me.  Granted that it is in an enviable part of real estate in this glittering city (at least for some in terms of convenience to the night life and general availability of things), but for me it seems all done and done.  Perhaps what grates on me most is that the view from any of my windows face all these fantastically dull and/or horrible buildings and I often hear the rumble of subways all day long.  It is no wonder, then, that I often dream of views of nature (from my window) and the sea (for some reason, I am not sure why- as I am not that fond of water).

The following is from a recent visit to the Metropolitan Museum, in particular one of the rooms in the Modern Art section, where the works that were exhibited there were so horrid that I found myself looking and daydreaming out the window to avoid looking at that nonsense.

away from it all in a moment is thus caught

Sticking it to Me

Every now and then, I think about walking sticks as an accessory but find myself quite hesitant to pull the trigger and get one.  Style is style but somehow in this day and age, a walking stick is quite an affectation- especially if one is able to walk properly.  Now, going for a walk or hike in the country is another thing, but how often do I go out to the country? The answer, which will surprise nobody, is that it is as rare as a visit to the hated beach in the height of hellish summer.  Perhaps I should make more jaunts to the country- that is, if I do declare my disallegiance to the city (or town as some call it, though not I, at least not just yet).  So, I suspect that on my upcoming trip, when I will surely visit the halls of the grand houses which still manufacture the beloved walking stick, I will be very much seduced and may fall into temptation.

The following is from that store in New Orleans whose name escapes me but which is known in history as the site of the pharmacy which originated the cocktail.

En garde (at least for some)

Suitable Condition

Most people who know me or do not know me but may see me on my daily walks around the neighborhoods will know that without fail, I wear the exact same thing every day.  (The picture below is a quick snap of my closet, before I added another fourteen white shirts to the collection).  But, during this wicked summer where I have had to leave the coat (or jacket as it is called here) hanging sadly in the closet and with sleeves rolled up being the only way to do it, I feel so ill at ease.  Wearing the jacket really does pull the look together. Otherwise, it seems pure laziness.

So, I thought I would spare a few lines this pleasant (but dull) Saturday afternoon and say that there are three suits being bespoken for me at the present, and I suspect a few more- in my estimation, I need at least seven more, but I am trying to push the total number towards let us say twenty (maybe 21, that seems snappier).  As for what fabrics, I have not chosen yet but I somehow suspect that I will return from the European excursion with some suitable (yes, "suitable") material.  And the best part of it is that I have decided to move away from the usual humdrum of my ever present black and white towards a little color- to premiere soon, once the dread summer reaches its inevitable death.

Ho, hum?  Hmm.

Squid Words

Although I could hardly consider myself a foodie and scoff at the term as being of the most degrading decadent behavior in a material society, I will set aside some lines to remark on the squid ink pasta I picked up on a whim last week in the Village.  Not the nearby village, unfortunately, but rather what passes for that name-wise in this here city of mine.  Freshly made, yes.  Nice looking, yes.  Cut from a nostalgic machine, surely yes and that was the best part. But when it was cooked, it lost all its allure in taste and was as bland as most conversations I overhear while walking these humorless streets.

If only Arthur Avenue were closer.  Or Italy, which would be infinitely better.  Why, I'd even take that one and only Italian restaurant in Golders (in London, where I lived for a brief while).  Everything does seem so far away sometimes.

Black made me blue.

Goldbrickin'

Somehow I suspect that the majority of the workforce is dreadfully unproductive, if my own questionable years in the workplace is any indication- that is, with the constant breaks, nonsensical conferences, meetings, reviews, critiques, breakfast eaten at the desk, lunch hour extended to as long as possible, getting ready to leave the office about forty five minutes before the day officially ends, et cetera, but who can blame them?  Surely not I (as long as they are not working for me or on my dime)- for these are people who are stuck in their essentially dead end jobs because it "pays the bills" or some such excuse, and their bosses are incompetents themselves, and for want of any true experience cannot do anything of real value.  There are, of course, many among them who are not given the chance to shine and really could better themselves, I am absolutely sure of that, but between you and me, that is something as rare as a political figure doing more action than just talking a big game.  With the state of the world as it is in, I thought I would offer the following salute to the "work" being done right now all across the land and the following images from an "artwork" found in the Union Square subway station.

