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For some mysterious and distressing technological reason, I cannot leave comments on some gentle writers' blogs.

And I have been trying!

I use the Foxfire browser and would be grateful if any tech-savvy reader might offer advice . . .

Slouchy Socks in Heels

I've always loved wearing skirts with socks in unexpected shoes. 

To personalize our boarding school uniforms, we wore slouchy blue socks over our navy tights and tunic until the headmaster passed a decree forbidding that particular self-expression.

In graduate school, I went full-on grunge via long, romantic floral dresses and gray woolen socks stuffed into my Doc Martens.

And as an undergraduate, I inherited my grandmother's absolutely gorgeous Bandolino shoes, with which I wore skinny, slouchy black socks with long lean black column dresses.

This was the mid 1980s, and how can I express the joy these shoes gave to a teenager who was famished for style, having grown up on a tiny island. The shoes were patent navy, with a low heel and deep V vamp. The vamp was made out of a basketweave in red, yellow, and navy leather, which truly was lovely and unusual for the time and place. 

My column dress was actually an ankle-length jersey jumper, also with a deep V neck (reaching almost to the waist), which I wore backwards. Continuing the backwards theme, I topped it off with a vintage red, bracelet sleeve, raw silk collarless top with covered buttons on the back that I turned around and wore as a jacket.

I'd wear this out at the clubs till 2 (in Quebec!) and all day besides.

Looking at the photographs in this month's Porter magazine (a lovely publication, by the way), I was struck by an editorial that featured slouchy socks in heels. These socks are Hermes, and I could either buy them or three pairs of Doc Martens, but truly, Hermes is not required for this look; indeed, it will fly with a sock that's more grounded in price.

On not Inviting Jian Ghomeshi to Visit

Sometimes when I want to blog about something beautiful, I can't get past something unbeautiful that consumes my thoughts, so I have to write about it before I move on.

Since it broke, I've been following the disturbing news about Jian Ghomeshi, the once-celebrated Canadian founder and host of the radio program Q, whose fall from grace has been swift and, from what I have read, deserved.

I teach journalism, and, for the last few years, when we learn about interviewing, I show my students the video of Ghomeshi's live interview with Billy Bob Thornton and his band The Boxcars, during which Billy Bob is alternately silent, sulky, petulant, and indignant, all because Ghomeshi contextualized him as an actor and screenwriter instead of a musician, unmodified.

I really liked how the Canadian kid (whose youthful looks disguised the fact that the 40-something host wasn't a kid at all) handled Billy Bob in a calm manner, talking him down from his anger and eventually getting the interview back on track. I liked his style so much that last November I emailed his agent to see whether Ghomeshi would care to cross the border to address my students on journalism.

On November 18 his agent responded, wondering what fee we might offer and what other public figures had spoken in the same venue.  I was about to pull out my impeccable (really) Canadian literary credentials, including links to the Giller Prize; an important book imprint; friendships with celebrated publishing figures, both authors and editors.  But I didn't, and, after reading this week's news, I am very glad that I didn't bring Ghomeshi here.

I think of the women who had been temporarily charmed by the radio host's celebrity. Their stories sound familiar. When I was in graduate school, I went to hear an alumnus, who was a well-connected journalist for a hip American magazine. I misread him during his talk, having thought him gay, so when I saw him downtown the next day, I pulled my bike over and introduced myself. (I wasn't in the habit of introducing myself to men because they would more often than not misread me and think I was flirting.) Anyway, the famous journalist invited me to a party, I went, we had a witty, intellectual chat, and, to my dismay, I soon found myself declining his advances. I was successful in extricating myself without any harm done, but I did have a "why did he have to go and spoil our fledgling friendship?" reaction.  That and a bit of "Ewww."

 So why am I writing this? Because I understand the young women who were impressed by Ghomeshi's celebrity and who weren't expecting or desiring his subsequent violence. And because I am so relieved that he did not meet my students, my friends, or me. I'll be finding another example of a "bad interview" to show in class.

Portraits of the Magnate as a Young, and Older, Woman: Helena Rubinstein

I love these portraits of Helena Rubinstein, on display at the Jewish Museum in New York.

Parliament Hill

Thinking today, with a heavy heart, of Ottawa, where I lived for six years, and of Parliament Hill, where we university students could eat lunch on the lawn, throw a softball, and feel carefree.

The "Lively" Preserve: Sundance for Millennials?

Do any gentle readers remember the 1990s, when receiving catalogues in the mail was like clockwork?

