Scattered are they, Spring having sprung

When I was younger, I used to not like nature at all.  This is probably a common thing among city boys who adore the city, as I did not come across many who had any interest (at least not that I know of) in the wild.  Perhaps this was due in no small part to the environment which I grew up in and the people who surrounded me (and still seem to surround me, none of whom I associate with but are gathered at least in the area which I live), so my exposure and interest to the natural world was limited to say the least.

I even remember going away once to someone's home- they had a large backyard with plenty of trees.  What was my idea as a child?  To pave it all down and lay concrete over it.  What idiocy was running through my mind when I was young to have such thoughts?

I must say that I do believe that I am over that, although I am quite sure some of the wicked thoughts of my youth are still lingering about- just not in regard to nature,  Case in point to show that I have changed my wicked ways- my continuing look at the now faded cherry blossoms that are the highlight of every spring.

Green was the scent of one of my homes.

Despite being quite busy (sometimes, at least- as I seem to find myself experiencing bouts of "pregnant pause" again) recently, my mind has also been drifting to the realm of scent.  In particular, with so much free time (Other Half not being around as much), I have been thinking in particular about the haunting scent of the Park Hyatt Vendome as magically concocted by the parfumeur Blaise Mautin, and looking to go back there perhaps soon for a quick jaunt, but it seems a bit frivolous to go to Paris yet again (for, if I did, it would be three times in a year- all for pleasure)

With that said, but by no means meaning that I will not go (although in all probability I will not), I then detoured into another scent that sometimes comes in and out of my olfactory memory, which is the himalayan larch scent from Red Flower which is available in candle form around the holiday season.  Not expecting it to be available at the store (which it was not, but I had to try), I sought to find its replacement in something called moonflower- but is nowhere near it, but its sweetness belies a mystery behind its color and its fragrance.  I do have to say, though, that I was able to find two of the limited edition candles on-line, for which I must admit I was willing to pay a premium (but, fortunately, was to be had for a nice sum)

Now, don't get me into Made to Measure scents, because just as surely as Savile Row always calls my name, so too will I definitely find myself very soon at the doors of the workshop in Paris.  Desire as you know I always have, and I've got some ideas...

what i pined for, and is here now (twice)

is it christmas already?

Until Death

In lieu of a lengthy post, I thought that on this pleasant Saturday morning, I would share a visual memory from a delightful shop called Red Flower (in nolita) where I picked up a moonflower candle the other day. Behind the counter was some tile art on the floor, which reminded me of the increasingly uncompromising nature of my own self and of the ever so predictable and twisted nature of others (those for whom love is a throw-away thing, which can be as easily applied to one person one day and then just as easily transferred to the next possible candidate without any explanation or apologies)

Tribute, and May I not be ashamed

Today I had the privilege (which, indeed it was) of attending the Christopher Hitchens Memorial at Cooper Union (in the Great Hall), all because of a circuitous path, of course- finding out that the wonderful Stephen Fry was in town just for a few hours in order to speak for five minutes, I thought that I would somehow finagle a ticket or way in.  Truth be told, I tried to obtain a ticket for the much desired event but was unlucky for being much too late in requesting it- and I did not use my press credentials but submitted it as a private citizen (probably not the thing to do for a star studded occasion). I have to report that the security there was so tight (also rather surprisingly attractive and well-dressed, their red lapel pin an interesting sartorial element) so there was no real way to sneak by, even if one were Jason Bourne.

Well, I thought that it was not my day so walked away slightly dejected, but I soon realized that on the other side, which is an alternate entrance/exit, there were gathered many people, including the aforementioned Mr. Stephen Fry speaking with some members of the Hitchens family.  I did not think it proper to bother him just to say hello, so I just took a picture (fanboy style).  While doing this, a woman (whose name I later found to be Florence S.) asked me who it was, whether it was Hitchens' brother, and I said, "Oh, no, that's Stephen Fry," and then we struck up a conversation.  It turns out that she had an extra ticket and invited me to go along with her, which believe you me I most cheerfully did.

