Brief: Raf Simons @Dior

I.

There are many metaphors in haute couture; the most illuminating almost always take us back to the hands of the couturier. For architect or magician, craftsperson or clairvoyant, these are the agents that enact engrossed performances deep in the atelier, fashioning the artifacts that are to be borne, in handsome state, by bodies, and the public imagination. In the spring of 1947 there was exceptional endeavour in a novel workshop on Avenue Montaigne, where hands exerted accordingly; those of Dior, in particular, were pink with anxiety. Knocking away at a Stockman mannequin, in a knobbly but exalted task of reconfiguration, he worked with both an exhaustive finality and a virgin sense of departure. It was the material articulation of an ensemble he had developed for over eight years. I wanted my dresses to be "constructed", moulded on the curves of the female body whose contours they would stylize. I accentuated the waist, the volume of the hips; I emphasized the bust. The satin doll of nondescript proportions had become an indelible imprint -recognizable, effective, eloquent. The New Look of mid-century couture was finally ripe in life form. 

This detail about the mannequin -fact of history, fine subtlety in the man's legend- is always tucked just beneath my sleeve whenever I read the developments at the House of Dior. Into this charming memory of Dior, it seems, I have resolved the totality of interest that its singular achievements have created for me. It is perhaps worth signalling, for instance, that a silhouette which fashion historian Farid Chenoune -making his remarks in the context of the post-war situation- described as a restoration of a "damaged ideal of French femininity" was cast on a stuffed mannequin. Or, interpreting this carver's posture as the couturier's principal stance -we can conceive of the Bar as an architectural solution, if solution it was, to the questions of dress après-guerre. Following from here, it also makes Raf Simons' approach to the archive logically satisfying. His bid at reinvention -a peplum form derived from the main coordinates of the Bar jacket, paired with long cigarette pants- was an ambitious and rigorous inquiry into ideas of construction. The basic premise of this transformation was, in Tim Blank's succinct expression, "the formal past, the streamlined future, meeting in the middle". And this splicing of temporal spheres is hardly fortuitous; the visual assemblage of Dior's iconic Bar jacket and Yves Saint Laurent's le smoking voices a strong conceptual relation of its own, giving weight to the sense that Simons had put forward the clock during Saint Laurent's term at Dior, merging the bolder suggestions of his later designs with the legacy he first helped extend. 

Watercolor illustration by Mats Gustafson, commissioned by Dior. 

Image credits go to the artist. 

Looks from Dior Fall 2012 Couture, Simons' debut collection for the house.

Image credits go to style.com

If the rhetoric of the blueprint compels, it's up to its elaboration to convince. Simons executes this with the equipoise of a vigor that is at once scrupulous and expansive. His sophomore showing for the Spring 2013 RTW season opened with a tone that reinforced -a trio of tailored suits that, reiterating the proposals of the Couture collection, had the classic hourglass of the Bar tuned to a stylus. But where concepts were being restated, an evolving intention was also perceived. Simons' vision was revised in movement: ribboned chokers that cut neatly across the neck finished each tuxedo ensemble, the drift produced by its ample knot subtly spotlighted by the austerity of the linear scheme. Lending impetus to the incipient cadence set up by this dynamic embellishment, Simons shifts the frame of reference yet again -this time the trousers that had substituted for the full skirt of the original A-line are themselves displaced entirely, leaving just a mini jacket-dress worn with variations of the tiny theme or nothing at all. A reminder of the Bar's sculpted hip now hovers between the erogenous zones of a sharp V neckline and newly exposed legs, and the liberal step granted by the practical form is too registered in the pleated panels and godets slotted into the flaring hems of the jackets. Against the balletic rippling of the set's diaphanous curtaining, the collective effect of this gathering of momentum aspires to a visual euphony governed and intoned in metronomic meter. 

Looks from Dior Spring 2013 RTW.

