Maybe I'm late to this art party, but lately I've been having a hilarious time with apps like Pikazo, Lucid, Prisma, Waterlogged, and Mobile Monet that transform your ugly duckling photos into digital swans. I'm not patient enough for adult coloring books, one of the fastest growing segments of the publishing market, but I did once love Paint-by-Number kits. Now, with the flick of a thumb and a side swipe, I become a museum quality digital painter. Above, look what happened to my mundane photo of arranged flowers with Prisma's "Mosaic" setting on it. Okay, I know it's cheating, but it sure costs less than an MFA.
Patti, Kim, Elena
I was at a Patti Smith concert this summer when a fan tried to hand her a gift onstage in the middle of a song. Her reaction was angry and immediate, "What the fuck are you doing?" she yelled. She stopped singing and had to start again. Both her creative space and personal sense of security had been assaulted by a stranger whose self-justified actions overrode traditional notions of respect.
I thought of that moment today after hearing that Kim Kardashian was robbed at gunpoint in a Paris apartment and pseudonymous writer Elena Ferrante was robbed of her anonymity by an Italian investigative journalist within days of each other. Both actions violated private female space in repellent and troubling ways.
It's not often that we think of Kim Kardashian and the pseudonymous Italian author Elena Ferrante of the Neapolitan quartet as soul sisters. Though Kardashian is a public extrovert whose every last kohl-lined eyelash blink is self-recorded for the public sphere and Ferrante is a private introvert who purposely avoids exposure ("I have withdrawn from the rituals that writers are more of less obliged to perform in order to sustain their book by lending to them their author's expendable image," she told Vanity Fair), they are both engaged with telling a female-driven story. Essentially, Kardashian makes her living by performing those rituals in public; Ferrante, on the other hand, works in solitude.
But despite their different methods, both Kardashian and Ferrante (and, for that matter, Patti Smith) are women who have carved out original spaces where they feel free to create and in control. For Kardashian, that space is more complicated than one might originally think. It seems public, but is it really? Think of her as a successful performance artist along the lines of Lady Gaga, Madonna and Michael Jackson. Not only is the "Kim-ness" of Kim most likely all performance, it is also expendable, as shown by her constantly changing features and lifestyle. It may be that everything she does shields her private life while simultaneously pretending to expose it. Like Elena Ferrante, she has brilliantly created and sold a story while hiding in plain sight.
A woman who successfully maintains her own independent space, creative or otherwise, threatens the power structure and traditional order of male dominance. In that way, both Kardashian and Ferrante are alike. So Kardashian's recent robbery at gunpoint in a Paris apartment drew Twitter sympathy, yes, but also criticism that she had invited it by publishing photos of her big diamond, choosing a discreet Paris apartment (where she could hide from the public eye) rather than a hotel, and not surrounding herself with enough security.
Italian journalist Claudio Gatti also broke into Ferrante's space and stole the jewels of solitude and privacy. Female readers were appalled; we get it. We're also worried that without this essential creative sense of safety she may not write another word. If so, Gatti will have erased her. Like Kardashian, Ferrante will no doubt ever feel as free or safe again. Yet Gatti justified his investigation and the publication of her private salary and real estate details in The New York Review of Books ever so slickly: "But by announcing that she would lie on occasion, Ferrante has in a way relinquished her right to disappear behind her books and let them live and grow while their author remained unknown. Indeed she and her publisher seemed to have fed public interest in her true identity."
In other words, both Kim and Elena "asked for it." Let me just say what should be obvious: they didn't.
Musée D'Orsay, Paris
Today I am thinking about the nature of time. Time spent, time gone forever, time to come. A teacher once asked our small seminar group to draw a picture of a year. Only Becky, who later moved to Sweden, had enough insight to draw a circle. Like Joni Mitchell in Circle Game—"And the seasons they go round and round"— she saw how time was shaped like a carousel. The large clock inside the Musée D'Orsay, a former railway station, is another circular portrait of time in action. Its imposing scale makes me feel as small and awed as the boy in Martin Scorsese's 2011 film, Hugo. I wouldn't mind a turn on it either.
