Of Mad woMen and Bulldogs

I've never enjoyed doing just one thing at a time: I have my day job but also copyedit, freelance for magazines, blog, perform, etc.

It was the same in graduate school when, perhaps in a classic case of dissertatus avoidus, I studied fashion illustration, copyedited, worked as a research assistant, etc. 

Looking for another item to list on my CV, one day this then-graduate student saw an ad for an entry level creative position with an advertising agency.  Sure, I had zero experience, but whipped up some sample ads and sent them off.  The office move has unearthed some of them, one of which is above.

That's a sketch of my beloved bulldog Marilla, promoting a fictional Groom and Board in the home town of my second bulldog, Bossy, who we adopted on a cross-country road trip while passing through Kansas.  The ad is obviously primitive, by today's standards (and perhaps by yesterday's too), but it was, quite honestly, fun to give it a whirl.

I didn't get the ad agency position, but the ads bring back fond memories.

"Vintage" Finds

I am moving office, and one of the treasures I unearthed from my file cabinet is a modest collection of magazine clippings of clothes I liked back in the day.

The first two images are from Town and Country, a magazine I very rarely look at, but am rather delighted that I bought this time.  The model is Annette Roque, whom I like to think of on her own, not as the spouse of a famous guy.  I remember when she modelled for the late great Mirabella magazine, and I brought with me to Frederic Fekkai a photo of her short, chic bob to serve as inspiration for when I had my close-to-waist-length locks chopped off.

The top image strikes me as a tremendously appealing way to wear something I haven't worn since my summer days waiting tables: a white blouse.  The skirt and shirt are both from Bill Blass (remember him?) and I think that the crisp A-line skirt speaks to me so because of its embroidery.  It reminds me of the reputation-making safety-pin gown by Versace that Elizabeth Hurley wore out with Hugh Grant (back when she also carried off a sweet bob).

Metallic sandals by Manolo Blahnik (priced at what NOW seems like a reasonable $465) stand the test of time.  I don't think anyone'd be asking me for a water refill in this ensemble.

The second look is top to knee YSL Rive Gauche.  It's from when that particular pinky-brown was Yves' signature color, a color I love.  This skirt, with its decorative "diamond" gathers in front recalls some lines from a favorite Maya Angelou poem:

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?  

("Still I Rise")

Last is this jacket by Valentino, from InStyle, I believe.  I love the juxtaposition of the strong leather with the delicate mother-of-pearl. 

It recalls some furniture designs, such as this inlay chest:

I would feel like a streamlined Moroccan pouf if I wore this jacket, in the best of all possible ways.

Running on Empty? Tabitha Soren's Photographs

When I was little, I used to make up mini musicals in my parents' bedroom and act them out in front of their mirror.  I rememebr writing one song called "Running" and turning over the performing honors to my favorite Barbie, a 1976 Miss America modeled on Tawny Godin.

The song was a dud; it wouldn't even pass muster on Smash, the TV show that makes Melrose Place look like Downton Abbey--but I still remember every lyric, though I've repressed them.

The song came rushing back when I learned via Vanity Fair's Twitter update that Tabitha Soren was mounting a show of her "running" photographs.  Gentle readers may know that I not only love running (though I am confined to an elliptical until an injury heals) but also enjoy looking at photos of runners (see post below).

Soren's photos are not athletic, however; rather, they capture a manufactured panic akin to the films of David Lynch (Mullholland Drive comes to mind) or the images of Cindy Sherman.

Note: Sherman, who photographs herself, is much more effective with "facials," a term I just learned from glimpsing a ghastly episode of Toddlers and Tiaras after a late-night copyediting binge.  She articulates just the right expression in each image, whereas Soren's models often hide their faces with their hair or look behind them. (Or both.)

This strategy reminds me of when Sean Combs played Walter Lee Younger on stage opposite the brilliant Audra McDonald.  When he'd have to convey a powerful emotion, he'd bury his face in his hands.

Critical tangents aside, Soren's photgraphs do project a certain kinetic appeal.  But they remain earthbound, instead of soaring.

Gayle Olinekova: Powerful Beauty Found

I've been searching for this image, of a female runner with extraordinarily powerful legs, for quite some time, but could never come up with just the right computer search terms to locate it.

I initially considered Grete Waitz, because I thought "marathon," but no.  Then I tried various combinations of key words, believing that the image was from the 1980s, but had no luck.  At one point I thought that Annie Leibovitz might have been the photographer and felt myself growing warm, but twas another dead end. 

A computer search of Olympic female sprinters who won medals in the 1970s and 1980s?  Some promising European names were on the list--how Inge and Lyudmilla started to ring ferocious bells--but no, again.