Image credits go to style.com

For Spring 2013 RTW, movement was an ancillary pursuit, a serif feature that rounded off the formal qualities of Simons' minimalistic diagrams. 4 seasons onward, and it is his prime preoccupation, amplified and made durable in a reassessment of the relationship between a silhouette and the body that moves beneath it. To see clearly the statement Simons makes, refer back to the Bar/le smoking amalgam that is his initial proposition: the addition of bell-sleeves and a baggier version of tailored trousers all point to a new character in the clothes. Then there was the fabric of the jackets -punctured through with disc-shaped perforations that have had their lower lips folded outwards, the latticework accomplished quite dramatically aerates (Susie Bubble's instructive word) the Bar torso. These patterned canvases constituted the more conservative of this season's showing. Elsewhere, the Bar had graduated to abstraction; sections of fabric with the same littered, absent motifs are positioned around the familiar junctures, posed in vague imitation of their parental bearings. But observing these pieces in their static context is only preliminary. In motion, these suggestive non-scapes yield fully the cues that prime the eye -as the dresses are walked in, their outlines dilate, fill out, approach the native template. Each is a sensitive rendering of the kinetic realm of an individual, asymmetric in its present-tense making. 

Looks from Dior Spring 2014 Couture.

Image credits go to style.com

In his latest for the House, Simons returns to the thesis of the single detail. The program for Fall 2014 RTW ran radial to the roulette accessory, prominent rivulets of white and blue that were wilfully and radically strung through the flanks of jackets. Needless to say, this graphic asset is meaningfully stationed -its binary associations of corsetry and shoe string lacing provides for a highly productive juxtaposition in itself. Simons nevertheless makes sure that the implications of this alliance play out in practice. Holding together the panel seams in the new jointed form of the Bar emblem, the lacing assists in a deregulation of silhouette, a relaxed profile that is carried through the dominant ensembles of jacket coats and sportswear-inspired slipdresses. The mood was progressive, urban, and as Tim Blanks aptly put it, thoroughly sensational. 

Looks from Dior Fall 2014 RTW.

Image credits go to style.com

II.

Modernity supplies new shapes, and a renewed autonomy of the second dimension. Hence we can speak of color as compensatory, as offsetting the references to the archive - cf. iridescent, euphoric organza; acidic and crystalline pastels, deep saturation of silks. 

Image credits go to style.com

Other: Simons' idioms are dwelling places; the gaze finds rest as in a painting. Fall 2013 RTW presented handpainted dress screens of early Warhol, sketchy illustrations realized by fine embroidery and delicate beading. In Spring 2014 RTW, helices of slogan and print, and then the final setting, with the second plane and the third form in revelatory empathy -the Bar jacket with a whorl of imbibed pleats.

Looks from Dior Fall 2013 RTW.

Image credits go to style.com

Looks from Dior Spring 2014 RTW.

Image credits go to style.com

Acknowledgements: Thank you to the Dior website for supplying the historical narrative that provided the opening of this piece. My commentary is also indebted to the articles by Tim Blanks at style.com and Susie Bubble at Dazed Digital -I could not have arrived at the ideas collected here have their words not taught me to see. I am also grateful to The Cutting Class, which gave me invaluable insight into the technical aspects of the collections. 

International Women's Day '14: Anger and Feminism

A week late, but here are my thoughts.
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I was talking to a male friend of mine yesterday when the conversation turned to the feminist event I had attended a day earlier. Turns out he had indeed been aware of the event's existence, but had balked at the idea of coming forward to support our cause. When pressed he explained that his ambivalence was mainly due to the image/tone of the affair, which he perceived as predominantly one of anger. He wasn't sure how he could be a 'positive contribution' if he did choose to be present, he wasn't sure if he would know how to respond. So he decided to stay away.

A word before I move on: this friend of mine is in no way a party of the complacent, insular sort that wreathes his ignorance in self-righteous sanctity. Quite the contrary -he is one that is always receptive and ready to reevaluate his own assumptions. So while I'm glad it wasn't hostility but rather ambivalence that informed his decision, this led me to reflect upon the place of anger in feminist discourse (the event-in-question was appropriately titled for the occasion -All Fired Up! meant to encourage women to speak out on the things that make us angry) -a subject which over the years has been subsumed under the perhaps more familiar and convenient signpost, the "bad rep of feminism". 

