Textile designers and sellers all do this maddening trick that drives me wild: they display their fabric collections in neatly folded little piles that are so irresistible I want to grab handful of them and rub them against my thigh. I want to buy it all. Not to make quilts, I have neither the time nor the patience, but just to lovingly fold them, arrange them, stack and restack them for hours. Is it just me? And what is it about neatly arranged piles, anyway? Is that a girl thing?
Thank you Fabienne, for letting me know that my archives were out whack. It was not possible to find old posts unless you remembered the title. I fixed that. Also I added a lot of you on my blog roll. Have I forgotten anyone? Please send me an e-mail.
Update. Okay, the earthquake wasn't so bad. It wasn't the Big One.
Thank you to so sweet and so cold for introducing me to those berets. They are made out of felt, then died and embroidered. Aren't they completely original? they are the creation of Etsy seller Dadaya.
I wasn’t able to utter a single nice word about my husband of 20 years on the day of our anniversary yesterday. We’d been fighting two days,(about what I’m not sure come to think of it.) The point is that there was no point and we argued and argued and argued some more, and when we got tired of it we had make up sex and now all is well.
(I hope my children don’t read this. They think we stopped all physical relations in our twenties.)
And now that I remember why I love my husband in the first place I thought I would tell you about us.
(What I'm less fond of is the comparison with what I look like now. One piece of advice to all young folks out there: don't age.)
My husband and I met in Paris. I spoke no English, and his French consisted in stringing together words in Spanish, French, loud English even some warmed-over Latin from 8th grade. I had no idea what he was talking about. Not a clue. But no matter because he looked damned good. He looked absolutely delicious in fact. And apparently I looked delicious to him too.
When he had to return to the US, I refused to come along. I had a job, a life, a family in France and had no interest in the United States whatsoever, not even mild curiosity. Even for a visit. I had no illusions that this was only a case of falling in lust and that it was not to survive his going back to the US.
But few days after he left, the letters started coming. It was overwhelming. Not only did I have to decipher them with a dictionary, but his letters came daily and were extravagantly romantic. I kept them all and they are not to be believed. They were written on precious scraps of fabric, on ribbons, on home made paper, on doilies, on silk. They were usually accompanied with loose dried flowers, little paper hearts or intricate cut outs of wrapping paper that sprang out of the envelopes like confetti. My reaction to the letters was to wonder if he was really gay, or nuts.
Turns out he was nuts.
He returned to Paris a few months (and a lot of confetti) later because his photography was being exhibited at the Georges Pompidou center. That’s how I came to discover his art. I understood why he had been so vague about it. I was only 22 and was scandalized. I literally wanted to run away with my hands over my eyes. (Hint, an art critic dubbed him the heterosexual Mapplethorpe.)
Was this the same man who cut out doilies, dried petals and sent them oversea via express mail? What. in. the. world? Nevertheless, my attention was piqued.
Six months later we were engaged, six months later we were married.
They say you should really know the person you’re committing the rest of your life to. I sure didn’t. It’s impossible to gather the subtle nuances of a person’s character when that person is from another culture and speaks another language. I can’t say I knew what I was doing. I can only say I was lucky.
Being married to my husband is wonderful, and boy is it hard work. In most couple it is clear who leads and who follows. Our relationship was never like this. In the middle of arguments we point our index finger at each other and scream in unison: YOU’RE TRYING TO CONTROL ME!!
He fights like a girl too. He uses nerve wrecking words such as ‘intimacy,’ ‘closeness’, ‘merging’, communication’ as I run away, this time with my hands over my ears. Think Woody Allen minus the ugly factor. A good friend of mine who is considering separation from her husband tells me that ‘at least in my marriage, we communicate’. I want to respond that communication is extremely overrated.
I have never been bored with him. I have the utmost respect for his work and what he is trying to accomplish in this life time. He is warm, caring. He is loving and generous. He is thoughtful and a great listener. He still looks delicious to me, and me to him.
Still, he has never given up on me becoming more like him, and I have never given up on him becoming more like me.
It is my hope that by our 30th anniversary I'll be able to tell you who won.
I'm giggling about something. If you notice in the previous post I refer to the artist as 'Cal" or "the artist" and cleverly avoid pronouns rather than put in the minimal effort of researching his or her gender.
The nerve of me!
