Brought back from the Show

Being indescribably bored recently and in a bit of a funk, I decided to brave the always suspect environment of the comic book convention which was held today (and is still going on, for those who are able to make it- although I would advise against it).  By the time I went into the hall proper, I already had a sinking suspicion that this was not going to be any fun. Although I have gone to many a show before, this one seemed to contain far more people than the usual, and it goes without saying that it is usually the bottom of the barrel type of winners who appear at such things (I include, of course myself, in this disreputable equation) and three in particular who stunk more than the bowery bum of days of yore.  Walking around and seeing the same artists and characters (dealers, buyers) again, it was deja vu of the worst type, a groundhog day gone awry.  The worst part was that I was only able to get one comic (a 1980s DC Flash, if you must know).  The best part is that I picked up this affable little fellow, whom the older generation (mine) may recognize as Q-Bert.

Light after and before darkness

Rather than going on about the long daytime hours and longer nights that have cast their dark spell over my last few days, I thought that in lieu of the usual meaningless words I would just offer the one image taken on the morning before things started to change- that is, as tears go by, what greeted my eyes when I awoke one day.

While Others Gather

Many years ago, I came across a book of the poetry of Heraclitus which glued me to the spot (it was a bookstore, in the basement I remember quite vividly) until I had absorbed it into my system, into my very psyche.  For years, too, I carried inside me one of his poems which today seems more than appropriate and which I present without any explanation. Take from it what you will.

"What was scattered, gathers.  What was gathered, blows apart."

Dearest,

love, love, love.  what else could i give you?

Oh, but what a letter.

While doing my rounds at the auction house the other day, seeing if anything struck my fancy which was aesthetic more than just a humorous or interesting trinket, I was taken aback by a hanging Japanese scroll.  Looking at its description, I found that it was a letter (in scroll form, that is the level of artistry of that culture) written by Kobori Enshu- the aristocrat and artist among whose works are the garden of Katsura Rikyu and who is best known as being a master of the tea ceremony.  Now, this small work would surely brighten up my place, or be a perfect start of a new place entirely- but then I realized (and confirmed today in my reading of a book on connoisseur behavior) that a desire for such material beauty could quickly become a kind of mania.

So, paddle not raised, money kept in the pocket, I let it pass, but not before it had implanted its beauty in my mind, begging me to go forward and backwards to find other such pieces.  By the way, the letter's content was that of Enshu thanking the recipient for an invitation to have tea.

of which the right one is that of enshu.

Dandy Portrait

A while back, I had gone to the Frick Collection to visit the comte de Montesquiou (or, really, his portrait as rendered by Whistler), but, alas, it was unfortunately not on view at the time.  Of course you may recognize the name in association with Proust, whose character Charlus was supposedly or most likely based on him.  Montesquiou is a character himself, and the embodiment of a dandy if you find yourself looking at the portrait of his in the Musee d'Orsay.

When I found that the portrait was back, and in addition could see some of the visiting Renoirs, especially the three Dances placed side by side was perfect, I went at my earliest convenience (despite most times except this busy week being rather inconvenient).  Digressions aside, what one gets from the Montesquiou piece is something altogether different- an ever so mysterious Montesquiou who recedes into the darkness, who cannot be understood in any one view (this because of the lighting against the black of the painting), a ghost who haunts the halls of this brilliant mansion- in a milieu similar to what he would have been accustomed in his life among people with whom he would have known as his familiars. Somehow, it would seem by his look that he is still playing the game, and doing so in top form.

the Comte

next to Miss Rosa Corder, but clearly ignoring her

For a Glimpse of Versailles and Other Things

Yesterday, while at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, we wandered through just to catch sight of "William", that visiting from the Louvre Portrait of an Old Man a Boy (Ghrlandaio) and the Widmerpoolesque sculpture of the banker from a Berlin museum whose name escapes me at the moment. As we were about to leave, Other Half insisted we go see the Versailles mural, and I thought, Oh, That, Well, All right.  And so we did, and of course, there was not a soul in sight (except for the guard).  As usual, most of the people in the museum flocked toward the most predictable exhibition (which in today's case was the Mattise, Picasso and other 'avant garde' show, which is worth a quick walk through when there are fewer people, but a weekend visit at the peak time is surely not recommended except for the foolhardy.