It's unfortunate how it is still necessary, when talking about the efforts of feminism, to address and deflect the notion (and it is a frame of mind that prevails in no small degree) of feminism as an 'imaginary war'. It is an accusation that is unduly wielded against those who identify with the movement, whether in deliberate or subconscious attempt. The idea that our concerns are somehow misplaced, unnecessary, blown up, and all together unwarranted. That we've got to, first and foremost, convince the world of the reality of our situation. It's a wall of scepticism that every marginalised group in history have come up against. A group of spoken word performers at the event summed it up pretty well: wars are not meant to be started by its prisoners. Most people wouldn't hear us out because the status quo works in their favour, whether they recognise it or not -their experience is largely without amiss. Tripping over this blind spot is hardly ever punishing. The rest of us simply cannot afford the same comfort. We are fighting for self-preservation, period; to preface this fight with apology only devalues it. Anger is our rightful province; it is both the spirit and matter of our toil. 

Further: anger is not only a justified emotion, but also a necessary rhetoric. At the heart of the feminist ideology is a project of articulation; anger is no mere accessory to this objective, but its very vehicle. Articulation is born with anger manifest. It is the tipping point of silence; this awakening is our rebirth. Anger is the affirmation of our dignity as we stand as witnesses to our side of truth, on the very side of history where we have hitherto retired our words for fear of shame or self-incrimination. Anger is our calculated revolt. Where society protests uneasiness, ripostes violation, stalls -we rise to rouse, provoke to stir.

How do we, then, negotiate the politics of communication without compromising the integrity of articulation? That is, how do we create open air for dialogue, where nuance is employed not to sanitize, but to facilitate exchange and uphold respect? For the former is as crucial a responsibility of the movement as the latter is fundamental to it; and much too often, the two are played out in a zero-sum game (picture the disinterested public, defensive, in disbelief; picture the mime.) It is with acknowledged naivete that I propose for the voice of hope to occupy this middle ground. Behind the interrogation of anger is a sense of what should and could be. Hope celebrates progress that has been made and that is being made, and honors the labor that has gone into this making. It animates the vision of an egalitarian future with a modest view of the challenges and obligations that lie yet ahead. Hope affirms commitment. All Fired Up! meant not just for the gathered to share what made us angry, but also what gave us hope. The graffiti wall, with its double faces representing anger and hope, stood in full-blooded glory, as did all of us, as we locked arms for the candlelight vigil at sunset. My friend would have been a welcome addition, if not a positive contribution, to this assembly of the passionately angry and the ardently hopeful.

-
Here's to a great year ahead for feminism.

Seahorse, Part I

Hey y'all. This is part I of Seahorse, a multi-panelled 'epic' poem that's basically my imaginative meditation on the natural history of the seahorse. A more proper preface will come later, when the later chapters get underway. I'd hopefully be back in the coming week with more new things to share. 

I

Before celestial grids mapped 
onto the dark ribs of the universe
-blue the planet was yet, instead
a mirrored canopy, endlessly exciting
silver of its mirage uncertain

A star clove in the near, cosmic geyser
splaying zest against jetted stream. 
Of Earth's clay bosom a flame consummate,
charring deep-sink under glazed crests
that charged towards light as spirit.

Air leadened to stone. Across alabaster
bed-cheek charted currents afoot
till bone-pith failed and
the dead rock smoothed over, combing 
countenance of shell-white dunes.

Mid-tide the sky broke, sheer underbelly
burst through by whitewater. Curdling
eddies the wash flushed milky over gullied
flanks, creamed chaste summits in
sap profuse and lapped silk-strand.

Deluge ebbed to dew, and by creep 
doused the moorlands a peat-dank.
Beneath blushed moss of laminate silt
Arched equine nape, ridged coronet
twined to upturned snout.

When the flood rose and its shoals pushed head
A tentative creature came to life 

Nota bene

For as long as I can remember this was how I had always felt -a shipwreck suspended between two distant shores, with the linen of defeat flying and the planks wailing, splayed as if lunging for the forsaken in the flotsam beneath.