Then tonight I typed in "Helmut Newton woman running beach" and my heart started to beat, because of course it was he who had photographed the gorgeous Gayle Olinekova, who was, of all nationalities, a Canadian(!) who transplanted to California, where Mr. Newton took her photograph (below): 

Olinekova (born Olinek) initially ran the 400-meter before becoming a marathoner  Her runner's legs were everything I aspired toward in my teen years, with their balance of muscularity and femininity. And these photos, from around 1981, taken when I was in Grade 10 or so, still inspire awe.

It's a Free(wo)man's World

After Mr. C and I left the East Village's Orchard Street last December, we wandered back over to Soho via Rivington.  The sun was going down and the city was beginning to flaunt its dusky beauty. 

A dead-end alley caught my eye, for at its end was *something,* hinted at by twinkling fairy lights and a welcoming window.  So we took a stroll, past the grafitti, toward the warmth, and came upon Freeman's restaurant, an example of what I might call nouveau taxidermy decor; or, more elegantly, new American Rustic.

It's a small joint, and was full to the brim of diners and drinkers, so we made our way back down the alley, and into the associated gents boutique/barbershop at the end, named Freemans Sporting Club (w/o apostrophe), where plaid-shirted lads were coaxing lush Brooklyn-West beards into temporary submission.

From Freemans website: a hirsuite man sans suit

Because men's duds sometimes look better on a laughing woman



OK: I exaggerate.  But all this came rushing back today when, in a glorious, self-mandated moment of leisure, I was reading the Times Styles section and saw this series of graphic images:

Yes, upon first glance I did think they were prototypes for a new Batman mask. 

And that would be just fine with me, as I confess that beards do not thrill (I'd go all Dora Carrington on any Lytton Strachey who came my way [she snipped off his beard while he was sleeping, so the film says]).

But it was utterly fitting that the Batman beards were in the same issue as a story on Amanda Brooks, who is leaving Barneys for her husband's family's English farm, where she's planning to go all Pioneer Woman among the hedgerows and arrange cheese on plates (her examples [minus the hedgerow]). 

When I saw the photo far above, I knew exactly where Brooks was standing with her smiling pooch, because I'd been there last December, albeit in the dusk and chill. 

That's the alley, with Freeman's restaurant in the back, fairy lights, and, apparently, Brooks's soon-to-be-let apartment above.

Living where she does, with the many, many surrounding shops specializing in men's work wear (vintage and reproduction), with hirsute temptations at the very end of her alley, and in thrall to the romantic descriptions of life on an Oklahoma farm via The Pioneer Woman, it's no surprise that Brooks decided to give up rustic urbanity for the genuine English countryside. 

In homage to her past digs, here's hoping she names her new home Freewoman's Farm.

Zita Cobb: She's the g'll

If you grew up in the maritime provinces of Canada, chances are you'd be familiar with "I's the B'y," a Newfoundland sea chanty. 

It's pretty much in my DNA; although I was born in Prince Edward Island, hardly a week went by (it seems) without that song figuring some way in the life of the locals.

Last year I sang it at an international poetry reading, my poetry being the kind that's accompanied by a fiddle, guitar, definitely a beer break, and maybe some step dancing. 

I printed out a copy of the lyrics to refresh my memory (even that double helix might need some retwisting, right? [oops: eh?]) and sang the last line of the chorus: "Fogo, Twillingate, Morton's Harbour; all around the circle." 

But I didn't really know what I was singing until the other month (!) when I read about the marvelous Zita Cobb and her extraordinary work on Newfoundland's Fogo Island.

Cobb, a child of the rock, established herself as a careerwoman in Ottawa, and returned to Newfoundland to found Shorefast, a foundation that is meant to breathe new artistic life into the craggy, beautiful cliffs of Fogo.

Part of her mission is to build artists' studios (see all these photos), where one can enter the Newfoundland landscape and create. 

So in honour of Zita Cobb, I'd like to rewrite the lyrics of "I's the B'y" (I'm the buddy) to reflect her contribution to the arts in Newfoundland and, indeed, in Atlantic Canada. 

Zita Cobb: "She's the g'll."

Paille It On

Today is our faculty rock concert, and I'm looking forward to wearing paillettes!


The dress to the right, by Valentino, is lovely, but a tad too ladylike for the event.


My dress, from Banana Republic, is shown here in an image from the shop's website. 

I'll be adding a skinny black patent belt, because I like a defined waist. But is it really that short? Hmmm.

These Pierre Hardy shoes weren't on my radar, but they'd definitely add to the pile of paillettes.  But that would be too matchy-matchy for this contrarian.  I'll be wearing some Opening Ceremony zip-up-open-toe and-heel-cut-out booties.  (Where's an en-dash on Blogger when you need one?)

Back to the matchy-matchy realm: I'd make an exception to my rule for everything in the gloriously fluffy Alexander McQueen Fall 2012 collection.