Fashion for the Filmmaker

This past Christmas, I gave the filmmaker a few new sweaters and a crisp button-down from Uniqlo, along with a surprise present. In one single shopping experience, perusing gifts for my brother and boyfriend, I decided that Uniqlo will definitely transplant the Gap or Banana Republic in the future for my arsenal of classic, simple basics. Fit, cut, and material at Uniqlo far exceeds those at the popular, once reliable American brands. The filmmaker has a slighter, slimmer build, and surely welcomed a snugger, more flattering fit, quite the contrast to the billowy folds of so many items for men at other large franchise shops. Unfortunately, he is still disappointingly adamant about his dislike for any and all denim, but, at least for now, he fully and enthusiastically embraces lambswool and cashmere, and looks remarkably dapper in a cardigan sweater.

(image taken from That Kind of Woman)

Outrageous

These wildly bombastic cat eyed sunglasses put my Nina Ricci frames from France to shame, a deep, dark, boring shame.

(image courtesy of the filmmaker)

Phenomena of the Seasons

A couple of days ago, I turned 26, a birthday without any real associated milestone, other than a slow and inevitable pass over the hump towards real adulthood. Normally, my birthday includes a healthy dose of red wine and wallowing, definitely a generally unjustified bout of melancholy and dread for time passing. This year, rebuking wasteful energy and negativity, I was imbued with cheer and a French chardonnay, surprisingly pleasant; I decided to relish in the triumphs of my past year, accomplishments personal and professional, and plan for new adventures for the coming months. Traveling to two new continents, visiting Paris for the first time, forging a constantly changing and growing relationship with my first niece, and continuing to strengthen my bonds with dear friends, both old and new, have been incredible successes as I reflect. Failing to properly organize my photographs, and my thoughts, on my various travels the past year has been a source of personal disappointment, all the more motivation to garner some fervor, and steal a few hours from another pastime. Not spending quality time with a sheet of blank paper, a blue pen, a black pen, a pencil, a quill and a spill of ink, anything to scrawl, scribble, jot, was another bit of shame, and one which I hope to resolve.

Quite a number of weeks ago, a friend of mine from university sent me a brief message, one sentence, four words: "Tell me you're writing." Truthfully, I have awkwardly avoided all response, since, the answer is, barely. Occasionally, some ramblings here, the start of something that could maybe eventually a poem there, on a cocktail napkin. Nothing formal, particular structured, or, worst of all, regular. Steady. Actual participation in a craft I so revere, and frequently, pretend to indulge in. Certainly, this is not a revelation, spurred by too much crab dip, or a stiff martini, during a birthday dinner. This is not new. Still, the opportune time of reflection and establishing new goals for my life and continued evolution lends to a renewed commitment to endeavor forward, set new goals, simply and namely, to write.  Because I hate to think that, permanently, my response to this friend, whom I admire, is a peremptory and pathetic shrug. Or silence.

When I started this particular project almost two years ago, it sprung from a place of desperation and shock and confusion: I had, falsely, as it was later revealed, been let go from my job, along with the rest of my colleagues, seemingly abandoned and left to flounder for something new in a strange suburban town, which I did not even care for. Since then, it was developed into a space where I feel more comfortable sharing anything and nothing; posting various photographs of earrings or grand meals, almost never cooked by me, making arcane allusions to biological mechanisms or favorite poems, or sifting through complex emotions with my words, often rather inelegantly. Essentially, a spot for me to blow off some creative steam, to just write unfettered, unconcerned of the jibberish, or frankly, of an audience, beyond myself. While I have no intentions of ending this little jaunt among the digital world, I do hope to persevere with other, more daunting projects, which carry importance, a sort of substantive pursuit without which I feel sluggish and dull, timid though I may be.