In the quiet of that oval space, with its echoes, lay Versailles- a Versailles that could never have been seen by any (now) living eyes, and the sweet combination of memory, nostalgia and my own/our own history there allowed us to be shifted from the city to that place seemingly not so far away.

the approach to this Versailles

Speaking of which, the other day in a conversation I had with a friend he remarked on Versailles, and we both knew both the allure and the unattractiveness of said place- beautiful when there is hardly anyone around (winter being the season of choice for him, and for me possibly late autumn as I abhor the cold) and wholly unacceptable on the most pleasant of days (with the onslaught of tourists jostling for photo opportunities). We also spoke of that long yet most pleasant walk from the main building to those areas which are off the beaten path, and wherein can still be found magic.

Cheap Thrills from the Past

Last week when my friend brought along his wonderful daughters to our place, Other Half surprised me by bringing out a collection of little toys and things which I had long forgotten about, and, which if asked to put a wager on I would have said that they had been tossed long ago (and which I would have roundly and soundly lost, gambling never being a friend of mine).  There was even one unopened bag of two retro toys (some kind of wooden propeller and a blow up ball) which I had bought at a nostalgia museum in Japan, and its being "made in china" was the indication of its inauthenticity yet was nonetheless a bundle of fun when we finally opened it.

A multi-colored ball which is blown up through a small hole, and then one can use it as in volleyball (no nets required).  There is also something to the feel of the paper which is intriguing, akin to that of paper lanterns.  After a little while, this inconspicuous little ball assumed its place as the best toy in an otherwise small medium collection.

What fun it is to uncover hidden things, and how lovely are the simple pleasures.

a ball of such fun

in the heat of a winter day

i haven't been in the most happy of moods lately for this and that reason, absolutely not worth going into here- and, you know that i have never been that vocal a person when it gets down to the heart of the matter. as the day unfolded in its strange ways, i found myself at the bookstore again- this, of course, will come as no surprise to anyone. picking up one of the new books (yesterday being tuesday, the day of new releases, much like wednesday is for comic book lovers the day they await with such eagerness), and i quickly found myself being twisted by words.

this was brought about by the newest book of poetry or prose poems by mark strand, who has crossed paths with me before in his poem for his late father (which i read and reread because nobody could truly speak to me at the time of my own father's passing for whatever reason, personal and/or pathetic).  i sat down and read through this new book, laughing at times at the ever so droll twists and turns, but every now and then there were some sentimental and touching zingers that made me regret giving it a read.  after all, one should keep well away from sad things when one is in the throes of moody and heady doom and gloom.

nonetheless, i have never followed and will most likely never follow such sound advice and continued (concluded) reading it. perhaps, this in no small way contributed to the drinking of this evening, but why pretend?  it's not as if i haven't thought of having a drop or two as early as noontime today...

but before i hit the (home) bar, in most part because i was unable to get anyone to play along with me tonight for bacchanalia, i leave you (today) with this piece from his book, and urge you take some time away from your significant (or insignificant, or nonexistent) other, hoping you will too let your eyes and mind wade through the pages of this book (Almost Invisible: Poems by Mark Strand, Knopf)

ablaze/that summer and all summers before

Worldly Wordy Efforts

Memory being what it is- an often delusional trap built on what was thought to be but surely is not and never was, I made a mistake in assuming that a certain painting (Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill by Pieter Clasez) which I found myself enjoying the other day was used on the cover image of a certain book (that of Robert Burton's Antatomy of Melancholy), but this was clearly not the case upon a quick check of the bookshelves.  Mistakes will be made, but I thought that my visual memory served me better than that.

"Worldly efforts are in vain" reads the description of the painting, and in particular relating to the plight of the writer- which may well be true in most cases, but yet some do shine still, no? Or is that all too a dream? Come what may, keep on writing, but only if you absolutely must.

Writing your fingers to the bone, like Balzac, who appeared again (in a smaller model) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but whom I seemed to have never quite seen in that walkway of sculptures (although I have looked at that St John the Baptist many a time)- yet, there he was, looming larger than life...

A spot of and spot on

Yesterday was a day which, like many other days, found me not quite where I would have been, but I do appreciate my own spontaneity and also adamancy in terms of decision making- for I was on my way to the far and away outskirts of the bordering neighborhood known as Queens (which I almost never go, for it seems as distant as Timubuktu) but when I found out that I would have to meet some new folks and most likely have to engage in some superficial conversation, I promptly decided to jump out of the car (but not before bidding adieu to my company) and it was back to my original plans.

Which was to scout for a second hand/used/vintage suit to get tailored, for fun, as I am on a mission in a few days' time with a friend to make the rounds of the tailors.  Alas, I do not have pieces of my own which have not been tailored already, or were already made to measure- and you know I have pretty much given up buying vintage clothes for over a decade now.  But, believe you me, I did try very hard, size always being a major factor  (as often the clothes I find on the racks to be at least one size too big and sometimes it goes well beyond believability), but it was a failure.

