unawares . . .

Apologies for not posting an EDW today. This afternoon my father-in-law, who lives in Dublin, unexpectedly showed up. And as the chivalrous little daughter-in-law (& hostess) that I am, I should now return to the dinner table . . . Thank heavens Mac keyboards are quiet.

Also, it looks like tomorrow I’ll be taking a short holiday with my mother-in-law to the Baltic. I return on Monday. I’m sure there be lots to share. Pray for me.

Best to all and a lovely weekend.

August

say cheese

It must’ve been my dishevelled appearance which elicited the many pitying smiles from passing strangers. But after what had just happened I didn’t care if my hair was doing its electrocuted thing, for I was truly shaken. My knees trembled and my left eye started to close. A mean headache was crawling up behind my eye.

A teenage boy was riding towards the dogs and me. I could hardly believe his speed and the rather impressive stunts he was performing. So taken I was by his manoeuvres I didn’t have time to anticipate the disaster about to happen. My German Shorthair Pointer, roaming freely, had got on a scent. Just as the boy came riding by she jumped in his path. Both boy & bicycle flipped three times. It happened quickly, yet it was like slow motion. I watched his head twice hit the pavement, until finally he landed flat on his back, the bicycle horizontally atop him.

I ran to him, removed the bicycle, and helped him up. Are you OK? I asked breathlessly, not giving a second thought to not speaking German. I could tell he was hurt but was too embarrassed to say so. “Shall I phone a doctor; may I take you home?” He said no and started to cry. I was embarrassing him more by all the fuss. . .“I’m really so sorry, I didn’t know she would do that⎯I was just so taken by your⎯” I stopped myself, for now he was verging on the hysterical. “No,” he said. “Really, I’m Ok. Don’t worry about me.” He seemed more worried about reassuring me than about his pain. I felt awful and walked away with the image of his head bouncing off the pavement.

I wanted to pinch Stella in the arse for being such a dumbass. As we continued to walk, I saw by the curb a freshly dead & headless pigeon. So that’s the scent, huh, you booby? She looked up at me with those large amber eyes as if she’d understood. Sorry, old gal, I said and watched her run ahead like a galloping pony. I tried not to think about the headless pigeon.

You know something’s wrong when a group of Punks try consoling a stranger who is the antithesis of Punk. But there they were, huddled around the entrance of Kaiser’s supermarket, with their green Mohawks, clanking clothing, and litter of dogs. “Lady, alles ist gut; no wörries, okeh? Just say cheese.” I smiled, suddenly feeling like I was back in New York where every Juan, Kim, and Finkelstein will start chatting you up because you look downtrodden.

When I finally made it to my destination⎯the main library branch of East Berlin⎯I had no idea why I was there. Fortunately, my aching shoulder reminded me that I’d gone to return books and films. The cue was long; and the woman ahead of me pretended to fidget with her ear, though I could feel her scrutinising me. My quick impatient glare startled her. She hesitated and then asked if I would mind telling her from where did I buy the pretty earrings I was wearing. My countenance softened. Now I felt like the booby.

I made them myself, I told her, stammering out my German. “Oh,” she continued, kindly in English, “they’re very pretty, and the colour looks beautiful against your eyes.” Now I was the one who was startled. We all know compliments are not abundant in Berlin; and after so many years I’ve accustomed myself to the verbal venom to which I’m usually prey.

Feeling good, I took the arduous route home, in order to get in a bit of exercise. As I heaved up the steep hill, an extremely overweight American woman beside me started shouting at her toddler. “Allison, come here, NOW!” The toddler had run far ahead and was absently approaching the street. There wasn’t any way that woman would’ve caught up to her child quickly enough. Without thinking, I calmly shouted, “Allison, honey, look at the dogs. Come look at them, the big one loves little girls.” I don’t know if it was my unfamiliar voice or the word dogs, but Allison halted as abruptly as she was hurtling. She turned around, looked for the dogs, and giggled. The woman thanked me endlessly in English & German. I shrugged it off and pulled Stella to meet Allison, remembering to keep a tight hold on Herr Vicious.

Kneeling beside Allison as she belly-rubbed Stella, the woman continued to thank me. “Oh, please; forget it,” I said. “By the way,” she added, “your earrings are so, so fun⎯and pretty.” I looked up at her and smiled: “My goodness, thank you. If you can remember what they look like, you can make them yourself. There’s a bead store on Kollwitzplatz. It’s called Tukadu. I think I paid six euros in total.” Her face lit up, in that excited way women get when they talk of crafty things.

I walked away with a little bounce in my step, wondering what about my deliberately flawed & cheap earrings would generate two anonymous compliments. “We’re a family of boobies,” I told my furry children, “and your Mum is booby numero uno.”

birdy num-nums

When I travel there are two things I scout for before I can even begin thinking about visiting museums, monuments, whatever. Vintage pearls & stationery are my thing⎯my A-List of must-finds. The former is always the more difficult, considering I won’t pay more than 20 Euros, or its equivalent. The latter however is another thing. Handmade paper and fountain pens can be found just about anywhere, which means, if there is no one to snap me out of my obsession, I could spend an entire holiday visiting one stationery shop after another. No doubt it’s the reason why my memory of Tokyo is something of an origami of origami paper. Between sampling the Japanese version of Challah bread and paper shopping, I know nothing of that wonderfully overpopulated city.

On my B-list of must-finds are old books, maps, photographs, letters, botanical lithographs, vintage printing press paraphernalia, and used bookbinding materials. Over the years the collection has amassed, but with neither the time nor the space it has pretty much collected dust. But now⎯Now that Husband has found himself an office outside of our flat, I’ve begun setting up my very own workshop studio. Finally I’m able to get crafty.