E-Mail, New York City
The streets of New York City are paradise for both treasure-hunters and collectors of odd ideas. I've seen an encyclopedia of random objects in my walks, from panties to piles of books and even an upright piano. I've seen lots of discarded mail and signs, including the touchingly handpainted "I love you Norman, Mom." But I never came across alphabet letters until now. Even funnier to find them lying near a mailbox, as if they'd fallen out or were trying to sneak in. My first thought was of ee cummings (who signed his name, Edward Estlin, in capitals). Then I thought of old apartment door letters that got tossed to the curb when fancier versions moved in. But what I really think happened here is that they escaped from a book.
Heart Coffee, Encinitas
Coffee has always been my drug of choice. At home, I brew my daily cup from the ridiculously dark and rich Rebel Blend from Portland, Maine micro roaster Coffee By Design and then drink it in a Nerd Nation mug from Stanford U. In cafes, I still get excited as a little kid if baristas top off my drink with art to go. The care they take reminds me of a mother's love. The symmetry of this heart-shaped flower on this cappuccino from a cafe in Encinitas, California, gave me a second buzz. On a patio table, it became true outsider art.
Them Apples, Reykjavik
Speaking of cool fruit (see my previous posts on Purple Carrots and Jumbo Blueberries), I was struck by the ability of this decaying green apple to paint a Cy Twombly-inspired line. The apple was nailed to the wall along with other fruits and vegetables in the exhibit, "Kitchen Pieces," by German conceptual artist Karin Sander at i8 Gallery in Reykjavik (the exhibit closed September 24, 2016). The veggies wilted under pressure, but this inspired apple took a strong painterly stand. I was pretty impressed by its confident use of positive and negative space, along with its bold improvisation in response to a wall environment. Critics of avant garde art like to dismiss things with "My kid could do that!" Now I might answer, "But could your apple?"
Jumbo Blueberries, Family Tree Farms
Audiences know that if there is a gun in the first act, it has to go off in the third act. I took this photo of jumbo blueberries near a transparent push pin to show their super sizing (one-inch wide!) but realized I had also made a portrait of dramatic tension. It amazed me how juxtaposition of two common household objects easily suggests a plot. The blueberry's moist, tender skin looks so vulnerable near the tack's sharp steel point that your mind can't help connecting them in unfortunate ways. But, spoiler alert, the pin didn't kill those blueberries in the end. It was teeth that got them.
Purple Carrots, Black Dirt Region
Orange is the new purple. Or at least when it comes to carrots. I bought these beauties from the Black Dirt Region (spanning southern Orange County, NY to northern Sussex County, NJ) after a friend and I decided those convenient bags of machine-cut carrots had more in common with large pencil stubs than they did with vegetables. The funny thing is that purple carrots are actually the authentic carrot color (along with white), but Dutch growers decided in the 16th century to breed to orange. Purple carrots are more nutritious, with 28 times the amount of antioxidants, according to the Carrot Museum website and they also color coordinate well with my winking Blue Eyes granite countertop. They're quite amusing to scrape and hilarious to mash. Hey, do you think they grow better in Purple Rain?
Fish Out of Water, Stanford
Silicon Valley would definitely call Athanasius Kircher a disrupter. The 17th-century intellectual's weird inventions included a mechanical singing chicken, a vomiting machine and the original version of this stunning magnetic clock with a goldfish that points the time. My first thought upon stumbling across this magnificent clock in the Lane Reading Room inside Stanford's Green Library was that things do not generally end well for goldfish in college settings. But this little guy should last for eternity in artist Caroline Bouguereau's 2001 recreation of Kircher's missing prototype. To remake the clock, she learned both glass blowing and old-method copper-painting with garlic. Her working clock (which runs on electricity instead of hidden magnets, but no complaints) is so incredibly awesome I couldn't take my eyes off it. No matter how you see the globe–clock, mirror, goldfish bowl?–its design and execution make you reflect on the vast mysteries of time and space, and of course on the flipped reflection itself.