Well, I wouldn't quite say it was all a failure.  I was able to find a brand new silk scarf (no fringes) which still had the price tag on it, as well as a lovely chine fabric red, blue and yellow smaller scarf which I had every intention (and have already used as a) pocket square.  The first scarf was promptly stolen by my Partner in Crime, who wore it instead and I think that it has fallen out of my possession already.  Perhaps it wasn't meant for me, but no matter...

The intensive hunt and mini-shopping spree was capped off by a little late afternoon tea and hot chocolate break (with lemon cake) in one of the cafes (yesterday, the Cafe Sabarsky as upstairs had an indecent line) at the ever wonderful Neue Galerie, always resplendent and seemingly never having any noticeable tourists, loud mouthed yokels, or any of their ilk. That place, one of the very few in town, to retain a sense of civilized Society, although as to be expected in a place with no dress code, there were still few suits or suit jackets in site.  Perhaps they can be convinced to up the ante...

drinks are served.  sunglasses hidden amidst the foliage.

sweet and sour.

At the heart of it, or, Dear Sendai,

Tomorrow being the anniversary of the earthquake which brought to ruin a part of Sendai (my adopted home town), I thought about the many usual responses by outsiders (and insiders)- the call for change, the deep and superficial sadness, the pride (in one's own heritage, whether truly believed or otherwise), and all of the many ups and downs of thoughts related to it.  A year has passed, and did not most people return to their television dramas, pop music, food blogging, clothes shopping, and et cetera, only to remember it for one day and then go back to the usual program without missing a beat?  Why bother at all?

The fact is, has anything really changed?  And, if so, has it changed for the better?

As for me, there is one image that is burned in my memory- that of these parents looking in the debris for their daughter.  It comes back to me like a nightmare at the strangest moments, but especially at this time.  How can you rebuild them, and people like them, who lost their hearts?

A Night in the Park

Following on yesterday's post, I did in fact attend the opening night of Simon Van Booy's play Hindsight at the Drilling Company (quite happily seated next to the author himself), and it was delightful to see yet another facet of the writer's magic with a few more doses of humor thrown in.  Without giving away any of the story, which I myself should not have delved into (by reading the press information, but such is my curiosity), I will say that most definitely it is well worth the short space of an evening to go see it, for it will most likely cast a reflection back on yourself and this thing called "life"

The following are images from the stage proper, and the bench is where most of the activity is centered.  After the end of the play, while the members of the audience (most of whom seemed to be acquainted with the author) were exchanging congratulations and greetings, I too sat (alone) on the bench, thinking of time- my own, ours, and all of it.

before they appear and after they have gone/is it ever the same?

For Hindsight will save us, surely

Every so often, I get my act together and make something. True that those times are few and far in between- a rather regrettable fact, really, but today I absolutely had to.  For, this evening, I had to come up with something to give to my friend the Writer, whose play premieres tonight.

As I have been cleaning up my archives (both personal and of collected ephemera), I found a long ago project which struck me as a possibility.  In fact, it may be the perfect thing- a letter of sorts composed in artbook form, words rearranged as "poetry- the sort of thing that could express what I have been struggling to say through writing recently.  As you may know, I haven't writers' block, as I am not a writer, but I have something similar to it...or, perhaps I do, but it may be pegged down as pure idleness.

For the gift, I made a small book which I had reassembled and made anew,a brand new "poem" created in the process.  As accompaniment and explanation (of sorts), I used a piece of stationery that I had kept for years (gotten from somewhere, most likely some vintage book), that is from a hotel in Sri Lanka which I have never been to and most likely will never go to, but whose name (The New Oriental Hotel) appealed to my never ending curiosity of the exotic.  I did find out that the hotel still exists, but is now known under a much more dull and wholly interesting name (Galle Fort)...

Old things become new once again.

a small artbook, a poem, a letter, a wish.

how the enclosed letter (a poem in disguise) ends.

Tragedies and Such Beauties

Today found me in midtown for a lunch meeting and, with twenty minutes to spare, I decided to take a quick look see at the new exhibition "Shelley's Ghost" at the New York Public Library, which I had been meaning to go at some point but for one reason or another had not.  It turned out to be a splendid affair, artfully arranged in that small side gallery of theirs, and even before I went in, my heart was broken a little (and then a lot) when I realized that I could not take photographs inside. Surely, taking photographs is a kind of poison, in that one does not concentrate on the experience and is sidetracked by the desire to possess an image (or many images) of something which cannot (and should probably not) be possessed- and because of the prohibition, I was able to dive deep into the magnificent artifacts on display.

