| on Columbus w 66th... |
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Monday, June 27, 2022
Friday, January 22, 2021
Friday afternoon moon
at the Inauguration this week, Ms Amanda Gorman, our National Youth Poet Laureate, burst forth as a bright, clear light. excerpted from her poem, The Hill We Climb:
We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain.
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children's birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
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| the high line, looking east on gansevoort |
Sunday, January 3, 2021
bubble palace
we lost Pierre Cardin last week at the age of 98, a pioneering designer with a futuristic sensibility toward fashion and life...
he was a designer who favored circles, and bubbles, in his creations.
https://agnautacouture.com/2015/07/26/pierre-cardin-fetish-for-the-bubble/
at one point in his life, he bought a famous home, Palais Boules, in Cannes....
a Dior Resort show was staged there as recently as 2016....
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| https://thespaces.com/pierre-cardins-bubble-palace-near-cannes-goes-on-sale/ |
it was ten years ago in October, here in NYC, that i attended his 60th anniversary book signing and fashion show, and wrote about it on my then brand new blog.
not that Monsieur Cardin would likely favor looking back but after my morning walk today past the woman in her big puff of faux fur hat, past the rows of clear plastic outdoor dining pods at a popular local French cafe (our own makeshift bubble palace?), i was inspired to re-read and re-experience Cardin's inventive genius for just one fashion forward minute.... https://fashion-is-love-nyc.blogspot.com/2010/11/its-witchcraft.html
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| my photo, this morning, broadway, upper west side |
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Our Lady of Paris
it was year ago that the Notre-Dame de Paris fire took place....
i still cannot find a photo of the cathedral from Hermes days or more recent travels but can use some of my quarantine time to search for them. we always visited pre or post ice cream at famed Berthillon on Ile Saint -Louis. we would typically snap photos in front of the cathedral and often enjoyed a walk through the garden behind it, Square Jean XXIII, which offered an opportunity to marvel at the Gothic architecture from new angles.
this morning, the news reports: "The bell Emmanuel, built in 1686 and situated at the South Tower of Notre-Dame de Paris, will ring at 8 pm local (2pm EST), both to commemorate the fire and to be in unison with the French who applaud their care workers at 8 pm everyday. It's the second biggest bell in France after the one in the Sacre-Coeur." abc news
i will send out an extra cheer from my window tonight. and maybe find a small bell to ring, as well. Paris, je t'aime!
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| paris, jardin du palais royal may 2010 |
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
too much future
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| Christine Sun Kim, Whitney, meatpacking https://www.whitney.org/Exhibitions/ChristineSunKim |
Sunday, October 31, 2010
it's witchcraft
This week was so full of appointments and adventures. I am leaving out the Friday afternoon spent with Jeanne Rohayton touring the New Museum and Bowery galleries. She was engaging and authentic and eager to share her world with us, courtesy of invite by my best friend jen.
I am leaving out my five minutes of fame conversing with Mr. Pierre Cardin following the fashion show at MILK Studios. I wanted to help some fashion students meet him so mustered my courage, spoke passable French, and landed them a group shot that I hope will inspire and motivate them for years to come.
What pops out at me for the purposes of my blog are these few impressions below -- definitely a week for unusual encounters, magical moments and subtle transformations...
THE Cat:
On Tuesday, I make a field trip downtown to meet Marisol Mercado, designer of Temple de Mexico accessories, in a vast studio on Houston Street. I climb up a very steep set of steps to a shiny red door and knock, feeling not for the first time this month much like I am about to enter Wonderland.
In fact, it is more of an Almodovar scene. Marisol, tall as the red door, doll like, perfect in a grey wool sheath dress, greets me, high cheekbones, almond eyes, arms and legs thin and long, click of heels on the hard wood studio floors, and a mellifluous voice that is actually all business, moving things along to the purpose of the visit, to view her collection of hand crafted enamel and copper belts, footwear, and jewelry, made in her native Mexico.