Journal, dated May

These days I balk when faced with the blank page. Not that there is anything unusual in that -somewhere in every writer's mind breathes a knowing menagerie that every now and then manages to lash out and inflict a white-hot fever capable of bleaching out all thought. And when the alabaster vision blanches itself out the fog sets in, wreathed in which writing becomes a semi-tipsy affair, a mime act tripping over its own words. But the hand which had last potted my pen in the tomb extends from a specific set of questions rather than the periodic bout of stasis. The first of these relate to the external -what is the goal and/or function of my writing; what does it do for both my readers and myself? I don't think this self-awareness (particularly as how I intend for this space to remain a personal one at its core) should necessarily be viewed as an inhibition to my creative growth, or as a compromise of my blogging intentions -there are many great blogs out there that are testament to how an organic voice and a well-defined, most of the time also self-assigned onus can thrive side-by-side. In fact, in the context of fashion/culture blogging, I don't think what I'd call the second-generation bloggers can even pretend to not have given these questions a thought -like it or not it's the white elephant in the room, an inherited consciousness that comes with the territory. And with the state of blogging declared a crisis, this basic sense of accountability is, in my opinion, the first step towards restoring integrity, be it towards the audience or towards bloggers themselves. As for myself these are, admittedly, questions set in the future tense; my commitment here over the past few months has been much too scarce for a meaningful retrospect at this point of time, and what I have put out tethers, unconvincingly, between self-absorbed ravings and uninformed babble.

Its rather more difficult counterpart deals with the internal question, namely the way I think and the way I write. Staring out from the backwoods of my own mind I've learnt a little bit more about each of the bad creative habits I harbor, a slew of which I have somehow managed to chalk up over the past sixteen years of my life. My estimation is that my record books really started to bleed seven years ago, when the compulsive self-seeker of 9-year old me had myself conscripted into identity bootcamp. That is, I was so intent on "finding myself" that I literally began take on different personas, complete with name, accent and handwriting changes, and also a hell lot of disruption to the goings-on of normal life (a rather disturbing response to Sylvia Plath: “Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?”) And seven years later I still find myself on the courtyard of this camp, grubbing for integrity of self-concept. Over the wire in civilian life the trauma translates itself into an ascetic regime of throat-clenching curation (everything has to be in perfect orbit to the definitive position in the universe I am to occupy). But obviously the self is not something that can be welded together, and the determination of this white-knuckled fist took a tremendous toll on my creative efforts. It is, in other words, a tale of mismanaged perfectionism.

So, what next? Where do I begin, and what can I do? Speak about matching chaos with an equal measure of ambition; my aim is to situate contemporary culture in the larger, aesthetic universe. I'm talking about deconstruction, provenance, and introspection. I'm calling for the machetes and machine guns. I'm calling for a dialogue -sharing, and many, many questions. And while doing all these I also want to talk to you about my misguided childhood existentialist escapades and my equally askew dreams for the future, because in 21st century cyberspace we've no excuse and everything to celebrate about the binary presence. The private is political, and the political is art. It's also a chance for me to prove that I take my role models' beratings seriously -real artists are supposed to ship, so I'll make it a principle to deliver, whether it means sharing a crappy poem or doing more research. 

I don't think I am any less confused than when I first began. But here goes.  

Poolside mythology

I just had a brainwave, and suddenly all the shiny dimes of impressions that have long since settled into the silt of memory reemerge as glinting constellations that are quite impossible to ignore, and which bring me back to this dusty shore of my universe. Funny how this continuum of inspiration operates for me -a sort of guerrilla-style expansionist force that relies on astrology to tell the time. This reminds me of the need for some kind of negotiation between the faculties of my brain that receive and interpret worldly data. The former needs to stop over-curating, while the latter has to stop blowing itself up into a cavern full of bubblegum-like atrophy. 