Goldbricking.  If you don't know what it means, at least the current definition (which I just learned myself), do look it up- preferably on your paid time at "work".  My regards to your employer.

On the Double

Yesterday I had to take a breather from the noise of construction that has been plaguing the neighborhood for the better (or worse) part of two weeks, so I happened to be moseying around the edge of Chinatown and decided to pop into one of the remaining vintage shops.  I started by checking through their outdoor tie racks, not thinking that I would turn up anything of merit (as I have not bought anything "vintage" or "used" for about fifteen years with only one exception which I mention below), but in fact this was not the case as I found one tie that stood out and a snip at three dollars.  Do forgive the lack of a photograph, but it is in another of the subtle patterns which I seem to prefer- despite the fact that I know that I hardly ever wear ties, though with the recent design and construction of several suits (of which the following image is the fabric for the second such one), the no tie wearing habit may well change.

the second, soon after the first

To avoid the sudden downpour of rain that greeted me when sorting through the ties, I went inside the store and quite surprisingly found a suit in my size, as well as trousers also in my size.  Now, this is no mean feat, as the sizes are often much larger, or if i find a coat (jacket) that fits, the trousers are way off by several inches.  Only once in memory have I found a suit that matched perfectly, with only the trousers needing to be hemmed- and that was over ten years ago.  It was a double breasted number, and I confess that for various reasons over the years I have not been interested in a DB, but the recent viewings of Fred Astaire films, a deepening interest in sartorial matters, the new suits being made to order, and with general boredom, I thought that a double breasted would be just the thing to lift my spirits.  Putting it on, it felt absolutely different.  I did not buy it as the quality of the work was subpar, and trousers needed more than a bit of washing, but because I wanted something made for me, just for me.  So, with that said, I need a DB on the double.

Moving Music

There's something running through my mind at the moment, a little more thought than the usual kind of idle thinking.  I am not prepared to go into that just yet, but I thought of something else.  As music was playing in the background, it suddenly became foreground.  It was Miles Davis, one of my earlier idols but who has maintained a hold in my imagination.  In particular and almost without exception (Kind of Blue and Round About Midnight perhaps being the only two), his later period work (called the Electric Period by some, and I guess it is as good a name as any) is what draws my ear back to him.  That, and of course, his stylistic changes and development over the years (up until his death) I have always appreciated even as my own great interest in jazz music and culture has all but disappeared.

I thought of how he refused to be pigeonholed into the same thing that his fans loved him for.  If they were unwilling to follow along, then so be it.  He had to move ahead according to his own dictates, and if others were left behind, then that was how it had to be.  If he didn't change, if he didn't grow, then he'd be dead.

Something else about Miles that I always thought great- how he often played with his back to the audience and that he never made any gratuitous remarks, kowtowing to the audience. He was, if you forgive my French, surely no bullshitter.

change will come and surely it must come

though hell should bar the way

Serenity in the Crude

I had gone to the Metropolitan Museum yesterday to try to take in the Alexander McQueen show (because I had flipped through the exhibition catalogue and noticed the lapels of his earliest work and was intrigued), but that was a massive two thumbs down because there was a three hour wait to get in (at least, into that part).  Instead, I walked around some of the many other areas of the museum and it was quite delightful.  The throngs of tourists and their city living companions were almost nowhere to be seen, and it was almost as if one had most of the galleries to oneself.

Among the works which I usually don't give more than a cursory look was this one by Edward Hopper, whose title I did not happen to write down but is from the early 1930s.  I remember that because the description of the work states that Hopper wanted to capture in this piece all the gaudiness and crass qualities of a modern and public restaurant.  Now, taking a look at this photo with the eyes of the contemporary, this scene has moved far away from that into the realm of the idyllic.  If this is how people were back then- note the man in the suit with cuffs showing (hat hanging), wood walls (probably not paneled), hand painted murals, woman with hat on, modestly (conservatively) dressed workers, small and unassuming but wonderful counter area, a lush display of fruits in the window and price list sign and most likely no music played whatsoever- one wonders if Hopper would sigh at the passing even of that "crude" era he depicted.