Now before you start calling me Martha Stewart and buying me vintage aprons, keep in mind it’s only been a week. So if the blank journal I’m binding is a little over-stitched, I’m still giving myself an A for effort. And so what if the note-cards are a bit sticky from too much glue; they’re supposed to look that way⎯deliberately flawed. You know, to show that a human being created them and not some perfect paper-cutting machine. Or even worse, some South American minor being paid a dollar a day by a mega American corporation.

Anyhow, as my creations get a little less “deliberately flawed” I shall send each of you a little something. But keep “A for effort” in mind when your fingers get stuck on the note-card.

That is all I have to say. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything spiritually profound to share like Mercurious always seems to, or kindle provocative pillow talk like Puss’ & Jocelyn’s latest posts, or find hidden messages for London like Ben has, and finally, what’s the point of looking for beautiful design photographs when there’s Ms. Felicity at All Things Bright and Beautiful.

Happy Weekend.

*After-note: If any one of you Germanophiles can tell me the German word for shrink plastic (aka Shrinky Dinks) I’d be most appreciative. I’d send my thanks with a lovely, deliberately-flawed piece of jewellery.

*Photograph by Picnic by Ellie at Flickr

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Mary Ellen Mark

Twelve years ago, living alone along the Yucatan Coast, I saw a torn copy of the above first photo. The girl’s deadpan confrontation shook me to the core. And like any work of art which speaks to me, it was as if both the girl and the photographer (artist & muse) were holding a mirror to my face. At that moment I decided to return to New York, face my demons once and for all, and begin making pictures. But it would take me many years of taking photographs before I could make them.

Mary Ellen Mark’s work as a whole shows individuals on the fringe of society. Content aside, the images themselves are visually stunning. Her sense of composition, the range of greys and blacks in each print, and her use of angles are simply magnificent. For as much as she gets her hands dirty, she always returns with something beautiful.

For her commitment to photographing outsiders, her elegant visual sensibility, her sense of humour, and for giving me the push I needed to get out of Mexico, she’s my Wednesday gal for this week.

peace

Here are some of the questions asked to random Americans, and some of the responses:

What’s the religion of Israel?
- Muslim.
- Catholic, probably.

Who is Fidel Castro?
- A singer.

What religion are Buddhist Monks?
- Let me think, Islamic?

Who won the Vietnam War?
- We did⎯⎯wait, were we even in the Vietnam War?

How many sides does a triangle have?
- Four.
- There are no sides.

What is the currency used in the United Kingdom?
-Possibly American money.
-Queen Elisabeth’s money.

In terms of the war on terror, who do you think should be the next country to invade?
-Somebody in the Middle East
-Cuba
-India & Pakistan
-Italy
-We’ll make a big blast crater out of the fucking Middle East for all I care.
-France⎯because they weren’t our allies.

What is a mosque?
-An animal.
-I have no intelligent guess.

Which countries are in the axis of evil?
-Ok, I’m a little bit mixed up over the Palestinians and the Israelis. Which one is throwing rocks?
-The fella with the turban thing. I call it a diaper, really.

What is Al-Qaeda?
-A group, a suicide group in Israel, in the Middle East, that they do bombs and stuff. And the president is Yasser Arafat. Everybody knows that.

Where’s the Berlin wall?
-I have no freaking idea.

The language they speak in Latin America is Latin⎯true or false?
-The what?

***

I have to say when I saw the video I was too ashamed to fully process it. Not only the responses but the cockiness with which they were delivered. In my initial anger I thought to myself that these people should not have the right to vote until they’ve passed a course in geography and world history. If that sounds Fascist, so be it. And now that my anger is digested, I’ve not changed my opinion.

Exactly because of those above responses is why I fear Obama hasn’t a chance. Firstly, because he’s Black. Secondly, his name rhymes with Osama. Finally, because he’s young. And the last time I checked, three strikes in any game still means you’re out.

I know⎯there are stupid people everywhere. But I don’t see those people dangling their national dicks around and then pissing on other people’s countries to mark territory. And for the record, for those questioning my fidelity to the U.S., I was there on the 11th of September. I saw it with my own eyes. And each day thereafter I was at Ground Zero photographing the firemen, the Mass Transit Authority, and ordinary citizens⎯watching their tenacious efforts to find a breathing body and clean up the titanic mess. I watched citizens from as far away as Nova Scotia & Florida drive to New York to help. And I was there, on behalf of the Red Cross, fruitlessly collecting toothbrushes of the dead from their family members⎯⎯for possible DNA identification. Everyone knew it was pointless, but the victims' family members⎯along with everyone else⎯needed to reach out to people. They needed to see their own shock mirrored in the eyes of others, so as not to go mad.

To be honest, I was too sad to be angry. Still, I didn’t judge those who, on October 11th, marched down Broadway shouting, ‘We’re gonna nuke those motherfuckers’. I didn’t agree, but I understood the need for an outlet; the need, amidst utter helplessness, to want to see something done. Revenge is primal, and it takes a great deal of effort for me to tame it, so I understand.

In the same breath I can say that I vehemently denounce any religion, ideology, or fanaticism which impinges on an individual’s right to choose. Any “ism” based on fear, or under the banner of “My Way is the Only Way.” And that includes the hostile canons of evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins.

* * *

Three hours later I return now to these thoughts. Curiously enough, I’ve just returned from a flea market in a ramshackle district of Berlin which is predominantly Middle Eastern. On route, my husband assures me that I’ll find whatever I’m looking for, for half the price. He says it to convince me. He knows I loathe visiting poor districts. Unless I am visiting a person, I feel I’ve no right to be there, just as I do not like visiting caged animals at the zoo.

It’s an outdoor market and yet everywhere is the smell of poverty. Cheap perfume, filthy clothes, the sweet cheap smell of mothballs, cheap detergent, cheap soap; and the thick smell of fried food. I am suddenly back in the South Bronx. This is what my childhood smelt like, I tell my husband. This is dreadful, he says. Well I’m glad you see this, I add, for the next time you think it’s simpler being poor, you keep this in mind. Being poor is about survival, which is another word for hustling.