The subject matter that so agitates me at the present moment can be quite plainly inferred from the title -pools. Since this gleaming body of water made its first splash at my consciousness a radiograph of ideas has precipitated - a film reel dotted with the "luminous details" Ezra Pound spoke about, images that present "intellectual and emotional complex(es) in an instant of time", "radiant node(s) or cluster(s) ... from which, and through which, and into which, ideas are constantly rushing". Though I write "mythology", the details with which I am about to fill out this incandescent outline are more significant in the personal, rather than in the wider cultural context of pools and baths sort of way. They consist of bits and pieces of trinkets that I've collected along the way -not without some magic, of course, from stowing them under my pillow for a night or two. Kate Durbin very aptly summed up this magic in this interview as a "trendwarping" phenomena, where teenagers on Tumblr "hijack(ing) symbols from pop culture and disrupt(ing) their meaning". Perhaps my uncanny desire to constantly curate my perceptions is a reaction to the frustrations generated by this age of all too accessible excess -the eye glazes over much that is indifferently distinct, and the self has to cultivate its own choices. Infinity has eclipsed itself, and suddenly life in the vacuum has become both a necessity and a sin. Anyway what I really mean to say is that though the following list was born with the stretchmarks of my own tendencies I hope that sharing it can nonetheless bring something to you, dear reader, as it had to me.


Those of you who have been sticking around here will probably know by now that kitsch sits at the frontline of my preoccupations. They are in other words the things that evoke what I like to call supernatural nostalgia. It's the overwhelming sense of familiarity that makes you blink, the caress of the pulsating intuition that we carry within ourselves -the same sort of stuff that goes on in a synesthete, who senses the abstract truth via a shadow set of connections. It's a private celebration of the universal, the collective. It's a fucking Lana Del Rey song. And here is a verse of lyric that led me to write, some time ago, in a burst of feeling: "I feel like I'm living a reflection of a life. I was to be a savage, and lose myself in tragedy."

Yo we used to go break in


To the hotel, glimmerin' we’d swim


Runnin' from the cops in our black bikini tops


Screaming, "Get us while we're hot. Get us while we're hot."


(Come on take a shot)

This is What Makes Us Girls, Lana Del Rey

Say what you may about this being just another lackluster vignette from a post-authentic singer, but you can't dispute the fact that this pool scene is a gem in the sequence. Lithe wild girl gymnastics under forbidden waters, the clamorous ballet of sexual awakening. As the protagonist in Byatt's A Lamia in the Cévennes would describe in the words of Matisse, "swimming was volupté ... Luxe, calme et volupté". Swimming is sensuous, intimate as a waltz. The whole song is a lovely encapsulation of the American narrative of youth -shimmering with transient beauty, and dappled with foolish recklessness. 

A.S. Byatt rendered the lust of the pool with a different palette. In his turn Bernard Lycett-Kean was seduced by what he called a "combat" -the aesthetic challenge of reproducing the "dangerous" richesse of the swimming-pool. 

The two young men were surprised that Bernard wanted it blue. Blue was a little moche, they thought. People now were making pools steel-grey or emerald green, or even dark wine-red. But Bernard's mind was full of blue dots now visible across the southern mountains when you travelled from Paris to Montpellier by air. It was a recalcitrant blue, a blue that asked to be painted by David Hockney and only by David Hockney. He felt that something else could and must be done with that blue. It was a blue he needed to know and fight.

And with that Bernard promptly begins to attack the violent impressions emitting from the pit in his backyard. His work as a painter is both a demystifying and mysterious process. As he attempts to unpack the handicraft of the pool architect  -a compact creation of copulations between depth and geometry, texture and color- he is also compelled to navigate the labyrinth of desires and urges that has surfaced from the recesses of his consciousness. Though he can find no objective reason to justify his obsession he, well, can't stop being obsessed. And Byatt concludes this poolside struggle with a touch of irreverent wisdom. His brain hurt, and his eyes stared, and he felt whipped by winds and dried by suns. He was happy, in one of the ways human beings have found in which to be happy.

Bernard Lycett-Kean was a middle-aged businessman fed up with "Thatcher's Britain", who moved to the Cévennes with a stock of red wine and began to paint for a living. Unsurprisingly the pool was also the object of reverie for another rich man in history, this time on a much more monumental scale. Adolph Sutro was the 24th mayor of San Francisco, a shrewd entrepreneur who was an engineer by training. In 1896 what was then known as the world's largest indoor swimming pool establishment swung its doors open to the Californian public, with seven different swimming experiences in pools of varying temperatures and water types in store for the visitor. The Sutro Baths was the Coney Island of the West -complete with a museum, a concert hall, an ice-skating rink, and an eccentric man behind the curtains. It's kitsh 101.