Inside, over two and a half hours, I was treated to a reading from a selection of his work and memories of the man by people close to him.  In particular, I was moved by a lovely introductory poem by James Fenton, an interesting reading by Max McGuinness on Proust, impressed by the voice of Tom Stoppard, drawn into the dissection of Reagan by Leslie Cockburn, compelled by the "short digression on the pig" by Salman Rushdie, nodding my head in recognition at the talk on drinking by Cary Goldstein, entranced by the positive piano work of Francis Collins, feeling the spirit of the words uttered at their father's funeral twenty five years ago by the Hitch's brother Peter Hitchens, giving a mental thumbs up to the sweet and bitter words of Martin Amis, shaking my head that I never met the man himself in a video edit by Alex Gibney and thanking the man behind Vanity Fair who made it happen (and started and ended the event with his remarks) Mr. Graydon Carter.  Sean Penn also had some true and really devastating words read aloud on Vietnam, quite serious in fact.

Most likely, seeing as I haven't any plans so far for the weekend, I will probably pick up some of Hitch's books and read them.  That guy really was on fire all the time, a damned genius and a real loss to the world.

I will conclude this lengthy post by citing something I remembered being said today, which really floored me, and which I believe is from the preface to one of Hitch's books and which comes from Horace Mann: "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity,"

before the event, Mr. Fry with members of Hitch's family.

inside the Great Hall, before the event, holding the Memorial pamphlet.

the surprising, superb and glorious band greeting the crowd afterwards.

some of the scene outside, with Mr. Graydon Carter (thank you)

Hitch.  A great portrait.  Rest in Peace.

Led back there

Nostalgia hasn't really been my thing for a while now, preferring to live in the moment or to dream/daydream about the future, but today in trying to decide on what kind of film opening design I want for my project, I started watching some things by Tarkovsky and also from Ingmar Bergman.  Now, you know that these two are some of the few directors living or dead whom I have any interest in, so why not start from there?  I am sure that the end result will wind up looking exactly like most of my other work- minimal and perhaps just a little cold, with a hint of the personal touch.

Sorry, I was speaking about nostalgia- not prompted by the continued reading of Proust (yes, still the sixth book, I am sorry to say) but rather by the final scene from Ingmar Bergman's "Wild Strawberries".  I remember so vividly watching on a saturday evening (on public television) the dreamlike sequences unfold, and though I was but a teenager at the time who should not have chasing pop culture and girls (and now with two decades having somehow passed), I had more than an empathy for the main character Isak.  Perhaps it was just sentiment, perhaps it was the clarity in black and white, perhaps it was the longing (my own) for a time and place which will never return except in a dream.

By myself, I can see these visions too, and as it gets later and darker these evenings, even these daytimes, my imaginings also take a turn for the worse.  Sometimes, an anchor in one's life is really a good thing- in so far as it is a good one, not just any run of the mill person who came along and who could replace or be replaced by the next one.

Summer feeling springtime but autumn and winter scarf hunting

Today being sunday, I thought I would take a day off (at least in the early part of it, as I plan to return to my project this evening).  Yes, of course the bookstores were hit with not much of any success- although I did pick up the Examined Lives and that Titanic First Accounts books yesterday, but on my way home I decided to jump off the bus (which was taking me back home) and instead walked it to the never quite sure what is going to be there flea market on Avenue A.  Once I went in, my eyes were greeted with a wondrous and humorous sight- a stand which sold hot dogs and drinks on one side but which also had a large table selling "SCARF'S" (scarves) for ONLY $1.00 EACH.

I delved in, analyzing the very many scarves on what is the hottest day of the year so far. Though this was the case, several people came and picked through the collection, but not before I was able to snatch up a few treasures of my own.  Now, how they will be used is an entirely different story. While they may become scarves, some of them will most likely be bunched up into pocket squares.  A little color really does brightens up my rather predictable wardrobe of black and white, but let's not get too crazy here.

of which I selected some of these shown (including a Fendi number)

Peacock Display

To celebrate what is the 25th anniversary of the Paul Smith brand in New York, they have a colorful display of jackets from the past two and a half decades (loaned by the owners, who seem to be fanatical about the label).  Although it is a small collection, there being of course only a few windows in which to showcase it (after all it is not a museum retrospective here, but rather a clever way of advertisement), the many peacock pieces attest to the lasting power of a certain kind of trendiness and buoyancy in mens' fashion among certain types of men.  As for myself, while I do enjoy looking at the Paul Smith shops, especially the ones in London, I find that once I try on any of their clothes, it is as if I am assuming another identity- essentially, not being myself.

With that said, I have been appearing in public quite anonymously as of late- gone is the usual black suit look, replaced by of all things a brown bomber jacket (given to me as a gift by a well intentioned person who has no idea of my taste).  Nonetheless, I have worn it dutifully almost every day and night (except one evening when I wore a double breasted suit), but having done this for two weeks, I thought that I could stand it no longer and then had to buy three new identical black suits.  All that's required now is a little tailor magic and then it's a return to form.