I have about three dollars in my bank account and minus three-thousand in another, but I feel guilty about being at the flea market. Never mind that the vendors are driving BMW’s, it’s a poverty of the mind I can’t bear to see. It’s the same mental poverty which I see in the Latinos in New York. They drive fifty-thousand-dollar cars, but they’re driving them right to the ghetto. They’d rather have a brand new car than move to a safe neighbourhood. I don’t understand.

I’m not sure how I got on to poverty, but somehow in my mind it’s all tied in. In the same way that I received an e-mail from someone about Obama possibly being the Anti-Christ because he fits the description described in the Book of Revelations. It’s almost too ludicrous to get upset over, yet I know there are people who read those kinds of e-mails, with their pastel-coloured fonts, and believe them. The person who forwarded me the e-mail is someone I love unconditionally, but I reply in anger. “I know you’re a Christian, but I can’t deal in the realm of fantasy; do you think we can work first with the facts?” I am suddenly no different than Dawkins, for I sound like a pompous ass.

Illustrators: Part II

Achtung! Another long post

My apologies for adding no information on the illustrators in the previous post. Yesterday evening while forking a falafel ball and mentally whispering a prayer to the gods of proper digestion, I realised it was Wednesday. What I wanted to add was a personal note, a memory invariably linked to contemporary fashion illustrations:

Time: Long ago
Place: Henri Bendel on Fifth Avenue

I was the gal overseeing the newly opened Catherine Malandrino boutique on the 2nd floor of Henri Bendel. I had been working for Malandrino at her downtown boutique in SoHo. When Bendel’s agreed to section off a corner of its trillion-dollar interior for her clothing line, Ms. Malandrino felt I better suited the old-money folk of uptown. I felt vaguely insulted, but off I went.

It was at a time of unremitting self-flagellation. For 9 hours a day I would stand in 4-inch Stephane Kélian heels without looking like I was sniffing my upper lip. The agony was something I’d felt I deserved. It also distracted me from wallowing in the rather critical situation in which I found myself.

Day after day as I watched window-dressers hang large watercolours by the fabulous Izak and Ruben Toledo, I fought the doomed feeling that I had ruined my life. And for what? For being so wet behind the ears I was still dripping on my killer heels.

I’d been charged in criminal court with a Felony D. In short, it translates to a minimum of four years imprisonment. The “gentleman” who was pressing charges claimed that I was a complete stranger who’d burgled his apartment. With emphasis on the word stranger.

The suffocating rage of injustice tormented. In less than a month I’d lost 30 pounds, and violent dreams left me ragged. All I could do was work. Neither Bendel’s nor Ms. Malandrino had any idea what was fuelling my massive increase in sales. All my personal clients would spend no less than $10,000 per session. My male CEO clients spent twice as much. Mistresses, dirty old men, JAPS, (Jewish American Princesses), fox-fur ladies⎯⎯I had them all and enjoyed their demands and the challenge of making them look fabulous. All I wanted was to be the mythic stranger who instantly knew what people needed. With emphasis on the word stranger.

But on slow days when distractions were lacking, I had to face what was looming.

The gentleman pressing charges, “Mr. Black” had been my boyfriend. He was a fashion photographer thirty years my elder. We’d been together for a year; the latter half of which I lived with him in his loft. Reluctantly I’d given up my cosy duplex studio on the Upper West Side. He’d grown increasingly paranoid about my loyalty, so I took the plunge, hoping it would make him feel better and prove that I hadn’t anything to hide. Mistake number one.

Needless to say, the relationship was blustery. Between his jealousy and utter debauchery, I quickly chilled. At the time I was feverishly working on a photo-documentary on a young man growing up in the Lower East Side ghetto. I adored & genuinely respected him. And perhaps because a large portion of my days was spent happily in the young man’s presence, I could not fully grasp how miserable my personal life was.

And so, one fine late spring evening I walked into the loft, deciding to call it quits. I half-expected, as was typical, junkie models crashing in every corner of that loft. But all was dark, except for the glare of a computer screen.

There was Mr. Black retouching some model’s thigh in Photoshop. I told him I wanted to speak with him. When he turned to face me I noticed his large hands. What’s that ring you’re wearing? I naively asked. He was startled and tried to hide the hand behind his back.

It was the longest monologue I’d ever heard. He admitted that when he’d tell me he was going up north to repair his country house, the truth was he was visiting his wife and two toddlers. He was ‘happily’ married but wanted to have his own life and didn’t care who he was hurting so long as he had his own life. He then pulled from a drawer a bag of mini cassettes. “You see these, these are all your conversations with your stupid friends and that goddamn boy you’re pretending to photograph. I know what’s going on. All those flirtatious codes you two speak in, but I know what’s really taking place. You think I’m stupid or what? You think you can play me and have some young thing on the side? You’re lucky I have a thing for whores like you⎯⎯”

I didn’t let him finish. The injustice blinded me. Knowing perfectly well I never had a thing for minors and that I’d never cheat on him, he nevertheless continued the accusations. I wanted to punch him in the face. Instead I kicked the wall. Needless to say it didn’t relieve a thing. Meanwhile on and on he went about my being a whore.

I started to pack my belongings. He told me I wasn’t going anywhere, and threw my things all about the loft. When he tried to pin me down, I suddenly felt like the incredible hulk. Effortlessly I pushed him away; and thinking of a way to shock him quiet, I pulled the Andy Warhol from the wall and tossed it out the window. I begged Andy to forgive me, whilst praying that the Dominican drug dealers outside would steal it. My efforts silenced him. When he returned to his senses, he phoned the cops to say some crazy junkie woman had broken into his apartment and was now threatening his life.

The cops arrived and asked no questions. I was handcuffed and sent to Central Booking. Because it was one of those consecutive Jewish holidays, I slept in a cell with withdrawing crack addicts for 5 days. (A gem of a post those five days would make.)