All is fine until the slinky grey cat decides to join the party, leaping up on the red leather sofa beside me, his blue-green eyes like marbles. Each time he pounces, Marisol picks him up and there he is, all fours extended, in front of her, grey against the grey dress.
"Gato, Gato," she scolds and walks him to another room of the pretty much wide open, art filled loft, only to have him return with more force, louder cries, and the desire to sit in on our meeting. My eyes itch and I try to keep my fear in check. Mainly I am so fascinated to be a character in the scene, that I just play through it, watching each time as the action repeats itself, click of heels, return of Gato, pounce and begin again.
Later, itchy eyes under control, I attend the Assouline book signing party at the Plaza Hotel for Mr. Pierre Cardin in celebration of 60 years of innovation. It is a who's who of bloggers, editors, fashion executives, fashionistas, public relations pros, and more. Mr. Cardin signs books for two hours from behind a large desk, his muse Maryse Gaspard at his side for much of the time, impeccable in dark glasses and a black wool pantsuit with patent leather trim. Others from the Paris team and Assouline family look on, welcome guests, and pose for photos. When it is my turn for the designer to carefully scribes his message, I get goosebumps.
THE Cape:
The book signing is followed on Friday evening by the Pierre Cardin Spring 2011 Show at MILK Studios. It is packed and the crowd is a great one. I take special note of the several men in black velvet 'smokings,' a dramatic brunette in a vintage Cardin chain mail skirt worn with sleek fitted boots that hugged fabulous mile high legs, and a Betty Boop flapper type in oversized sunglasses and daring mix of patterns from head to toe.
The show is a playful projection into the future, or is it the past present at times? -- cones and circles and hoops, rubber and patent and other innovative materials worked into jumpsuits, hats, dresses and pantsuits imagined by the maestro couturier. Wrap sunglasses, silver astronaut suits, tribal pendants on bare-chested men -- possibly possessing magical powers?-- then the most cerebral of palettes in muted greens and apricots, subtle suits and dresses topped by exaggerated felted wool hats, followed by a spray of happy colors and flowers and bows and tulle and crinoline hoops and not one but at least six brides in white dresses, my favorite being the one in the mini with red plastic ballerina flats. Shifts in music register as shifts in mood and place - space, Earth, ocean, garden - with the audience in a willing trance.
At the end, a defile of men and women, and Mr. Cardin himself rises from the front row in the audience and advances quietly to meet the crew of photographers at the end of the runway. He then walks backstage and comes out once more for a slow and dignified procession with Maryse Gaspard, taller than tall, draped head to toe in a cape like sweep of golden silk and adorned with a silver choker simple as a ring around Saturn. The only thing missing is a scepter but the spell is still cast.
I am leaving out my five minutes of fame conversing with Mr. Pierre Cardin following the fashion show at MILK Studios. I wanted to help some fashion students meet him so mustered my courage, spoke passable French, and landed them a group shot that I hope will inspire and motivate them for years to come.
What pops out at me for the purposes of my blog are these few impressions below -- definitely a week for unusual encounters, magical moments and subtle transformations...
THE Cat:
On Tuesday, I make a field trip downtown to meet Marisol Mercado, designer of Temple de Mexico accessories, in a vast studio on Houston Street. I climb up a very steep set of steps to a shiny red door and knock, feeling not for the first time this month much like I am about to enter Wonderland.
In fact, it is more of an Almodovar scene. Marisol, tall as the red door, doll like, perfect in a grey wool sheath dress, greets me, high cheekbones, almond eyes, arms and legs thin and long, click of heels on the hard wood studio floors, and a mellifluous voice that is actually all business, moving things along to the purpose of the visit, to view her collection of hand crafted enamel and copper belts, footwear, and jewelry, made in her native Mexico.
