Facing the Wall

There's a brick wall that I walk by all the time and often have one or two thoughts about.  Its method of construction or some such has affected the way that it has stood over the last two hundred years, and one gets a certain disorientation when walking alongside it because it has an obvious tilt and bending.  Yesterday, on an almost rainy time, there were few people walking about- I, of course, never caring about the weather a la Bloch, an exception- and I thought of how lonely this wall seemed.

Then, I thought about the sheer intense isolation of the city life and of probably about fifteen years of built up desire to leave the city once and for all.  But, will the non-city life (I cannot call it the country where I am thinking of going, whether real or imagined) be any different in terms of anomie and anonymity?

Time will tell, or won't it?

Lined up and ready

There is no better sign of the holiday season than the arrival of the real christmas trees for sale in various parts of the neighborhood, in part because of the scent that it brings with it.  Walking through it with eyes closed, one can easily be transported out of the city- if but for a few seconds, which may be enough to stimulate the mind and heart.  As you know, I am forever talking about the need to escape the city- and I am sure that my time will come soon, and I don't mean in a wooden box.

Over the past few years, I have not bought a real tree as I found it a bit of a hassle to lug it back home using a little pushcart of sorts (myself being of the no car no driving not interested in cars nor driving variety) and it seems sad to see it wither away.   Lugging it to the junk pile was an additional turn off. So, I have had to make do with a fun little plastic white tree, a half sized number, but the truth is that I like it ever so much more- perhaps it reflects the growing unreality of the Christmas spirit.

Colorblind but Full of Color and Not Blind at All

The American holiday of eating and shopping for nonsense being over, I can now get back to the original program and write on in my way about those things that occupy my idle time.  After the Muppets film last week, I popped into the Dorian Grey Gallery formerly occupied by Giant Robot in the east village to see the show on the illustrator/artist Jim Flora.  Now, his name may not be as well known, but for collectors of jazz on vinyl and those with an interest in retro graphic design, he has been on the periphery of vision as has been the case for me.

Alas, in my many years of collecting records, I have never come across any of the discs that bear his unmistakable drawings on the cover.  One had to suffice with the three volume of books featuring his work, of whose author is the curator of this exhibition.

While there, the gallery representative told us some good tidbits- after some of my usual hundred questions that I ask whenever I am interested in something.  It turns out that his Estate (Mr. Flora having passed away several years ago) wants to clear his Estate, for probably the usual reason$ and general lack of interest- although one piece I was interested in was not for sale (which I found depicted the first five years of his life).   But selling things off in general comes as no surprise, of course, but what was is finding out the Mr. Flora was colorblind.  Now, looking at his work, which is often an explosion of very contained and "colorful" color, it does not look it at all.  In fact, it is often those who are not colorblind in art who are not only incompetent in the use of color but in general aesthetically blind as well.  If one needs a case in point, one can go into any museum (and it need not only be in contemporary art, which is a given, but also modern art which may also be a given depending on one's preference, and also in the pre-modern).

Anyway, there are so many works on display at the Jim Flora show that I have to go back there on some repeat visits- to look closer at them, for each one of them is a map of joy and fun.

Wocka Wocka

This late morning, I found myself (again, after much expectation) at the movie theatre- which, for me, is a rare enough thing.  But, the return of the Muppets to the cinema was an occasion that I would not miss for the world (although the world as it is now is not worth that much, is it?).  Now, although I did not grow up with them, having chosen the path of other things now thrown away and quickly forgotten, I have over the past year or so found myself watching and enjoying many of the old Muppets films.

In particular, Fozzie Bear is my favorite, although, honestly, after watching this film and their triumphant return, all of them shine so very bright.

a very good night indeed.

no words necessary once you see this scene- it is incredible.

Checkmated

A few days having passed, but not without thinking of what to post here. The reason really being that there was nothing going on, at least for me- until today, when after a week of waiting (and not without much anticipation and expectation), I trekked up to the nowhere land that is up-uptown (190th street) to the Cloisters (that marvelous place which, because of its mere geographic location I find incredibly difficult to visit lest there is some spectacular exhibit).