"I used to go there on a special night of the week, a Wednesday, and we waltzed. And I met a fellow every time I went there once a week ... We would waltz. He was a ... I can remember he was tall, very tall, and skated beautifully... Every couple was just waltzing. It was lovely."

A former Sutro Baths visitor reflecting on her memories there

I'm actually amazed at how far I have managed to stretch the associations of the pool. How complacent my writing sounds (I hope it does), in opposition to the helter-skelter tango that is skidding across the tiles of my brain in real-time. Since I was a child I've always been baffled with letters. I'm very inconsistent in my learning of languages -slow and stupid and unnatural when it comes to grammar, syntax and clear-headed expression, but always jumping over the hedge for liaisons with imagistic construction. Maybe it's because I'm too self-conscious when writing. They say that our mind reads a word in its entirety, which explains why it can still interpret one with all but the head and tail letters jumbled. Maybe it's an indulgence in the dance of unreal yellow, as Robin in Byatt's short story Art Work sees it, in the 'x's and 'y's. In any case I've still much to learn when it comes to this indispensable means of communication. I'm also amazed at how I've managed to rein in the temptation to insert pictures, relying solely on the written word -though I will have to start putting some in now, as I move on to film.


Nowadays it's quite a different crowd stitching up the fable of the pool. It's a roaming pack of kids taking over the drained out hollows scattered across California. These nomads on skateboards saw an opportunity in California's foreclosure crisis, reclaiming these relics from a more golden age of the past as novel skating terrain. It's a new turf sprung up from faded sunshine and peeling gold, an unassuming rejuvenation. (Remember Piscine Molitor from Life of Pi? Its walls became the canvas of graffiti artists after the complex was closed down back in 1989.) Watch the 5 minute short film here, under Cannonball; actually watch all the short films there, because one simply can't have enough of California's dreamscape, and it's fantastic how two people have created a portal specially for the transmission of its magic.


Robert Altman's 1977 film 3 Women opens with a pool rippling with the languid movement of pastel-purple plastered bodies of indifferent twenty-somethings and trance-like elderly. The setting is also Californian -this time in a small desert town where life seems to be waded through in slow motion. In between long, dramatic takes of the sinuous surface of a swimming pool Altman recreates an atmosphere and characters that linger after a dream of his. The two main protagonists Pinky (portrayed by Sissy Spacek) and Millie (portrayed by Shelley Duvall) work at a health spa for the elderly, and live in a beautifully manicured and resort-like place called Purple Sage Apartments, at the heart of which lies a pool. At the floor of that pool stares out creatures of obscure origins -the work of their neighbor muralist Willie (portrayed by Janice Rule; the murals are the real-life work of artist Bodhi Wind). At the faux climax of the film, Pinky jumps into the pool from a height and lies face-down in the water, her nightgown a bloated dumbbell. The tone is suspension -the minimalist plot rides on a magic realist mis-en-scene and improvised dialogue, but the rest falls short of imminent -phantom developments, the limbo of an aquarium.

Until next time.

Prelude

I've begun writing again; the paperweight has shifted, sending fritters of dead pulp flying -this time in new and revised directions. I'm speaking in terms of new mediums and forms -the harnessing, sorting and packaging of a consciousness in the writing of fiction as opposed to the self-surgery involved in personal responses and criticism, and the breaking down of loaded prose into vignettes, poetry and lyric, a condensation and distillation alongside the summation of thought. I'm also speaking in terms of new subject matter -more literature, art history, films, and maybe even music, if my senses permit. Picking myself up from where I had last left it lying and seeking to regain both memory and muscle, I have also come to terms with the need to grant my self sufficient time and space for the ripening of feelings and revelations. Hopefully this fresh bout of labour will be blessed with a less tortured access to the intuition and more wholesome creative experiences.

To grease the wheels of the new start here is a piece of prose I wrote last week. I feel like its reproduction has run its course -it has slit through a gaze too many, both during its construction and in its supposed final form, I've typed and re-typed it, written and re-written it, so much so that the piece seemed to have been flayed inside out, no more substantial than a scattering of pencil shavings. Nevertheless I'm sending it out to make one more clumsy pirouette in cyberspace; because in many ways it was a development for me, to have what started out as a personal reflection turned into a work of fiction, and to realize that I was comfortable and happy with this treatment of material.