My lawyer, Mr. Levanthal, upon getting me released warned that if I could not prove I knew Mr. Black, I would be charged with robbery. And Mr. Black was filing damages of over $100,000.

At this point I was working for Malandrino at Bendel’s. As I’ve said, my thoughts tormented as I waited for my court date.

Out of the blue, the District Attorney phoned my lawyer. Having browsed at my file, the D.A. wanted to meet me. My lawyer was baffled: “What’s the D.A. doing reading files? Why would he want to meet you? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” On the morning of my meeting, I suddenly remembered I had taken a rather intimate photo of Mr. Black, and had possibly left it in my mother’s apartment. I ransacked her flat until I found it.

At first the D.A. refused to let me speak. “There’s no point in trying to get outta this one, Missy. You knew he was a photographer, you wanted to steal his stuff. Admit it and we’ll cut a deal.” Blind rage once again curdled within. Calmly I asked for permission to speak. He didn’t believe a word. “Honey, you can’t prove a thing. You got nothing, so admit the truth.” I slid the photograph of Mr. Black before the D.A. and said nothing.

D.A: This is the guy? This is Mr. Black? Hey kid, what are you doing with a man like this? He looks like a goddamn pervert. He’s old enough to be your grandfather. Hey Charlie, look at this, this guy’s older than me!

The only other time in my life I wanted to kiss a New Yorker was when I accidentally collided with Woody Allen. With the D.A., I could’ve collapsed in gratitude.

Eventually Mr. D.A. dropped the charges.

So if I sweat a little whenever I see these fabulous illustrations, a few people now know why.

*Illustration by Izak

Elegantly Dressed Illustrators

David Downton

Tanya Ling

René Gruau

??

Erté

George Barbier

bestowal

We all know the scene. Audrey Hepburn, dressed to the nines, walks along New York’s Fifth Avenue. Nibbling on a croissant, she stops to admire the window display at Tiffany’s. It is shortly after first light. The streets are empty.

In a modern rendition of this scene, the woman is dressed to the nil. (Or curiously null?) We see neither her face nor that she is savouring her favourite crackers because her face is buried in the pages of a tantalising book. This modern-day retelling should not be mistaken for cerebral porn.

What this poorly rendered rendition of Breakfast at Tiffany’s should be taken for is my way of saying thanks to Puss for sending me a love package. The Carr’s biscuits are safely hidden from dogs & husband. And Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber is exactly what I’ve been in the mood to read.

It’s wonderful to feel cared for. I shall smile brightly today, feeling very special indeed.

Thank you thank you thank you. xo

*I know what you’re all thinking: the impudence of some people to compare themselves to Audrey Hepburn. I’ll have you know I secretly liken myself more to David Niven. But that’s another post.

remembrance

On the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s death I include a one-minute clip of his final speech.

It's almost difficult to grasp that this period in U.S. history is less than 50 years old.

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: The Ziegfeld Gals

* Myrna Darby, Susan Fleming, [I've forgotten her first name] Henderson, Muriel Finley *

My head hurts too much to write anything about these sensual gals. But I hope you all enjoy the photos.

aviso

They’ll be no resting if I don’t let off steam, so I beg you all to make allowances for my self-indulgence. If I wasn’t so annoyed at the German language, I’d preface this post with a bold Achtung.

I don’t know how translating a 20-page German document (more like Prussian pontificating manifesto) could turn so sour; but by page two I was already questioning my move to Berlin, my love for Rilke, and my marriage to an otherwise wonderful German. I should add that in two pages I came across two periods. No commas, no new paragraphs, just one longwinded brain-fart. In no less than four hours I managed to make those two of twenty pages sound something like a request for donations (what it’s intended for) and not the “hear-me-preach-about-what-I-know” document that I was given.

Perhaps it touched a nerve because all my life I’ve been called Prussian, thanks to my obsessive-compulsive love for order. Perhaps I turned hysterical because it’s that time of the month. Perhaps it’s both. Whatever the reason it wasn’t long before I was sitting in the bath telling my husband how I knew all along I never wanted to marry a German: “Don’t take it personally, my love. It’s a thing of sensibility. I can’t handle being with anyone who has thoughts without punctuations. Can you at least understand my point of view? Understand at least what that may mean for our children. Between my bipolar disorder and your garbled ramblings, it sounds like an experiment gone wrong. I don’t want any experiments; I want fat-cheeked puffa-lumps for children. See?”

With his large blue eyes and an oddly Puerto Rican expression, he replies, “It must be that time of the month. Just let me know who or what you’re hating right now and I’ll try to make it go away.”

Don’t think for a second I can be manipulated by that kind of reverse psychology, better known as being kind to the devil. I know those kinds of tricks. My sleeves are stuffed with the likes of them . . .

I don’t know why letting off steam on my husband and letting in bath steam made me feel better, but it did. Moments later, calm as a pea, I was swimming in the tub and pretending I was one of those mythological sirens whose singing lured sailors onto rocks. As I sang and splashed about, my dachshund, Herr Vicious, charged into the bathroom⎯pushing open the door with his long nose⎯and began barking. In my moment of self-indulgence I’d forgotten Herr Vicious loathes splashing.

Now if anyone is the manipulator around this household it’s Mein Herr. One look from those kohl-rimmed eyes and I feel like scrambled eggs. As I watched him hop over to try and bite the water, I figured it was time Herr Vicious had a bath. I drained the bathwater, put on my robe and refilled the bath at the temperature which would not give him reason to bark or bite. After 11 years I know if the water is too cold he’ll bite the faucet.