Now, you may remember that ages ago (actually, only two months now but what seems more than two eternities), I was in London town.  But, on a particularly knackered (that is English speak for "tired") day, I found myself in the British Museum but could not bring myself to see the Lewis Chessmen.  The only reason I even knew about them was because it was one of the many publications issued by the museum on their holdings, and the cover drew me in.  Honestly, though, even though my feet were killing me, maybe even having killed me, I should have made an effort to go see them.

Adding more gasoline to the fire, I did not see the remainder of the Lewis Chessmen (there being only two places which own them) when I was in Scotland- but, this time, the reason was because I could not make it- having needed to catch an early train.  That, too, was a mistake.

Fortunately, the Cloisters (through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the source of much joy in my life over the years) brought some of the Chessmen to town, and indeed I was able to see them close-up (behind glass cases, but that is all right), and they are every bit as fun and delightful as the pictures. If anything, they are even more joyous, and they are definitely worth a repeat visit or a number of repeat visits.

Alas, it was not permitted to take photographs, but I was able to take photos from outside the gallery itself- but perhaps that is enticement enough to make one visit.  After all, what is an hour on the subway compared to six or seven hours on the plane to London or Scotland and then some?  Although, I wouldn't mind going to those places again, either.

where hidden magic resides

A session with Rikyu

No more Dear Marjorie, as you have returned, and brought with you a memory of Japan and what is to come.  As in the film we just saw, the end of something is the beginning of something else, yes?

Rikyu, when it first played in the cinema in 1990, was something that I had wanted to see, but for some reason or another, I was unable to.  When it was finally released on DVD, I guess that my interest in it had waned- or, was clouded over by non-essential things that have long been discarded or even forgotten.  But, over the years, I have tried unsuccessfully to find a copy, as it was out of print, and the library's sole copy was stolen by some degenerate.  Luckily, I was able to finally lay my hands on a version, which occupied the space of some time last evening.

After viewing it, I thought of the many years that had passed- again, I know this is a common thought of mine, but seriously I wished (of course, it does not matter one way or the other) that I had seen it that many years ago, in my early years at the university, especially when I was immersed in the study of political science- which I have and have not abandoned, depending on how one looks at it.

There is an inherent aesthetics in power as well as a power in aesthetics, and which of the two shines more brightly is a matter that can be weighed over a cup of tea.

Talking

Dear Marjorie, (Part Eleven)

I just came back from listening to the Olivier Theyskens talk at FIT- something that we would have went to together if you didn't slip away for two weeks.  Well, you know me, I don't like to miss things which I think may be of interest or of importance.

Fashion having almost faded from my view over the last few years, having become more interested in the tenets of style, I still had a vague but clear memory of the name Theyskens and in particular his attitude and method of construction (extensive, deliberate).  Although he is now the person behind the more commercial label Theory, it would seem from his talk that he is not any different than he was when was young- with all the same "childish" (his words) appreciation of things.  I was struck when he said that there were some pieces that he would do, and keep going back to- developing them, and mentioned that the reason was perhaps it was something he had seen when he was younger that was in his mind (but could not exactly place).

Earlier in the day, I watched a short interview with him in which he said that when he was very young, he already knew what he wanted to be- a Couturier (capitalization mine) and was encouraged by the people around him.  That alone made me want to go to the talk, thinking back to the many times that my many possible roads (fashion among them) were brushed off by people very close to me.  They never know the harm that narrow minds can inflict, years on.

Anyway, it was a fun talk, and I found myself drifting sometimes in my own memory of what could have been, and thinking if it really was too late.  Maybe, and then again, maybe not.

Looking Up

Dear Marjorie, (Part Ten)

You know how easy it is for time to pass by, and in an extended blink of an eye, you have been away for almost two weeks. I've no right to complain, of course, as you have your own things to do and your own life, as do I despite ourselves being linked in so many ways.  But, I have not thought about freedom for a long time, preferring (when you are a distance, of course) in its stead the chains of commitment.

The neighborhood is pretty much the same, with its combination of the high and the low (mostly low, if one were to regard its inhabitants)- but, in fact, there are many ways in which nature makes its presence known.  From small glimpses in the corner of the eye to full-on lavish displays of autumnal splendor, it begins to freeze moments that are particular to oneself- and, in looking up, looking into its depths, all around that was of no value becomes even more unimportant.