(image taken from BibliOdyssey)  

Mollusks and Pearls

I will emphatically admit, again, that I am totally inept at those just-because presents; those little tokens that are stumbled upon, and immediately evoke that one particular individual, and it is so flagrantly obvious they must own them. My brother-in-law, David, elevates dapper, pristine dressing to an art form; he regularly bemoans the societal constraints on men and acceptable jewelry and other ornamentation. Needless to say, he adores cuff links. While his collection is already quite enviable, adding a few more unique pieces is never discouraged, so when I discovered this golden clam shells with miniature pearl detailing, I swooned. They are nothing fancy, the material rather plain and typical, but such a different, and amusing, shape, I had to go for it, take the plunge, praying and hoping that what I found to be darling, David did not find to be cheesy. For me, they exude a decadent, yet simple, delicacy. We exchanged presents with the family the afternoon following his company Christmas party; his enthusiasm and gratitude seemed genuine, but my free expert baby-sitting skills.

Laziness, or, Severe Style

Now that my heavy blunt bangs have dissipated among the wild mane of the rest of my hair, as a result of laziness and a crazed schedule, I have convinced myself that I need to start wearing a severe side part and long, loose waves. The Veronica Lake. Demure and sweet, but also a big mischievous and conniving.  And, apparently, perfectly paired with growling, taxidermied polar bears.

(image taken from Film Noir Photos)

Dreaming of a White Boxing Day

Snow continues to pour from the sky, after a mostly white, then mostly melting, Christmas, here in the Land of Pleasant Living; perpetually ill-prepared, I left my boots at home. Flannel-clad and comfortable, I stay cuddled in my refuge, a down-comforter covered bed.

(image taken from A Well Traveled Woman)

'Tis the Season

For most office environments, the generic and all-encompassing holiday season means passing around a collection to get the big bosses in charge something they do not care for, want, or need, like a personalized coffee mug or a cheap, not silk tie, and, likely, colleagues are obligated to seek and purchase a humorous or somehow thoughtful, but still cheap, present for a forced gift exchange. Cynical though my tone is, these paltry traditional pastimes of contrived cheer can be quite fun, and often are wonderful distraction from a critical task at hand, like completing a client deliverable on time and per expectations. 

In my office, our general office manager and human resources guru is a saint; she works tirelessly to support us, sometimes very thanklessly, and is a completely selfless, giving woman. She pats our shoulders as we moan and groan about internal squabbles, about incompetent and frustrating clients, she doles advice on what is the best garage in the surrounding area to take your pathetic car, she maintains an endless supply of chocolate for us all, and she ensures our kitchen is stocked with a few essentials and is tidy, chores that are not part of her job description. She can talk sweetly and genuinely to anyone and anything; I love listening to her share stories, share her bounty of seemingly infinite practical wisdom, gleaned from experience.

Naturally, my colleagues and I collected to present her with a small token of our appreciation, but I wanted to get her a something extra, something unnecessary and superficial and maybe a little bit glittery, just for her. A single mom of two great, but surely occasionally infuriating, adolescents, spending excess time or money on herself is simply not on her radar. She adores long, bold necklaces, so when I came upon this silver beaded chain with a jingling tassel, I snatched it up feverishly. No matter who the recipient, or how well I know them, I am generally fairly self-conscious about presents that are not either a specific request, or a consumable item, like wine, chocolates, gift certificates to favorite unique restaurants. With this necklace, I vacillated between my excitement and my certainty that it would be the perfect match for Judy, and a sort of looming nervous energy that she would be appreciative, but not actually enjoy the gift.

Before leaving for the holiday to head to visit my family, I gave the present, simply wrapped in a silver bag. She beamed, and I beamed back. This season, I have been very guilty, of over indulgence in my own petty worries, of failing to recognize, or remember, what is truly important, in the month of December, and always: generosity, kindness, truth, integrity. Ignoring the almost incessant white noise of societal expectation, of professional concerns, to just relish in simple, beautiful joys. Giving this very small token to someone I care for, and who I respect deeply, seeing her smile with her lips and with her eyes, rekindled a fire within, one that must burn brightly and vibrantly to truly live and love.