I lathered and massaged his delicate back for over twenty minutes. I watched his little tail wag frantically, the loud splashes sending Herr Vicious chasing his tail. I teased him by squeezing his rubber ducky in his face, until he warned me that my shenanigans could cost me my wrist. Finally, towel in hand, I lifted him from the bath and watched him wriggle himself frizzy. In the end, he licked my nose, almost as if he’d read my thought: You’re the one reason I’m never entirely angry, not even at sermonising Germans.

note

A brief note to say I’ll be offline for a few more days. The early signs of another torture headache are warning me to rest my eyes from the computer screen. In the meantime I'll continue to pop in on everyone. Hope you all enjoy these downy, dreamy cherry blossoms.

Photographs by Miwa at Flickr.

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Lee Miller

Imagine your lover is Man Ray, your mentor is Edward Steichen, and your circle of friends include Brassaï, Jean Cocteau, Picasso, Edward Weston, Eugené Atget, and Paul Strand. With such an artist A-list crackling around you, lack of inspiration would seem unlikely.

By her mid-thirties, already flooding the covers of British Vogue, Lee Miller chose to be at the other end of the camera⎯in order to document the end of World War II. (She was one of only five female war correspondents.) Her photographs of London’s rubble & decay are amongst the finest war records. In Germany, at times her eye was cool – perhaps for self-protection – as when she photographed SS soldiers and their children⎯all dead by suicide. Although, when she encountered Hitler’s bathtub, she jumped in and playfully took a self-portrait. Her sweeping landscapes of the Middle East are like a lesson in geometry; and finally, the abstract female torsos she photographed can still moisten a few pants. Her knack for finding beauty in the most wretched places had quickly earned her “one of the seven most distinguished photographers.” [Vanity Fair]

As fashion model, photographer, muse to the innovators of modern art, gastronome, full-time socialite, and legendary bed-hopper, Lee Miller reigned supreme⎯⎯and is my kind of gal for this week’s Elegantly Dressed Wednesday.

tics & stones

Achtung! Content may be offensive to those with no appreciation for the occasional indecorous (but harmless) wisecrack.
Achtung II! A long post.

Religion is not a topic I ever bring up. Should someone open a discussion I’ll have my say, for in fact I have a lot to say. For the most part my experience has been that people are either positively intolerant or deeply convicted in their beliefs. Being of a judicious sign, the balancing scales, I tend not to be too hasty. But with religion it is difficult. It has always felt like that self-righteous cousin one can’t stop staring at on Thanksgiving. As you stare, you think: Ok, I’m trying very hard to find something likable about you. (Like my cousin Sarah who never shared her toys. “It’s not my fault you can’t afford better toys,” she’d say. The only thing I ever liked about her was that she’s half-Jewish, something she had no say in.) But alas, one ends up more interested in the wafts of turkey roast making the stomach roar. Once again, the pleasures of the flesh take precedence.

At the age of 14, fed up with those doe-eyed, buttoned-up Mormons harassing me on the street like urchins, I decided I would read the Christian bible in full. (Just so I could have something to say other than, Hey Buddy, you’re blocking my way.) I read the bible four times as if it were my favourite book⎯⎯one of those unputdownables. It was not. But by the third go I was rooting for Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego as they defied King Nebuchadnezzar. I worried a great deal over Joseph. If anyone ever earned their prophetic stripes, it was he. Though, later I would find Thomas Mann’s interpretation far more compelling. As for David, when God told him he could not build the temple because his hands had known too much blood, I was genuinely heartbroken. Solomon was different. Solomon and I were on the same page. He had chosen wisdom over wealth & fame. Solomon was tall, Mediterranean-kissed, (from all his divine ruminations whilst outdoors) and he had Semitic curls like mine. While none of these features are exactly seductive, I was sure Solomon was a first rate dream-beau.

As stated in the previous post, God’s reply to Moses in Exodus, I AM THAT I AM, in my opinion is the most powerful ever made. But that is not what I told those blonde, blue-eyed Mormons.

First of all, I wanted to wipe that robotic veneer off their faces. You know, the Tom Cruise look which says: I’m so calm I look possessed. But I didn’t want to be too mean because I figured they each had like thirty mothers. And we all know one is plenty. One is a lifetime in therapy. And a lifetime in therapy in New York means watching your psychiatrist come in weekly with a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, which you no less are funding.

But I’m being cynical and I don’t much like myself for it. However, at the age of 14, I was not cynical. I was rage⎯rage incarnate. All I wanted was to lock myself in a large, orderly closet with my flattened Snoopy and wooden dachshund pull-toy (I was a late bloomer) and read. Read, read, read. Though, not the bible. I wanted to read more stories of family disasters like the ones I’d miraculously discovered at the New York Public Library. In one visit, I randomly pulled from the stacks: Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night; Tennessee Williams’ Suddenly Last Summer; and Truman Capote’s Music for Chameleons. If ever there was a moment when the clouds parted and God found favour in me, it was then. As I devoured each of those doomed stories, I knew they would influence me for the rest of my life.

All of those men were gay, excepting O’Neill who was just a bastard (albeit brilliant). But they were NOT gay writers. They were writers who happened to be gay. Because of their impact on my innocently degenerate 14 year old mind, I too wanted to be gay, hoping that through gayhood, I would be attuned to such depths.

But gayhood, or even non-gayhood is difficult when you’re afraid of human touch. At 14, the thought of it made me want to wash my hands, which I regularly did anyway. Whenever Patrick, my best mate at school, touched my shoulder, I’d punch him in the Solar Plexus, then would wash my hands. When Patrick ended the friendship, I had a lot of time to myself. That’s when the urge to start counting grew inside me like oatmeal gone wrong. I counted the cracks on the walls and I counted my footsteps. However, I never understood why it was 3,065 steps to school, and 3, 003 from school. (Physicists, feel free to explain.)

And now we return to the Mormons.

They were always hustling either whilst on my way to school or on my return. It was problematic because those were peak moments for my counting obsession’s obsession. Should anyone interrupt, I’d have to walk back to the train station (or back home) and begin again. Since I’m a stickler for punctuality, the Mormons’ interruption caused a great deal of stress. It didn’t matter that I knew how many steps my journeys required, I had to hear my inner voice say each number or else something ominous would happen. Something too awful to Name. That was the forced agreement between the Counting Obsession & me.