All is fine until the slinky grey cat decides to join the party, leaping up on the red leather sofa beside me, his blue-green eyes like marbles. Each time he pounces, Marisol picks him up and there he is, all fours extended, in front of her, grey against the grey dress.
"Gato, Gato," she scolds and walks him to another room of the pretty much wide open, art filled loft, only to have him return with more force, louder cries, and the desire to sit in on our meeting. My eyes itch and I try to keep my fear in check. Mainly I am so fascinated to be a character in the scene, that I just play through it, watching each time as the action repeats itself, click of heels, return of Gato, pounce and begin again.
Later, itchy eyes under control, I attend the Assouline book signing party at the Plaza Hotel for Mr. Pierre Cardin in celebration of 60 years of innovation. It is a who's who of bloggers, editors, fashion executives, fashionistas, public relations pros, and more. Mr. Cardin signs books for two hours from behind a large desk, his muse Maryse Gaspard at his side for much of the time, impeccable in dark glasses and a black wool pantsuit with patent leather trim. Others from the Paris team and Assouline family look on, welcome guests, and pose for photos. When it is my turn for the designer to carefully scribes his message, I get goosebumps.
THE Cape:
The book signing is followed on Friday evening by the Pierre Cardin Spring 2011 Show at MILK Studios. It is packed and the crowd is a great one. I take special note of the several men in black velvet 'smokings,' a dramatic brunette in a vintage Cardin chain mail skirt worn with sleek fitted boots that hugged fabulous mile high legs, and a Betty Boop flapper type in oversized sunglasses and daring mix of patterns from head to toe.
The show is a playful projection into the future, or is it the past present at times? -- cones and circles and hoops, rubber and patent and other innovative materials worked into jumpsuits, hats, dresses and pantsuits imagined by the maestro couturier. Wrap sunglasses, silver astronaut suits, tribal pendants on bare-chested men -- possibly possessing magical powers?-- then the most cerebral of palettes in muted greens and apricots, subtle suits and dresses topped by exaggerated felted wool hats, followed by a spray of happy colors and flowers and bows and tulle and crinoline hoops and not one but at least six brides in white dresses, my favorite being the one in the mini with red plastic ballerina flats. Shifts in music register as shifts in mood and place - space, Earth, ocean, garden - with the audience in a willing trance.
At the end, a defile of men and women, and Mr. Cardin himself rises from the front row in the audience and advances quietly to meet the crew of photographers at the end of the runway. He then walks backstage and comes out once more for a slow and dignified procession with Maryse Gaspard, taller than tall, draped head to toe in a cape like sweep of golden silk and adorned with a silver choker simple as a ring around Saturn. The only thing missing is a scepter but the spell is still cast.
THE Gloves:
We are six after the show, running for dinner in the cold without a reservation, first to Spice Market (1 hour wait), then to The Standard (2 hour wait), Five Ninth, "No" at Pastis, "No" twice at Scarpetta, and finally to La Bottega where we collapse in a booth and enjoy pizza and pasta and our own review of the evening. "Was it wearable?" "Who is designing with him?" "Is it a comeback collection?" and so on ...
A European party girl, so tall and so tipsy she can barely stand, stumbles past our table in black stretch pants, stiletto heeled boots, black sweater. She drops a pair of long fingerless bi-color calfskin gloves. As she stoops to retrieve them, she states emphatically to anyone who cares, "They are not Martin Margiela. They are not. Everyone thinks that they are but the are not." She pulls them on snugly and smooths them over her elbows, shakes her head of long brown hair and scowls to bring home this most important point.
At home and in bed just past midnight, images from the week reel through my mind in cinematic form -- Gato in the outstretched arms of Marisol; the Paris 'mannequin' Maryse in a royal march befitting of a Queen; the last word from the party girl, because someone must always have the last word, and of course, my encounter with a fashion icon who, with the flourish of his pen and a line up of of haute looks, reminds me of where I have been in my own fashion time travel and points to the possibilities of where I might still journey.
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