Table for two, please. 

Far and Away, and Farther and Farther Away

While daydreaming about the upcoming trip to Europe, I was thinking of how not so many years ago, there was quite a bit of work associated with the actual planning of it.  If one were not using the services of an Agent to book every single thing, then it was up to oneself (and one's traveling companion, perhaps) to decide where to go, what to see, who to see, et cetera.  Not that long ago, I remember spending a few weeks abroad, merrily hopping from one country to another with only a guidebook in one hand, partner in the other, and not caring a whit whether everything was of the best quality- you can of course blame that on youth and summer love.  How humorous in retrospect to think how it was to open a guidebook, drop some coins in a payphone and then try to book a room in languages that seemed not alien at all- again, the remarkable joy of being young and fearless.

Anyway, I happen to have a fun little item in my book collection.  It is the following- A Satchel Guide to Europe, which was from the turn of the last century.  Owned by one Mary E. Merkle, it was started in Rome in '99 (1899, mind you- not 1999) and has her notes in the back, a small American flag affixed to the front page, some flowers she collected and placed inside to be flattened, as well as a photograph/souvenir from a place she visited (and dated).  Lots of fun to look and read through, for the many descriptions.  How many of those places still exist?  How delightful it would be to revisit a hotel that Mary stayed at and say, "Good afternoon.  Mary E. Merkle stayed here on such and such a date," (then showing the proprietor the guidebook), and then adding, "According to this, the rate for a suite according to this book is roughly three dollars US, quite a good deal I would say,"  Of course I'd never do it, but I thought of it for the hell of it.

Even better is seeing how in the book, there are plenty of advertisements for ocean liners, as there were no planes back then for travel.  Nowadays, it's so dreadfully easy to book a flight and be there in no time at all.  Travel is meant to be enjoyed at a slow pace, no?

'99- as in 1899, not 1999, mind you.

Suiting me fine, the Vanishing

I had to go out again today for a number of small but necessary things, all to be found on the premises of a tailoring supply store nearby- which as deconstruction and altogether new construction of the suits go, promises me to be a repeat visitor.  One of the best things about this place is that they are newly relocated (actually, just a few stores down), but it looks brand new and everything is very well organized. Those who have been to the fabric stores and et cetera around the city know how disorganized, almost hoarder-like in appearance, some of the places are.  This one is easy to see, easy to find, and the owner is a jovial fellow. After spending a good deal of time there looking at this and that and many others, and choosing what I needed (for now, at least), we struck up a conversation.

The gist of it was that it was a rare thing indeed for people of my generation to make their own clothes. I knew this to be a fact as well, seeing that the only ones interested in clothes making were not making clothes per se but trying to be "fashionable" or the ever mutable tag of "avant garde".  While I also must admit to having passed through that phase, I have turned my eye and back on it.  Anyway, back to the point, he mentioned how in the old days there were plenty of people who made their own or had tailors do it.  Nowadays, with the price and quality of things becoming ever lower, the disposable nature of goods has sent the industries six feet under (or almost there), those that were once thriving.

I left the store not sad at this realization, but happy that I could do my part and be a member of the vanishing.

bespoken, of course- in the process

Mirrors facing mirrors everywhere

It's been many many years since the name Lord Byron has attracted me, those daydreaming unknowable days even before attending university.  I remember that sometimes I would read his work and look at his portrait and wonder who the fellow was (that is, if one can ever begin to understand anybody so far removed from one's own life).  Days passed and he became but a memory, and it was only after the recent viewing of the film Another Country (starring Rupert Everett) that Lord Byron returned to me.  This was because I had wondered what happened to Mr. Everett, as the film was from 1984 and with my extremely limited knowledge and interest in contemporary films, I had no idea.  When I realized that he had among other things embarked on a documentary of sorts following in the footsteps of Lord Byron, I was fortunate to be able to view it with a good degree of interest.  It was made of course much more palatable because Mr. Everett was in it.  Now, I do wonder whether Lord Byron's poetry can still speak to me as it did those many many years ago.

face to face, rupert everett and lord byron