So imagine having to stop at say, 2,471 (an unremarkable number not easy to remember) to explain to the Mormons that you have no interest in their divisive notion of Salvation. “For how can you tell me Salvation is freedom [note to self: 2,471] when, if I don’t choose it, I’ll go to hell. Is that freedom or fright? As it is, I’m already in one fear-based contract with Counting, do I look like I need another? My insurance won’t cover another fashionista psychiatrist, and I certainly can’t afford to lose my stride. Now if you don’t mind, I have a meticulous path to take.” 2,472, 2,473 . . .

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Krzysztof Kieslowski

Part of living in exile means coming to terms with feeling disconnected⎯more from people than the place itself. It also means grappling with not being able to express oneself spontaneously, as one would amongst those who speak the same language. The few people with whom I do converse⎯I can see in their eyes how they feel too different from me. I’m too much an “other” for them to get intimate with.

The handful of friends I had in New York, all over the age of 65, are now dead or angry with me for leaving. What I most miss is our conversations; over pots of coffee and cigarettes, we’d quickly & effortlessly get down to the nitty-gritty.

As an only child I’m used to being alone, and have always up to a point needed a lot of space. However, some days the need to connect, to simply laugh, is unbearable. Yet, experiencing this sort of isolation has turned my gaze inward in a way like no other. I was too cosy back home in my West Village apartment to search as deeply as I have here. ⎯Cosy in my love for the city, in spite of the stress and demanding hours of work.

My point is, when human exchange is lacking, I automatically turn to another kind of dialogue, and that is art. Agnes Martin’s large but simple line drawings do it for me. Likewise, Rilke’s poetry. Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night describes who I am and my struggles better than I ever will (minus the decadent wealth). For film, three directors immediately come to mind. John Cassavetes (Opening Night), Woody Allen (Another Woman), and everything by Krzysztof Kieslowski.


You need only look at that beautiful face to know. It’s all there: the kindness, generosity, the inner searching & turmoil, the love for life, and finally, the elegantly undressed mind.

The Decalogue series is by far my favourite of his films. Made for Polish TV, the ten-part series deals with the nature of sin. As each episode philosophically interprets one of the Ten Commandments, we follow the lives of different individuals all living in the same ramshackle tenement. Visually, it doesn’t get any more depressing. The concrete-slab proletarian aesthetic is enough to make you believe that Socialism works only in theory. And yet, one gets a sense of community, of people looking out for one another, instead of, as in other communist countries, turning against each other. (Notice I’m not naming names.)

Only a very special & quiet soul could take such a verdict-laden theme as the Ten Commandments and turn it into something life affirming. And all without preaching. . . Last night, as I watched one of his early low-budget films, (Camera Buff) I was thankful to have someone, though now dead, reach out to me so profoundly. Once again, I felt human.



Why is there no word for someone who loves things Polish? Like Anglophile or Francophile? Between the country's poets & film directors, it's enough to make me a Polski-phile.

double exposure

I am walking the dogs, shielding my eyes from the cold yellowless sun. From my peripheral I see what appears to be a man rubbing his crotch. Aloof, I continue with what I’m doing. I pull the plastic baggie from my pouch and stare absently at Polish construction workers mounted on a rickety scaffold. I am waiting for Herr Vicious (my dachshund) to finish his business, but he is so caught up in growling at Mr. Crotch that the whole affair is going slowly. A Polish worker waves. I return the gesture with a smile. I will not give Mr. Crotch the satisfaction of my attention.

I suddenly remember “my” Central Park flasher. For the four years I would cross the park twice a day, he was always there, by the same oak tree, his monstrosity in full view. He was clearly mentally ill and er, clearly half African American. After the initial horror, I figured the best way to handle the situation was by simply waving hello. Not facetiously or anything, simply hello, as in Hey, how’s it going neighbour? And on bright autumn days, seeing how New York is at its most beautiful, I would shout: Good Mornin’! It didn’t prevent him from opening his trench coat twice a day, but it sure took away some of his shock-naughty pleasure.

But I’ve no patience for this Mr. Crotch before me. We are not in New York and there’s simply no need for anyone to be so excessive first thing in the morning.

By this time, Herr Vicious completes his business; and as I bend to pick it up (my pouch colliding against my chin, my dachshund pulling and barking) I hear a ghastly, sexually-repressed moan. With an evil glare I look at his crotch. The venom I am about to spew is stopped short by what I see. He is rubbing a digital camera against his crotch whilst taking my picture. I have to give it to him for shocking me; son of a gun. But between the smell of organic dog-food waste and my aging back, I lose my cool. “Hey, asshole, if you want to take a picture you ask first, then you can click, rub & moan all you want.” I can’t help think how this is a very modern scenario. Pixel pleasure rubbing?

I walk away, talking aloud to myself: “What’s the matter with people, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” A mother, pushing a twin-holder pram walks by, clearly not seeing what Mr. Crotch had done. She mutters something about foreigners, a.k.a. me because I’ve obviously criticised another German. I’d like to say, And F***k you too! but Herr Vicious, in his own way, does it for me. Like the crafty little Weiner that he is.

Photograph: Unknown Park, New York City; 2003

Interlude

There’s nothing more insulating from a city’s hard edges than rain & fog. And when I need to purge, a brisk, aimless walk always rescues me.

On Schönhauser Allee the goose-neck lanterns hum and flicker; a single pedestrian walks by, wary of my camera. For whatever reason the dogs are calm. I am happy and don’t know why⎯am almost afraid of knowing. In moments like this, a proclamation utters itself, from a place that feels centuries old: I Am that I Am. In moments like this, I understand its authority; and understand how it is the most complete statement I can make.