Nature as it is, and always will be.

Dear Marjorie, (Part Nine)

It being the weekend, and Saturday night at that, you will forgive me if I don't write much and just send you all the best from your most idle but devoted of friends?

Enclosed with this letter is a photo of a leaf I saw on the floor that looked ever so much like a heart, and so picked it up and placed in the palm of my Sermoneta Made in Italy gloved hand.  I offer it to you.

with all my love, R.

Performance Art when it is Art

Dear Marjorie, (Part Eight)

Sorry that I skipped a day of writing yesterday, but the fact of the matter is that I had intended to squeeze two days' worth into one.  Well, you know how that happens- which it doesn't, really, but in the meantime I do have to report on having seen one of my favorite artists' first solo exhibition and also a live performance that V. gave on a cold and windy yesterday evening.

The show itself had some interesting bits, as they were some of the furniture (bookshelves, sofa, mirrors) and things that made up Justin Vivian Bond's former apartment- which happened to be in the building of the lamented Mars Bar.  When talking about it last night, it was amusing to hear V. say that they were told that the building was going to be demolished in June, but now it is November and still nothing yet- and V. could have lived there for a while longer!  It was funny to hear V. say it in person- such a character!

You know, Justin Vivian Bond was the genius who brought Kiki (of Kiki and Herb fame) to life (and, ultimately, brought about her death), and in the years since then, V. has seemed somehow to broaden V.'s horizons by further exploring the many sides of artistry.  The live performance V. gave of three songs was all the evidence one needed that one was seeing and hearing something great indeed.

Yet, somehow, I haven't seen any of V.'s shows since the Kiki and Herb days (when I saw them quite a number of times), but that may soon change.  In fact, it should change- because Justin Vivian Bond IS what performance art IS (not should be), and is undoubtedly a great artist.

Justin Vivian Bond

Looking at Windows

Dear Marjorie, (Part Seven)

Did you know that I finally decided to go into Henri Bendel and take a look at those Lalique windows?  It's only been decades since I've been thinking about it, but you know me and my procrastination skills.  Well, without you in town, I figured I might as well go in and take a glance at them.  Walking up the stairs (the only real way to understand the space) three flights to the destination, I was met halfway by a duo of Japanese, who after looking upstairs I realized were the only people who seemed to be interested in the Lalique windows. The other people in the store who were not staff were totally occupied in getting their faces done- or, rather, redone.  They, of course, do not realize that you can't stop time.

What follows are some micro photos of the windows- they are much larger than what is shown, and, well, when you come back next week- the sooner the better, really, let us walk those stairs and look at them in person.

Metal and wires

Dear Marjorie, (Part Six)

A few days ago, I decided to pop into a gallery to see the new-ish Calder exhibit of early work.  Now, you know that I haven't much interest in Calder as an artist per se, although I do still like the jewelry that he constructed.  This show was really no different than his other better known work, but in the environs of the gallery rather than the museum, it is more pleasant to enjoy- that is, with far fewer people and the ability to look closer.  Which I did, because that afternoon of afternoons, I had plenty of free time.

Well, it did give me some thoughts- not about art, no- but rather of that jumble of jewelry that we picked up a short while ago, and there may well be plenty of room for improvisation yet.  Right now, though, it is still a jumble of metal and bits on the table, although perhaps that too may change soon.  With all this downtime since you're not around, I have to find ways other than the usual (bookstore, roaming around, having a drink or two even though I've essentially quit drinking) to occupy my time.

We'll see, won't we?

Brief Glimpses into Things

Dear Marjorie, (Part Five)

It was a pleasure to see your blog postings, although they do fill me with a certain sadness as we were unable to see them together.  But, you know that our eyes have become very similar over the years, no?  Well, it is a fact.

Today I had the pleasure of avoiding things with an old friend, and we did not do anything out of the ordinary- although we did take a drive up to the 200s to drop off some homemade cookies to our friend whose birthday is today.  On the way there, it was nice to see the autumn colors of the trees- although I have yet to see anything more brilliant than in my travels throughout Japan.