 As I wrote it for school, the title was prescribed: "The next time a stranger talks to me". Now before the curtain of shame cascades:

The next time a stranger talks to me…

Now apparently I’m supposed to consider this stranger project with the utmost gravity, because of the great stakes at hand –by stakes they really mean 7 billion human beings (“sentient creatures”), each with “a heart and mind teeming with consciousness”, bearing the vague promise of some yet-to-be-unearthed key to fortuitous affinity. Yes, this is what the all too chirpy facilitator at today’s book club session meant to impart to us –that we could do ourselves good by injecting serendipity into our solitary existences, and that the art behind this raid lies in “actively engaging the stranger”. By the last minute of the hour everyone appeared to be dreadfully alarmed at the thought of having “everything passing us by”, as put by Mrs. Pinkerfield, whose shrilly lamentations stirred up considerable unease among the other ladies. (She has since set up camp in a café downtown, bent on passing the week in the caffeine-stained company of unknowns.) Everybody seemed unfazed by the fact that their actions deflated the very essence of serendipity –for suddenly it became a matter of responsibility, of heroism even, to crack down the six degrees of separation (was it seven?) and reconstruct it for ourselves. So out to the streets we have to go, condemned to a futile hunt by the sidewalks until the elusive strikes.

I was very easily left behind in the tumult of light-headed excitement and brow-furrowing determination that exited the room. By the time I managed to get out into open air the bunch of them had long since dissolved, swept up by the millions of diverging currents that ripple through the Lower East Side of Manhattan, one not to meet another for yet another fourteen roundabouts the clock’s face. It’s easy to get left behind in New York City; sometimes I feel like it’s a huge touch-and-go game, with everyone etched in a perpetual crouch, ready to spring for the home-run. It began to rain with a vengeance –like how it can only do in New York– and at once a lurid army of glossy umbrellas began to bloom, swarming over the sidewalks, earnest and unrelenting. Whatever Maya Angelou said about a friend waiting behind a stranger’s face probably does not apply on a rainy day in this city. Besides, the vividity is nauseating –I cannot bear to find out the myriad of contours and yarn and pits and scars lurking behind each gait, each intonation of speech, each collage of a face (“each person is a living mythology”). The looking glass will make it absolutely impossible for me to be anywhere near people. I’d much rather the city remain a large Impressionist painting, stroke after stroke, slab after slab, a wet and comforting mess.

A large Impressionist painting. That’s almost exactly what Bill would have said, had he been in the rain with me. It was in his nature to turn an aesthetic eye to just about everything. That vase sits like a Matisse nude. Do you hear that song from the street? The Mariachis are heroes who sing of home and tragedy. But his favorite quip only came as he worked on his own paintings. See that gradient at the water’s edge? I worked hard to achieve that mélange parfait between the elements. Light, color, composition. It was a battle against chance –but alas the vision prevails. I would have said –But there are infinite opportunities of blue that lie in each new blend, in each drop and possibly the constituents of that drop. Even the sun’s rays will never find the perfect entry into the heart of a diamond. And you would give your familiar laugh and remind me that I’ve forgotten the intuition, the intuition of the artist and human being. For that dash of cobalt that did it? It was an intersection of intuition and technique, half-hazard, half-practice. Us meeting was like that decisive stroke –a new beginning with an ancient soul. Beautiful mistakes, artful accidents. Serendipity with an ancient soul. I had known and believed it all along. Ever since Bill’s death I start conversations by asking the stranger if he or she enjoyed Manet, or Cézanne, or any fine art at all? Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, but our heart’s memory keeps the search alive.

Thinking about this stranger project has occupied more time than I thought it would. Perhaps talking to one or two wouldn’t be so bad. A good conversation and a cup of tea might just pull me through this afternoon.