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday: Babylon of the 20’s & its Queen

What’s a girl have to do around here to get an Elegantly Dressed Wednesday invite? ⎯This I asked myself before browsing the sidebar menu of Ben Locker’s blog, a treasure chest in itself of sundry goodies. It appears no invite is needed, so unless I hear otherwise I’ll suppose my forced entry isn’t rude.

As a disillusioned expatriate I thought I’d begin with the first person who comes to mind when I think of the Weimar Era, Germany’s own Anita Berber. If anyone embodied the hedonist decadence of the period, it was no doubt she.

Born in 1899, the daughter of a classical violinist and a cabaret singer, she left her native city (Dresden or Leipzig) for the sultry wreckage that was Berlin. As a model, actress, expressionist exotic dancer, and prostitute⎯she took her professions to eccentric proportions. According to Wikipedia, “she was reportedly the sexual slave of a woman and the woman’s 15-year-old daughter. She could often be seen in Berlin hotel lobbies, nightclubs and casinos, naked apart from an elegant sable wrap⎯with a pet monkey and silver brooch packed with cocaine.” I don’t know how often I’ve wished I could blink and see an instance of this voluptuary era where individuals of her kind were the norm.

She may not have been a model of morality, whatever that means, but she was daring, both ferocious & tender, and fearlessly outlandish. The above photograph alone, with that stylish kimono-wrap and unselfconscious audacity are enough for my vote.

wakefulness

Just as I suspected; an anonymous caller phoned the Polizei to complain about the neighbours’ birthday bash. Except, when the cops arrived at 3 a.m. and rang their doorbell, the music & chatter was so loud that no one at the party heard. Lucky for the authorities I was home, in phase three of my sleep. Between the cop’s thumb relentlessly pressed on my bell, and the ferocious barking of my dogs, I awoke feeling my heart in my throat.

Thinking it was some ass-wipe from the party who locked himself out, I woke my Mr. August and asked him to handle the situation. I was too afraid of all the cruel things I would say. In my foggy fright I forgot what a thundercloud he can be. He picked up the intercom receiver and quickly got to the point: “Who’s the stupid asshole ringing my bell at this hour?” It was like listening to German hip-hop. A long pause followed and then he said: “No, I’m not letting you in. Why not ring the jerk-off spy who phoned you. Goodnight.”

Absently petting both dogs, I lay in bed thinking how much my Mr. August has changed. Before our move to Berlin he never would have spoken to anyone in that manner. When we lived in Tuscany⎯within the first week⎯he had a host of acquaintances, in spite of the language barrier. In New York, and during our short stay in Maryland, he seemed to have this aura of kindness & curiosity which people from all backgrounds naturally took to. Here in Berlin I watch simple transactions, like buying bread, turn aggressive and rude.

As I lay with the darkness, listening to the muffled sounds of Britney Spears, (the only reason I didn’t entirely mind the cops’ invasion) my husband was already fast asleep. I wondered what I had done to contribute to his hardened aspect. Between my confrontations with xenophobia and his love for Fassbinder, (the only German director who criticised post-war Germany) my Mr. A. had no more patience for Germans. He could hardly tolerate his brother for being “too German” which in translation means, inflexible. I wanted a cigarette to help me think how to make things right.

I remembered a conversation I had with my English bookseller. He asked me how much longer did I plan on staying in Berlin. Without thinking, I said: I’m not leaving this city until I come to terms with it, and that means having to accept certain disagreeable sensibilities. His chiselled British face looked at me and smiled. Having lived in Berlin longer, he knew exactly what I meant.

Mentally smoking a cigarette and travelling back in time, I noticed how my thoughts kept stopping at certain incidents. I tried connecting the incidents and eventually saw how they had one thing in common: injustice.

I can always tell if a person grew up in poverty by the way they respond to injustice. Every place across the globe I’ve visited, the reaction is the same. It’s a primal, savage rage at the sight of injustice⎯and I, of course, include myself. . . So with my faux cigarette, I remembered the injustices of my childhood, not only toward me, but others who also looked different. In my case it was my green eyes; on others it was a turban, a pair of inexpensive runners, or someone’s parent who was a junkie or a prostitute. Later, I watched my father’s name smeared by the New York Post, the Daily News & the New York Times. It wasn’t enough that he’d been murdered while making an honest living⎯ no, for hype purposes one paper printed lies about how he was part of some drug deal, and all the other papers followed. No questions asked, no fact-checking, nothing. Day after day, in between having to identify his hardly recognisable body and make funeral arrangements, I let the silent rage simmer as a new headline appeared. I suddenly understood how someone was capable of murder in a moment of blind rage.

By this time, the eye of first-light blazed the sky. The deep, rhythmic breathing of two dogs and a husband made me sleepy. I shut my eyes and told myself, regardless of what’s happened I have fought to never be victim to those circumstances. Nor will I ever allow anyone’s way of thinking harden me, for nothing touches me more than a face that is open to life. And that is always what I wish to be: honest & open, without walls or bitterness.

*Photograph from Mel Rosenthal’s In The South Bronx of America. The view is almost identical to the one I remember from my childhood bedroom.

*Forgive me, dear Readers, for mentioning all this dread again. I never discuss it with anyone. If it creeps into my posts, it's unintentional.

*the other kind of mean reds

Once in awhile, particularly during that trying time of the month, I need to put away the books, cast aside thoughts of work, of what’s happening in Iraq, the presidential candidates, etc ⎯ and simply go shopping. Nothing extravagant, mind you, but something that requires removing myself from my desk and indulging my eyes. And no, I don’t want to go tonight to my neighbour’s birthday bash. I rather count the dust on my bookshelves.

Shoes are my thing. For fifteen years I’ve mostly worn only two types: driving shoes & ballerina flats. For my large & flat feet both are perfect for pounding the NYC pavement. (We’ll just ignore that I live in Berlin and how really one should wear Wellingtons or snow boots.) And so, off I went to Mulackstrasse and other boutique-y streets in search of flats in size 42 or 43. To make a long story short, I should’ve stayed home and counted the dust, for unless I decide to wear men shoes, my size no longer exists in Germany. Perhaps the German foot is shrinking.