Farm Credits, Palo Alto
Let's face it, farm credits (as in menus, not government loans) have had their day. In his hilarious Vanity Fair article, "What Does Farm-to-Table Mean Anymore?" food journalist Corby Kummer debunked many of the pretensions behind the F2T trend last year, one of which is endless lists of artisanal food sources. Nonetheless, these breakfast menu credits at Mayfield Bakery and Cafe in Palo Alto made me smile. Perhaps inspired by the Corporation for Public Broadcasting's closing voiceovers ("made possible by viewers like you"), these gracious credits put the emphasis down on the farm.
Couch Surfing, Solana Beach
This photo gives new meaning to the term "sofa bed." There's no doubt that succulents have been trending for more than two years now, as this 2014 article in Vogue proves. But until I visited the garden of House Vintage in Solana Beach, CA, I'd never seen a planted succulent couch before. The garden of earthly and other delights sprang from the unfettered and quirky design imagination of Debi Beard, who owns Studio/House Vintage and also runs DIY paint classes from her surf town shop. Check out her youtube channel for more demonstrations of wacky things you can do to furniture. Says Debi, "creativity is a survival instinct."
Car Culture, Encinitas
My father used to pile all us kids into his brilliantly restored 1938 Buick Special Convertible and take off for car meets near and far, my mother praying the whole time that none of us would fall out of the open rumble seat. So when friends and I stumbled across Classic Car night last night in downtown Encinitas, (every third Thursday from May to September, it turns out), I was crazy-ass happy to see the huge collection of parked Woodies, classic Chevy's, hot rods and other vintage vehicles on display. California is the king of American car culture and surfing, and the restored Woodies with surfboards strapped to their roofs seemed to me to be the pinnacle of their intersection. The graphic perfection of the pristine white wheel on the Woodie above reminded me of a beautifully groomed show dog, so carefully looked after that it would be criminal if its feet touched the dirty ground. I hope there's a classic car in my future, and the open road beyond it. Until then, I'll have to make do with this.
Encinitas, CA
Woke up, it was a Cali morning, and the first thing that I saw...was the poem outside my window, and the ocean wrote the words.
(with thanks to Joni Mitchell)
JR, Aspen & NYC
When you're stuck on a problem—emotionally, creatively or otherwise—the best thing you can do is change your point of view. I learned this the hard way. Rock-climbing in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, I got stuck on a ledge between steep cliff cracks. I looked up both walls and there was no sure way up. But since I had people waiting to climb after me, I headed up again. A few moves in, I slipped and started to fall. The safety rope caught me and I was able to quickly grab a new section of the cliff face that got me right up. My simple change in perspective had done it. I learned that some times action is better than planning. Get going. You might stumble. But if you're lucky, that stumble or fall can open up results.
This happened today when I got stuck in terrible standstill traffic on a bus going up Madison Avenue. I could have gone into total road rage mode, but instead I just got off the bus. Walking west to my destination, I entered Central Park and passed a guitarist singing for change in the shade of a sandstone bridge. It was a beautiful late summer day and I began to love my unexpected park walk.
Leaving the park on its west side, I saw a gang roaring down Columbus Avenue on noisy off-road motorcycles. They shattered my quiet and pissed me off. But then I saw a guy with glasses and a black hat on a small electric bike whip out his camera and shoot them as they rode by. It was the incredibly awesome French photographer and artist JR in action (or a damned close lookalike). Seeing JR make art from a fleeting street moment totally made my day. Here's a photo I took of his 2015 installation at the Aspen Ideas Festival. It speaks to me about the inspirational nature of vision. Change your route and see what happens.