Real Star Quality

I finally made it yesterday to the Noel Coward exhibition at Lincoln Center, having been caught up in a little busyness and laziness in the past two weeks or so, and believe you me, it was worth it to see some of the gems there- his dressing gown, make-up kit, cigarette boxes, personal typewriter and scores of other personal items. Now, Noel (I feel a certain closeness to the Master, and have for years now so I thought I would use his first name) is certainly a character worth looking up to- for his many many contributions to many many and many more disciplines (acting, the stage, writing, music, lyrics, etc), and having done most all of them (if not all of them, given that painting was his hobby) so very very well.  In particular, his use of language and the snappy nature of it shines through so clearly, a succession of urbane witticisms for the urbane.  The topping on the cake is that he is self-made.

a photo of his final resting place. which was his favorite spot for cocktails... 

No Escape from New York

I did not expect to be asked to go away for part of the so-called "holiday" weekend, but in fact that was an option (although rather uninteresting, as it was a place which has no culture to speak of and there is not even the wonderful presence of nature all around), so without much hesitation I decided to brave it by myself (which is not actually uncommon, given my usual preference to be alone and stare at the walls rather than to spend too much time with bores).  That allowed me to have a rather enjoyable weekend, although one of my lonely friends decided to invite himself over to my place, which was a little stressful given that I usually do not like people in my "space" (not that I am a hoarder, you must realize, but because of my nature), but all's well that end's well.  I chased after Nureyev and ballet (in book and documentary form) all weekend, with snippets of Proust book six thrown in- the narrator my dear Marcel in sheer agony after Albertine has fled the coop.

Now, what's the sense in going somewhere just to "escape" (as most people realize, or I hope they realize, they can never escape themselves).  And what beauty awaits you and I if you but look, look and look around you.  Case in point: the flowers (shown in the following photographs) that greet me once I walk out the building.

green and getting greener.

you can keep washington d.c., but i'll take japan.

An Extended Dance

An undercurrent of sadness has been running through my heart recently, that and joy (and electricity), and on this pleasant Easter Sunday (which I do not celebrate, although the idea of a brunch at Wallse sounds good but not solo), I just thought I would share a fun photograph from my visit to the bookstore.

As you may remember, I was very much interested in the work of Anthony Powell in his "A Dance to the Music of Time" (seen through the lens of the television series, although I did buy a complete hardcover edition of his books- although not in the splendid 12 volume british set from the 1960s).  The edition currently available has a great spine, which features each season from the painting of the same name (which I had saw to my delight in London at the Wallace Collection a few months ago), but on the bookshelves my eyes caught sight of this lovely image- the exuberance of early spring, followed by the strong repeat of summer, and then autumn (with different coloring, a gesture of leaves fading and dying), and then finally dancing right on through to  the last and expected movement of winter (death).

dance until the last dance.

One, Another, Another, and On (Don't Stop)

Today I am really having loads of fun despite having a raging headache and hangover from last night's good time- which is of course my fault entirely for hitting the sauce a little too much.  Having arranged to meet an old friend for the first time in so many years, I was clearly not going to cancel it despite the vicious thunderbolts hitting my brain. A good (or great) walk was clearly in order to clear my head.  What I did not expect was that there would be so many things of interest.

Fueled by electricity (this is one of the words that have recently been floating in my mind) and more than the usual enthusiasm (and of course the expected curiosity/snoopiness), I saw quite a few things today.  During it, I kept thinking that it was one thing after another- so many new places, so many new sights.  I walked past the New York Times building as well and I poked my nose against the window to see inside.  Noticing the people coming and going, I thought I should go in and snoop around.  It turns out it was a good idea, as inside is an enclosed garden- which I am sure is entirely lost on people in the building.

Later on, after meeting my old friend, I was struck by what he said- that he is never bored. Which triggered off, hours later a memory of Mad Men when Betty tells her waste of screen time brat of a daughter that "only boring people get bored".  Indeed!

the garden inside the NYT

sunlight streaking across the wall, NYT building

Past my time, or the Lateness of the Hours

Recently, I have had a bit of a fun time reading and thinking about things which have lay dormant for so long that it is almost as if I forgot about that entirely- but, really, not quite as it happens to be.  Just like a scent on a passerby can call up the memory of someone from long ago- it, fortunately or unfortunately never being him or her- it takes just a little imagination, just a little more dreaming, and then suddenly what we had been in love with perhaps we can be in love with once again.