Here are some images which I thought I would post up- one which we saw together what seems ages ago- and of some other secret and also visible spaces that caught my eye for a quick moment.

A little talk on a true hero

Dear Marjorie, (Part Four)

Yesterday, in my almost unstoppable roaming about the city, I decided to make yet another detour (if you can call it that, as I had no destination, really)- this time, to look at the vinyl records at that place I often go. Do forgive me for not writing down the name of the place, as you know where it is- that place where the classical records are in the back.  Well, on the way there, I spotted a flyer with the covers of some Tintin reference books that we have and I stopped to have a look see.  It turns out that the fellow Michael Farr, who is the author of those books, was to give a short talk about Tintin.  Naturally, I wondered when it was, so looked at the date and time to make sure to go.  Looking at my watch, I realized that it was going on right then and there (although I was fifteen minutes late), but was able to catch three quarters of the whole thing (it lasted an hour, you see).  Alas, of course I did not bring the books along, hardly knowing he was there, but I decided to wait in line (a short line it was, but each person was a Tintin fan, and one person in fact was a fanatic).  I waited just to thank him for the great books which I look at every now and then in wonder, as well as thanks for some new gossip related to Tintin and Herge that I had never heard.

There was one story about the real life King Fasil (my spelling may be totally off here, I am a bit lazy to check at the moment) which was fun but which had a sad ending.  Ah, such is the nature of things.  Well, I will tell you more about the lecture later on- but in the meantime, do look at some photos I snapped at the talk.  You will find, of course, the statue with the Broken Ear...

One last thing, though.  He mentioned that he had read the book "hundreds of times"- now, that's loyalty, although with the brilliance of Herge's work, it makes perfect sense.

Lonely Old Places

Dear Marjorie, (Part Three)

Well, as can be expected, I did the usual walk around the city, almost eight or so hours of it- the kind of continuous walking with little break (although i did sit down for a schwarma at a place I'd never been to despite walking by it for over twenty or more years, and it turns out their hot sauce is really hot and quite brilliant, so we must go when you're back).

As usual, I've plenty of thoughts and random daydreamings, some of it which must of course be purely material (or immaterial in light of things).  I was unable to find the pair of gloves yet once again, although after popping into a bespoke tailor (because I was entranced by the salesperson, who looked the epitome of charm and youth), I did find a possible source which I will not reveal here- as secrets should remain secret, even between you and me, I find.

Scent-wise, you know that my recent favorite has been discontinued, and I have with the luxury of time been able to perhaps track down yet another fragrance that I might use in its stead.  This one I found to have hints of black cherry, and when it was mentioned sandalwood as well, I think I may have found a winner.  Who knows?  Wait 'til you come back.

In the meantime, I've plenty more to write, but you should be out and about, enjoying, and not reading the rather sad writings of a lonesome fellow such as myself.

These images, of places which seem abandoned.  As the saying goes, without you I'm nothing.

Shop Talk

Dear Marjorie, (Part Two)

It was rough going last night and there was surely something missing.  Because of this idler's old man eyes, I was unable to read much of the Proust book last evening, despite my really wanting to.  Gone are the days when I finished Of Human Bondage in one evening. Long gone, in fact.

Well, it is morning now.  I thought I would finish up on yesterday's post on the so-called "Occupy Wall Street".  I picked up their pamphlet, which had a well-designed cover (the reason it caught my eye, unlike the amateurish efforts of the other folks) but its content was the source of much hilarity if one is to believe all their countless demands.  Whoever chose all those demands must have been from the other side, because it is at times unbelievable that anyone can read it without thinking that it is done for a laugh or even more strangely is if anyone could actually support all of them (as some are indeed supportable but it is damned hard to agree with the rest, so it negates the whole thing)

Anyway, below is a photo where I have pictured the cover of said pamphlet, along with the latest scarf catalogue offering from Hermes, which I went to while on the (failure of a) search for gloves.  Now, usually, you know that that place is very quiet- like a non-tourist church on a non-Sunday day, but yesterday it was 2012, or the end of the world.  A small busload of mainland Chinese tourists were there- their loud voices announcing their vulgar presence throughout the store.  With their customary disregard for propriety, their number one question, sometimes in English, and of course spoken at yelling pitch, was "how much is this?!"  Surprisingly, or not surprisingly, I was even interrupted during my being shown some items by one such Chinaman asking that question, not understanding what it is to wait in line- but, of course, if one goes to Chinatown, one can have the same such experience minus the luxury goods and quiet place part.  And to think that Hermes would be one of the last holdouts, but with Yuan being thrown at them (probably, literally), it would be hard for them to stand firm.