City of Angels

I finally got around to completing the novel Lolita some time last month, coursing through the pages in the afternoons with a flurried, barely contained sense of excitement, intervals of held breaths; indulging in extravagant pauses to let myself immortalize the porcelain-delicate portraiture of nymphage, the demonic, rich and sweet description of Humbert's landscape of erotica, and sad American scenery; eventually emerging from the experience utterly moved and crushed. There were shards of kaleidoscopes between the layers of words and meaning, smithereens of Humbert's visions, the sharp tang of his desire. But throughout I couldn't help but be disappointed at how Lo was simply out of my reach. Her reflection seemed only perceptible through the gleam and curvature of the bell-jar of Humbert's narrative -and the careless public eye seems only to subsist on the occasional lucid glimpses of a thigh, an arm or lower-lip. This of course did not dent the fable one bit -in fact the bubble of hyper-reality through which we came to be acquainted with Lolita, part Humbertian mythology, part plain Dolores- was what made it, as Vanity Fair had put it, "the only convincing love story of our century"; nevertheless it got into the way of my internalizing of characters, how I'd always try to hunt for an opening, like a tree hollow, and climb into them.

But a review of Lolita is not the focus of this post today; much had been said about it, and much more will be said in the future, and for now I'm satisfied with the small clipping of dialogue I had just inserted into the literary discourse in the blogosphere. There is something I wish to share about my analysis of Lo though, the singular flecks of color that radiate hotly beneath the foam of Humbertian tale-spinning, the details that give you an idea of who plain Dolores, Dolores in slacks, is, the life she may have led if she had never stumbled into the periphery of her European stepfather. What I feared most was not that she might ruin me, but that she might accumulate sufficient cash to run away. I believe the poor fierce-eyed child had figured out that with a mere fifty dollars in her purse she might somehow reach Broadway or Hollywood -of the foul kitchen of a diner (Help Wanted) in a dismal ex-prairie state, with the wind blowing, and the stars blinking, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen, and everything soiled, torn, dead. And all the while it was Lo with the lurid movie magazines, the star-studded tennis racket, the grit of her lipstick, her quiet navigation towards the valley of stars. It was this thread of personage that delighted me, the clench of teeth as I scoured underneath the lines for signs of its endurance, and the possibilities. 

The process of uncovering a mythology is almost a spiritual experience -it falls short of the metaphysical only because of its intrinsic aesthetic nature. Aesthetic, because it combines theory, which is inherently romantic, with harmony of the senses, and this synchronicity helps to create what Leo Tolstoy calls the complete illusion of beauty. It is the urban legend that lures me at the moment; if there is to be a single tableau, sculpture, installation that is most authentic to humanity I would attribute it to be the urban landscape -for it is arguably the only true instance of collaborative, and progressive creation of our kind, for its physical shell mimics the mortal frame, and what informs its clockwork is both the subconsciousness of the individual and the consciousness of society- and underlying all this is our most frank discourse with geography yet, making the city a living archive of this precarious dialogue. Though I did not know it at that point, the patchwork of Dolores' identity gave me a vantage point for exploring Los Angeles, and the supernova of memories and dreams that constitute its Milky Way, stellar explosions that have continually defined and re-invented its myths.

The preliminary sketch provided by Lolita saw a build up in conceptualization when I read Pink Smog: Becoming Weetzie Bat, by Francesca Lia Block. From the eyes of 13-year old Weetzie, we see plastic, visual snippets of 1980s Los Angeles -dives into the Sunset Strip, a bird's eye view from the Hollywood sign, a visit to Marilyn Monroe's resting place. But it was the less symbolic stopovers to which I had latched onto with a supernatural nostalgia. I had this city and I decided that I had better fall in love with her again because she wasn't going anywhere and neither was I. The black pavement, dark to hide the dirt, sparkled with diamond chips in the burning sun. Poisonous but gorgeous flowers bloomed in white, coral, magenta, and red. The sunsets in L.A. were pink with smog. At night the lethal freeways became the Milky Way. I adored how the descriptions of Los Angeles were suffused with a kind of seductive poison on the inside, and whitewashed with a Jetsons' style aesthetic on the outside. He nodded and moved closer. He smelled like sand and tar and wind, gasoline and sawdust and oranges. He smelled like Los Angeles.