Whether it lasts, of course, is entirely up to me.

Today's case in point is that among the things said to me recently is that it may be interesting to spend 20 minutes of every day to read up on something entirely out of the periphery of my normal vision, and see whether I could accommodate that into my own daily "life" and "work".  Well, truth be told, I was rather lost as what to look at, and found myself at the bookstores searching around for things that may fall under this category (many as the categories are).

After a little search, and a jarring of the soul and memory, I hit upon the autobiography of the dancer Jock Soto (formerly of the New York City Ballet)--

Which brings me to some old and suppressed memories.  I will say that the first time I saw ballet was that many years ago, in Central Park (late 80s? early 90s latest), it was the Alvin Ailey group, and that was magnificent and remains in my memory to this day.  But, what I had put out of my mind is that a little while after that, I had to choose a class to take to fulfill my requirements.  I saw "Jazz Dance" listed, and decided to try for that.  But, when I showed up, it was all women and there was a requirement to take off one's shoes.  I was a bit nervous already, and intimidated by all the women- there being not even one male- so I promptly turned around and that was that.  Today, though, I wonder what would have happened if there was one male there, or if any of the women gave me a hint of encouragement to stay.

Now, in my old age, near or past the age when a ballet dancer or danseur retires, it is one of the few things which I can say "it is too late"

A space in which to write, to work.

The space which one occupies is of utmost importance.  Mostly it is the mental space in which I refer to, that is, if you believe that anything can be done anywhere (which may or may not be true, and I actually think that perhaps yes is the answer).  Of course, being the idle creative that I am, most of my ideas are but imaginings, amounting to little (or, in fact, nothing), so it all happens in my mind or I speak a good game (like a politician, but delivering less than nothing).

Reading two books on creativity over the last two days upon an indirect recommendation by an old friend of mine has gotten me to thinking about the nature of many things, which is how it should be, no?

At the moment, I am referring only to the aesthetic of the place in which creativity happens.  One of the many images stored inside my rather large memory banks is that of the writing desk area of the Japanese writer Kawabata Yasunari, which I saw a re-creation of at the exhibition in Kyoto that many many years ago.  

But I know that as long as one is motivated, driven, running on electricity- then, really, anything can happen, anywhere.

A right honourable bookshop.

In my seemingly futile but constant search for things related to stylish things, I happened to find out about the upcoming release of a book related to Winston Churchill and his style.  Now, that's surely something strange, I thought, but then I realized after doing a little mental addition that in fact he was very much a person who had not only a persona (viewed from the distance and fog of history) but that he himself I knew from reading to be a recognized connoisseur of fine things.  So, it was not so strange after all to have a book devoted to the man.

Through my usual circuitous route of knowledge, I found that there existed for many years a bookstore which is devoted to Winston Churchill, and located in the very heart of the city.  So, having some time to kill in the area yesterday, I popped in for a look see and was glad to be in that small gem of a shop, which is inside a plaza open to the public (and which I remembered from decades ago when a friend went for an interview in one of the offices upstairs).  Once inside, and surrounded by first editions, signed books and the like, I found it to be a hidden treasure and kept wondering which books were the ones to read on the legendary Churchill.

There always does exist magic in the city, and it can turn up anywhere, if you are so inclined to look.

the splendid and silent passage towards the shop.

advertisement inside the plaza.

Brasil in the Cold

I was asked a few days ago whether I would be going to the flower show, to which I replied that I would not.  But little did I realize that it was not the orchid show at the botanical garden which she had referred to, but rather the more normal annual Macy's Flower Show, which we have been going to for the past few years without fail.  Well, being in the neighborhood yesterday for the nonsense which made up the tragic content of the previous post, of course I had to stand in line and wait.  Stand in line, you ask?  Yes, for the very reason that some of the first floor which is normally given over to the flower show is under renovation, and so they constructed a rather large tent outside in which to walk through.

It was a rather strange experience in that its theme was Brasil, but the weather outside and inside- rather cold and gloomy- seeped inside, and for some reason (perhaps my nose was acting up?) there was not the scent of florals in the air despite being surrounded by them.  Of course, I have to give a mention to the many people who were there, lined up and snapping the usual photographs (and not using their eyes), and I suggest that if you want to drop by, to do so on a weekday (non lunch time) afternoon.

window display in the usual position, female version.

and for those interested in the boys.