That's why blogging is so necessary to me. Here is a place where I'm not accountable. I don't need to research, I don't need to check my facts, I don't need to be thorough or grown up. No editor or agent, no publisher is judging me or depending on me for excellence. I get a respite from feeling bad about the fact that I am plural-impaired. (did you notice I am 's' blind by now? I simply can't see if my 's' are overflowing or missing, which is a real problem with the rest of my writing.) I don't think anyone holds it against me when I make horrible mistakes that betray the fact that English is not my first language.
If readers land here and scamper away in horror at my typos and grammatical faux pas, I don't blame them. Also: I don't care.
People (non-bloggers of course) often ask me why I blog.
It's the freedom, stoopid.
I wonder why do you blog?
Because I wouldn't know how to choose.
Found on the Blog Insolite, the French ministry of health released this warning against too much alcohol consumption. I thought it was pretty clever, the reverse of all those cool and sexy beer commercials.
Sabine's Pigalle's portfolio is worth the detour. (in my case the detour took a good hour, oops. No wonder I need to share with you. I need to justify my lack of productivity.)
I can't remember how I came across the work of French Photographer Sabine Pigalle. I think the term artist fits better, though Photography is her medium. Her work is terrific. I'm blown away. I might have to show you the images in chunks to make them load faster.
When I buy a purse, it's usually the wrong one, from Target or Old Navy because it's cheap and because it's there. I get tired of things easily so I'm frozen when it comes to spending actual mulah on a great purse. What if my tastes change? What if I spent $250 and suddenly realize i hate it?
When it comes to purses, I like them funky, colorful and as soft as melted brie. You can dangle as many of those hard little contained purses that make you look and feel like a true lady before my eyes, I will remain unemotional.
I'm leaving in a few minutes to pick up my soon to be 16 year old after he has been away for two weeks, camping in Catalina Island. And you know what? I'm kinda scared. Those two weeks were good. It was important and wonderful to be just the three of us with our nine year old. It has been quiet around the house, which was nice too (Teenagers take up a lot of room, not necessesarily Physically, but emotionally.) Sure I'm miffed that he did not bother calling more than the one time I demanded, but I'm mostly thrilled to see him finally.
Straight from the can via Decor8 from German online seller Car Möbel. I love these images which should surprise no one. Great styling. And what about the use of gray as a pastel: that feels so fresh and new.
I love comments. I live for comments. I get a whole lot of visitors, (hi there!) but not too many comments. Part of it comes from the fact that I don't deserve them, part of it is due to the fact that I have no time to comment on even my favorite blogs.
Since I have been a most excellent girl, meeting my deadlines while my kids are out of school, which is no small achievement, I took some time off yesterday.
But it was important that the time off be in harmony with the new me. The new me puts some space between herself and mindless consumption and only buys what she needs and not what she wants. She lives a meaningful life of Voluntary Simplicity.
Chorinde Méry, the woman who created these pieces is apparently a movie set designer in France (called 'décoratrice de cinéma' in French, maybe it's not the exact same thing.) I found that information while drooling over images of her home in Marie Claire Maison. I am charmed by the quieteness of her décor as much as I am by her unbridled
Do I have to be able to explain something in order to fall in love?
If you're ever in France and lucky enough to vacation in beautiful Hossegor, (in the South West of France) You must go Sandrine's boutique Sunrise Hossegor "Sea, Sun, Bohème and Rock'n Roll" is the theme. Here is a girl who loves colors, and Joie de vivre. And if you still though the "French don't like America," she's one more living proof of the contrary. She is the most California-girl E-vah.
I'm in Palm Spring but recently discovered the joys of delayed publishing of my posts. It took me a while!
Anabelle, from the blog I mentioned yesterday, Anabelle and Co. went to visit the Délos, the single hotel on the miniscule island of Bendor in order to write an article, and she took pictures. This is particularily exciting to me because the hotel was decorated by Carolyn Quatermaine, one of my favorite designer.
Where 81 year old grandma has hurt her back playing basketball or rearranging the tiles on her roof or something.
This is the title of her post. Thanks to Muralimanohar, author of Miscellany of Me, I had to stop, squirm and think.
British photographer David Giles's website is teeming with gorgeous shots from interiors to still life. Most are tiny (The large ones have a watermark. Is david Giles trying to tell us he rather not have his work floating around cyber-space?) Here are some of my favorite. All found via, you guessed it: Desire to Inspire.
Thank you to my good friend Robin (who doesn't blog but should) for showing me this video this morning. It blew me away. If you are into John Lennon and design, it should rock your socks off too.
Of course I'm not done showing off.