Really, it was one after another in terms of startling literary items- among the highlights for me on this preliminary walk through was a handwritten version of the poem "Ozymandias" (with a funny description by the curators that it was memorized by many a schoolchild), the death ring of dear Lord Byron and even pieces of Shelley's skull!  The most sad and mysterious, though, was the water damaged (of course, as Shelley had drowned) book containing the collected plays of Sophocles, which is said to be with Shelley when he died (and which also contains his thumb mark in the corner from holding/reading it)-

Often, I do wonder about the passage of time, and think again my own affinity for writers- imagining how my life on the sidelines could have been without reading and writing for so many years, and these moments now of gasping for air and the hunger of reading again, ever more.

an image of the book that sank with Shelley, from the catalogue.

the cold marble of the library/imagining the waves that sounded doom

Small Talk of Places for Things Masculine

Not wishing to leave Paris just yet but knowing that I must, and as always wishing I could stay there longer (though I will return to it soon enough in post-form for a Corbusian finale), this morning finds me looking so fondly at those two streets in London where this idle writer can most likely be found (of course, there is also St. James's Street and the select bookshops scattered about town)- that of Savile Row and Jermyn Street.

Savile Row, but the Row meaning of course to include the fabled Anderson & Sheppard on the next block, and to see whether they have made anything of the Penguin press building since the last time (update: no, they have not).

&

Jermyn Street- popping in and out of shops to restock up on necessities and utterly unnecessary but lovely and brilliant things until the next round, while saying hello to Beau Brummell who keeps a watchful presence on this no nonsense street.

A kiss for Oscar

Although it has been a number of years since I have read any work by Oscar Wilde except for his De Profundis which I consulted after watching the film with Stephen Fry in the lead role, I do have to say that is probably a serious error on my part- for his writing is often quite funny, lovely and at times absolutely extraordinary.  Perhaps the story of Dorian Gray would appeal to me nowadays on a different level- my own youth withering away as it is, and a longing for the days gone by of that world which belonged to the innocent young man who read it with such eagerness.

The reason I mention this is because this is because, following on the previous post of Marcel Proust and Honore de Balzac, the Pere Lachaise visit must of course also include the beloved Oscar Wilde.  I have always wondered why so many people went to his grave and defaced it with kisses and lipstick, as if that were any kind of respect for the writer and the man.  The powers that be have finally, just a few months ago, erected a protective screen so that no further physical harm can be done to the grave, and this was what greeted me when I went to pay my visit.  Of the many graves of the long fallen and mostly forgotten, that of Wilde was the most visited, the most touristic, the most voyeuristic, and, really I did and still do wonder whether these people had even read a word of Wilde's.  You see, they struck me as the type of character to visit New York City and go to the Museum of Modern Art and then proceed to walk quickly through without any interest or appreciation of art in general or specific, buy a postcard of some recognizable work (or something from the current show), take a photo of the facade with themselves in it, and then go home and then tell their like-minded friends about how MoMA was so brilliant etc, but would be hard pressed to answer anything about what they saw or how they felt or honestly, why on earth did they even bother.

I will add that despite the barrier, I too placed a kiss on the grave, near the bottom where one can touch the stone proper- and reflected once again on the love that dare not speak its name and of love in general and in specific. But, such is life, and such is death.

the plaque in front of where Oscar Wilde left us.

in front of where Oscar Wilde breathed his last.

and, so it is.

if love were only a word,

then i would surely never use it.

but you knew that, didn't you? 

and all the words in the world-

they are but nothing 

compared to the beating of your heart.

the beat, beat, beat of your heart.

Never Tragedy

It being the beginning of what I believe to be a whirlwind of a month, I decided to sneak away for a little bit- but, really, just roaming about looking at the usual sorts of things like scarves, scents and such such.  Popping into MoMA for a little bit, I was sad to see that the main hall was taken up by some nonsensical sculpture in conjunction with the current show (which I will take a pass on), but the passing gaze at the Balzac statue (one of a few such in the world) in the entry area was a welcome sight for my sore eyes.  It let me project myself far and away from the stale new york air and into the coolness of Paris, where not so long ago I found myself in the Musee Rodin looking at the statue's brother, and also to the Cimitere Pere Lachaise where I paid tribute to the Master's (Balzac's) grave.  While the choice of a head sculpture is a bit strange, that of a book (La Comedie Humaine) is perfect- for in those works (of which my projected aim is to read next, after completing La Recheche) I hope to immerse myself in what constitutes the world.  For, times have changed, but surely the hearts and motivations of people have surely not.

in New York, no longer subject to the elements.

La Comedie Humaine, version in death

triumphant in the garden of the Musee Rodin