Underdone Music
If we could order music like steak, I'd say "make mine underdone please." I love Beyoncé as much as the next person, but in this era of hit song science I feel like some top ten music feels like it rolled right off a conveyor belt. Lately, I've been listening to two really fresh female musician-composers whose work feels personal and immediate to me.
The first, Amy Lynne Johnson, told me she recorded her digital piano album, "Piano Poetry: Peace To You" from a midnight inspiration. These dreamlike, flowing compositions came to her during sleep like a message to deliver. Despite her lack of formal training, she decided to put them right out there and recorded what she heard in a studio with a friend. Listening to her I feel like I'm in a downtown loft with that effortlessly talented friend who just sat down and started improvising the coolest, chill New Agey stuff ever. I guarantee her selection of unique piano poems will help keep your anxiety clouds at bay.
I'm also newly addicted to the utterly enchanting Swedish-Icelandic artist Hannah Mia. I first heard her sultry voice and album, "Out of Water (feat. The Northern Taylor Squad)," while driving in a van around Iceland's volcanic landscape. Her album is totally homegrown and, in addition to her original compositions, showcases the moody wind and strings talent of European musical conservatory students who pitched in to help her. Her new single, "In This Together," is a grand call to stand up to bigotry. When I listen to "The White Beast," I get shivers. I'm certain she's singing about a mythical version of a water-spiriting Nix (see post Sept. 8, 2016). Her voice is full of yearning and sadness and immediacy. You'll feel like you're in the front row of the coolest late-night jazz club ever.
Crystal Caves, Bermuda
Monday mornings are banal and pragmatic, so why not think about something mystical and mysterious for a moment, like caves? Caves are the opposite of Mondays. They're the earth's gaping maw; they eat list-checkers and task rabbits for breakfast. It's hard to take vivid photos in caves, though, because what you really want to shoot is the absence of light.
Most of us think of caves as void of light and sound, or so it seems at first to sun-minded surface beings. In truth, caves are delicate ecosystems teeming with life and natural wonders. I've seen icy stalactites, gooey stalagmites, glowworms twinkling like a night sky, gently colored waves of rocks, prehistoric wall drawings, human and animal-like formations, rushing underground streams and placid lakes in caves around the world.
The best caves require coveralls, a helmet and a headlamp to explore, but all are worth visiting. In Gardner's Gut in New Zealand, I slithered through muddy crawl spaces on my belly and worried that my shoulders would get stuck. I rappelled down slippery walls into underground rivers as deep as my knees. Artificial lighting, stairs and pontoon bridges domesticate the experience in Crystal Caves in Bermuda, but they don't diminish the experience of admiring the cave's naturally formed straws, chandeliers and human profile (Bob Marley?) one bit. Recently, in Vatnshellir Caves in Utnesvegur, Iceland, we turned off our flashlights and experienced the rich, velvety darkness that only an underground cave can offer. Some panicked and found it disorienting; others swayed a little to regain their balance. Only in the awed silence could you hear the true music of caves: the plop, plop, plop of water drips singing in the earth's inky black innards.
September 11, NYC
Tragic day. Triumphant city. Fifteen years. Never forget.
Meals That Don't Walk
I have always found the word "pescetarian" kind of a clunky, affected way to describe the way I choose to eat. I've also learned the hard way not to answer the question of why I gave up meat, chicken and turkey as other people chow down on it around you. These good people ask out of curiosity but always end up arguing your answer. Plus, it seems kind of cold on my part to relate the horrors of factory farming, climate change from cow farts, water over-consumption and my empathy for animal souls to someone digging into a juicy steak. I don't judge other people for their food choices, and I don't want to be judged for mine. So I've learned to say, "I'd love to talk about it later," and then I take the subject off the table, so to speak.
A friend of mine told me she simply says, "I just don't like it." No one can debate that.
Today I saw this clever company name on a delivery truck parked on a Manhattan street and thought, holy cow, what a great idea. Now I'm no longer a fancy pescetarian. I'm just someone who only eats meat without feet.