One other thing I found strange, or not so strange, I guess, as I have had many such smaller experiences in my life.  While I was looking at the scarves (for you, Marjorie, not for myself, although I've thought of it), I found when I looked up from the display that one of the mainland fellows was looking at me- in fact, staring at me with amorous eyes.  Well, it was obvious that I did not give him the day, and unlike the Hermes products, I could not be had for money (at least, not his)

Of course, I also looked at the ties at Hermes, as I always do- but the new season had not arrived yet, and it was those from the last time we went there.  Most happily, though, I can report that while on the way to Hermes, I had a good look at the racks of my favorite vintage (used is a better word for this establishment) clothing store, and voila, I found a treasure among the junk.  Maybe, it was just impulse shopping because you weren't here, but I am sure you will forgive me that.  After all, there are worse things I could do, as Stockard Channing sang in the song from a film that was made before you were born.

the floor pattern at the Wall Street Hermes store.

two of the printed matter I picked up yesterday on my stroll

the secret source of my sometime tie buying

the sole representative of my tie buying of yesterday

Dear Marjorie,

Dear Marjorie, or this is what I will be calling what I write over the next two weeks.  Never wanting to keep a journal, or diary, and with no real intention of doing so now, I still wanted to write down some things for those who are not able to share or see them with me.  The name Marjorie stands for something, nothing, and everything.

Without explaining more than the fact that this place seems even less of "home" than usual, I went out on a ridiculous walk which seemingly knew no end, miles upon miles- more miles than the ordinary walk that we take to avoid work (among other things).

I had plenty of thoughts today, and plenty of time in which to entertain other ones.  Why, I even used my handy cell phone to write a line of poetry- which is something that Other Half somehow tricked me into going back into the other day when looking at a poetry book (of Tomas Transtromer) in the bookstore.

For those who'd like to know what that line was, it reads, "days are not days as they storm by-"

+

Looking for the ever elusive set of perfect gloves, I decided to stroll down to the so-called financial district. From the windows of Brooks Brothers, one of the places that I ventured in to in order to locate said gloves (and failing), I was able to see for the first time the crowd that made up the so-called "Occupy Wall Street".  Taking a detour to see what was going on, snooping as ever, I walked in to the masses and around the area- and what I saw was surely not democracy at work or the people taking a stand.  It looked more like a bums' hangout- and, believe you me, even the most liberal of liberals would question why some people are there- I was there just in time to see them hand out free lunch, so it looked every bit like a moochers' special. Imagine a mix of the old days of the Bowery, St. Marks' punk kids, left over hippies from the 60s still baked from that era, and the modern day liberal arts college grad and you have your group of Occupiers (or, whatever they are called).

There were a few news crews, or perhaps documentarians (those vultures after a story), trying to get some good copy.  Again, from what I saw, they would have to dig deep to find anything of value.

I am not questioning what the general purpose of it is- being against the System and its various manifestations, but in terms of specifics, there is surely much to be desired.  These characters, assembled here like a liberal arts college spring day festival (trust me, I wasted my bachelor degree years in one of them), I am almost positive haven't a damn clue what's up.  If they had some feasible options for change besides holding up some cheaply made signs and writing a hilarious manifesto that seems to be blanket every single gripe on planet earth, then surely the powers that be (those seen and unseen) would have stopped them literally dead in their path long ago.

Let's see how long it will last.  If it can outlast the winter, surely it is because the majority of them are most likely homeless bums anyway, and will be offering tips to the others for survival.  It's the least they can do for this safe and free ride, all in the twisted name of democracy.

the scene that greets you from brooks brothers.

clothes distribution for those who need it (a clever idea)

a view of some of the tents.

part of a good sized library of books of all genres (this one being "law")

the best part is that it says "Open to Public"