I was in graduate school during that decade, and one of my favourite catalogues was the Sundance Catalogue.  Bolstered by the rustic glam of founder Robert Redford, Sundance presented a dreamscape of models roaming the stunning Utah meadows, dressed in gorgeously tooled cowgirl boots, floaty linen dresses, and self-consciously "artisan" jewelry. 

I never ordered anything, as the shipping, even for a small pair of earrings, was in the double digits, but I soaked up as much precious metal/fragrant leather/crisp meadow as I could through the glossy pages.

A new website editor seems to be trying to produce a similar effect, though digital gloss this time.  Easily Robert Redford's outdoorsy wheat-blonde equal, Blake Lively, with her luxurious mane and propensity for marrying expensive, somewhat impossible layers with luxe landscapes, has created Sundance for Millennials with her website Preserve.

O, Pioneers; O Consumers? Blake contemplates a dip, not a Bob. (US Vogue)

If gentle readers haven't visited, the aesthetic recalls and updates Redford's, with a dash of Alabama Chanin.  The prose descriptions need a good copyeditor, but perhaps that will come in time.

I browsed the "shop" section and found that while the clothes did not appeal, Lively did introduce me to some jewelry designers that I quite like. One is Brooklyn's Jessica De Carlo, whose swirl hoop earrings I have ordered (see top image). 

But!  I didn't order them from Preserve.  Instead, I went to the designer's own website where I found the earrings in three sizes instead of the one size offered by Preserve and chose a smaller one.

I'm not a Millennial, so maybe I'll reserve judgment on Preserve. But it brings to mind a Lively dance in the sun.

Power Posing: It's a Man's Man's Man's World? Miss C Poses a Question to Amy Cuddy

Does the way we stand and sit affect the way we perceive ourselves?  Researcher and Harvard B-School professor Amy Cuddy thinks so, and her TED talk on the topic is the current "bright young thing" of the internet.

Cuddy distinguishes between powerful and weak poses--the first involves opening up the body: taking up space on a chair, feet planted firmly, arms in a variety of positions from what my son calls a "Brazilian goal" (named after his favorite soccer stars where they run the field with arms held high and out) to hands on hips (the Wonder Woman), to arms resting on chair arms.

The weaker poses involve crossed legs, crossed ankles, crossed arms, and, especially, chins in hands.

They are, as Cuddy notes, often gendered poses.  And indeed, they are.  That troubles me.

Because if I wear a pencil skirt to work, I pretty much *have* to cross my ankles or my knees when I sit down.

Cuddy also argues, via scientific experiment, that individuals' testosterone levels rise when they assume said power poses. And that, apparently, is a good thing for someone in a position of power (her actual experiment compared levels of testosterone with cortisol, the hormone emitted in stressful situations).

So then.  Are we women being instructed to find our inner testosterone by assuming power poses? But is there not a fundamental problem in the first place that power is being equated with testosterone, which is usually equated with men?

Maybe there's a different way to--ahem--pose the question.

Consider this: Cuddy recommends that people assume two minutes of power poses before going into a situation where power dynamics are involved--a job interview, for instance. She argues that such poses are part of the "fake it till you make it" philosophy: adopting the pose will make the person look more powerful, even if they don't yet feel it.
 
Here's my take:  I've done a good bit of community theatre; I sing and dance with our faculty rock band; and I certainly perform every day in the classroom. If I step on one of these stages right after, say, taking notes at my desk, or reading a music score, I'll bet that my initial performance will fall flat because I haven't got into character yet. (And yes: "the professor" is a character.)

In other words, all Cuddy is saying that that we have to warm up before an event, and we warm up not only our minds, but our bodies, even when the event appears to be a strictly intellectual one (like discussing de las Casas or Crevecoeur).

But what can we do about the gendered aspect of these power poses? Feminist scholars and theorists have long discussed how women are encouraged not to take up space, through posture, through diets, through staying in the house instead of entering the public sphere.

Personally, I see NO PROBLEM with crossing one's legs or ankles.  I think it looks attractive and smart. And yes, I find that arms folded or shoulders slumped do give off an unappealing, unengaged vibe. But I do take issue that we're all looking to--or need to--increase our testosterone levels.

And what do we do with Lisa Taylor in the Helmut Newton photo above? She's definitely taking on a power pose--legs apart, hand on hip (coding masculine along with the "assessing" look in her eyes).  But she's also twiddling her hair, a decidedly female pose. Or juxtapose, if you will.

Have gentle readers thought about Amy Cuddy's thesis?