I could wait around until I inherit my mother-in-law’s shoes. But that’s too morbid and frankly I need shoes now. I’m tired of stitching up holes or waiting until evening to get away with masking the unstitchable.

To make a longer story visual, I trekked back home and ordered these:



Since my teeny-bopper days I've been a fan of J. Crew. ⎯Actually, since the days I moved out of a certain dangerous neighbourhood and could wear the clothes I finally wanted without worrying about being knifed or shot for not dressing in ghetto code. (When you suffer from an eating disorder, the last thing you want to wear are denims three sizes too large.) Ahh, memories. . .

Amazing how a little indulgence can rejuvenate the mind. With my red & indigo-polka dot numbers, I feel ready once again to wallow in things out of my control, like how America will never vote for a certain elegant black man whose name rhymes with Osama.

Happy Weekend to all.

*My thanks to Ben Locker for posting about the vintage Vogue covers.

come & gone

From my desk I can see a man in a navy-blue housecoat standing on his balcony. Shaving cream lathered on his beard, he shakes off some leopard-print fabric. Absently he looks at the sky. Shall I tell him? It may be a bit complicated.

Forget it, Herr Neighbour, I’d say. Ain’t no more sunshine comin’ round these parts, because Puss took it with her. The moment that plane of hers took off, the rude cold rain returned. If Herr Neighbour misunderstands, it is because he has a puss of his own, a beautiful white one who sits all day on the sill, watching the raucous ravens.

One thing that immediately resonates about any individual is their generosity of spirit. It is something which, the longer the I stay in Berlin, I fear I am losing. Or if not losing, have gradually shut off. The bit of sunshine Puss did leave behind is just this spirit⎯a spirit of sharing from within, without ego or hang-ups. In short, a person whose friendship you hold dear and want to nurture to the utmost. I must say, I wasn’t surprised to find that same spirit within Beau de Toujours & The Pink Pound.

In case no one’s heard, I’ve won this year’s academy award for Worst Berlin Tour Guide. Reading a map is like reading Russian, and after so many years of isolating myself from English speakers, I could barely utter a sentence without stuttering. The simple task of finding a nice café on a Saturday afternoon (peak hour for Berlin brunchers) seemed impossible. Once we did find a café, the waiter, being Arab, refused to make Beau a Bloody Mary, simply because he hadn’t the first clue how. They were kind enough to shrug it off, including the best part: my not having cash to pay for my red-lentil soup because I’d given it all to my husband. Good one. All my New Yorker neuroses were on overload.

When the boys left, in search of, er, German sausage, the ladies went to Fishbelly, Berlin’s exclusive lingerie shop in the heart of the old Jewish quarter. I can’t remember the last time I did something so wonderfully girly with another woman. If funds weren’t so low I would’ve loved to buy those thin-lace knickers for 100 Euros. Incidentally, while Puss tried on a gorgeous pale pink glittery number, I watched a succession of older men stand by the window, deliberating over the shop. Nothing like a host of Sugar Daddies to make a girl smile.

That evening, feeling mildly derelict in my tour-guide incompetence, I remembered there was a special book in my handbag, given to me by Puss. I sat with Carol Ann Duffy’s verse, red pen behind my ear, feeling the poet’s wisdom wash over me. Before long the pages looked like a red colouring book, as I underlined stanza after stanza. During the second round of reading the book whole, I realised it was Puss’ voice I was hearing⎯⎯and that brought an even greater smile.

Photograph: 3rd floor display-poster at KaDeWe

a heart so white

Before anything, a note of thanks to Puss, Jocelyn, & Ben for the dear get-well notes. I was very moved, especially since I’ve rather quickly become attached to you three. ⎯Hey, I’ve been ill, so I’m allowed to gush . . .

I’ve no news really, other than as much as I love my old Berlin flat, I wouldn’t mind a holiday from its white walls. In fact, if I were not earning in dollars (meagre ones, at that) I’d take the first flight to London. But we all know what bullies those Brits are with their currency. Anyhow, if I did go to London I’d miss my Saturday date with Puss⎯in Berlin! Sehr schön.

Two days ago, feeling better but thirsting for some visuals & music, I had the strangest urge to re-watch Joseph Losey’s Don Giovanni & Orson Welles’ Macbeth⎯⎯one after the other. Now, anyone who knows me well will have had the, er, privilege of hearing & watching me sing Leporello’s lines, beginning with the thumping opener: Notte e giorno faticar . . . ! If one is going to play Don Giovanni’s master, then one must be willing to go all out, which I did, with both dogs on my lap. Needless to say Herr Dachshund was unimpressed. Arrogant little bugger.

Macbeth followed and I immediately slipped into its silver-rich black & white revelry. I’ll admit it didn’t have the same punch as when I was in the ninth grade watching it for the first time. But it did bring back the sensation, as well as remind me of a promise I made to myself: that I would one day write a play in verse. Anyhow, what did once again move me was the poor player soliloquy. Forgive me, I must write it in full:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Perfection. What a delicious march of the tongue in “That struts and frets upon the stage”.

And finally I realised, the next time another woman deliberately rams my ankle with her pram or shopping cart⎯⎯instead of my usual hostile reply, I will like Lady Macbeth keep it short & to the point: My hands are of your colour, but I shame to wear a heart so white. At the very least, in German it sounds like a threat from a schizo:

Meine Hände sind blutig wie die deinen. Doch ich schäme mich, dass mein Herz so weiß ist.

Here’s to Shakespearean grace.

kopfschmerz

Am slowly recovering from another relentless cluster attack. Will return in a day or two, once my vision clears up . . .

Regards to all

-A

*Film still from The Sacrifice by Tarkovsky. (I’d sure love to have this image hanging on my wall.)