Happy National Ampersand Day
I've always had a thing for &'s. They're just so friendly and useful. Beyond their convenience, I think they hold things together with incredible style. Plus they're a happy graphic that suggests a lot of things in a very Rorschach way. I see an anchor, a think-outside-the-box 8, a commemorative ribbon and a big-breasted, happy robin for starters. Simon Garfield devotes an entire chapter to &s in his brilliant book on fonts, Just My Type, and writes: "Much of what one needs to know about the history and beauty of a font may be found in its ampersand. Done well, an & is not so much a character as a creative, an animal from the deep."
Walking up Madison Avenue I saw this jaunty needlepoint & pillow waving its tail at me from the window of the quirky home furnishings store, Jonathan Adler. It was holding together Mr. & Mrs. and got me to thinking about how much I loved &s. I thought about using this blog to declare National Ampersand Day. Then I found out there actually was a National Ampersand Day, designated by artist Chaz DeSimone. He loves the & so much he has also created over 100 & art posters. Very nice. But the crazy thing was the day he chose for National Ampersand Day was September 8, the exact same day I was thinking of it! He picked it because a lot of the letters in September 8 can be turned into &s!
So if you have a very special & in your life, make sure to send it flowers or say thank you. It's not too late.
NIX, Nyc
"Editors occasionally follow their instincts right out the window," wrote New York Times restaurant critic Pete Wells in his July, 2016 review of the all-vegetable NYC restaurant, NIX. I laugh every time I read that line. We've all done it, even the most excellent and godliest.
Wells was referring to the choice of NIX's name, which came from an 1893 case, NIX v. HEDDEN. In it, the Supreme Court held that the tomato should be classified as a vegetable rather than a fruit. I, for one, am so glad that the tomato, botanically a fruit, was free to be a vegetable if it wanted to be.
NIX co-owner James Truman, a restaurant trend guru and former editorial director of Conde Nast Magazines, also liked the way the name looked. "The blessing of the name is that it's all straight lines," he told NYT reporter Jeff Gordinier. "I'm fond of the N, the I and the X, because they're all strong letters. They are very strong letters which we want to make soft."
Making strong letters soft is cool; it's a little like turning hard cauliflower into soft, pungent tempura, or making morels deliciously creamy, which NIX's michelin-starred chef John Fraser does regularly at this downtown restaurant with creativity and excellence.
So the guys went with their gut instincts.
But there's one big negative, or dare I say, a reason to nix the name. Nix is also a well-known head lice treatment containing permethrin, dreaded by parents. Permethrin has an EPA classification as a potential carcinogen. Google the restaurant's name, to say, find its phone number or location, and you'll see an ad for Nix Lice-Killing Cream Rinse pop up above its critical details. Hmmm, lice, chemicals, and super tasty vegetables?
Even so, NIX is one of my favorite new NYC restaurants. Everyone I know is now eating more vegetables, or only vegetables, so they are all thrilled to go there. Above, the super tasty Peach & Love, a fresh peach, vodka, and anise hyssop cocktail that NIX's friendly and efficient bartenders made for me on my last visit. I could feel the Love. The vodka, too.
But what's up with Nix trending? Because now there's the new novel, "The Nix," by Nathan Hill, which has gotten great critical reviews. Publishers Weekly called it a "rich, lively take on American social conflict, real and invented, over the last half-century" and a NYT headline declared "The Nix Is the Love Child of Thomas Pynchon and David Foster Wallace."
That's one crazy-ass metaphor.
Hill's novel takes its name from a shape-shifting Norse water spirit, a Nix, who can steal children. It's not too dissimilar from the myth of Iceland's hidden people (see posts below).
In "Romeo and Juliet," the doomed Juliet argued that it just didn't matter if her love was called Montague. The creative clientele and NYU locals packing NIX every night might agree. So might devoted readers of the Pynchon-Wallace love child. Next time I go to NIX, I think I'll bring "The Nix" and read it at the bar.