Indonesia--Working

I was in Indonesia to find new fabrics and learn about the capabilities of their suppliers.  I don't really talk about my job so much on here, I usually just tell you where I've gone (and what I've eaten/seen) on these work trips.  But I'll expand a bit more now.  I do fabric r&d for H&M.  This means:  I research and create the fabric trends for my division each season; I travel to our production offices to work with the teams there, meet with suppliers, and select new fabrics for the season; I go to fabric shows and shop to get inspired about materials and make sure my division is updated on the fabric trends; I am constantly analyzing our process to make sure we are developing materials in a strategic and efficient way.  I love that there are many different sides to my job so that some days I'm more in the trend zone and other days I can be more technical or process-oriented.  And to be able to do this for the second largest retailer in the world?  Well, I'm pretty lucky.

Here are a few photos from the supplier side of my visit to Indonesia.

With some of my local colleagues.

Apparently, I've been calling it all wrong... it's "Riset."

Cutie cutie calico mill kitty.

A mill butterfly confirms camouflage is still in.

A Snuffleupagus of sliver...

which usually looks more like this.  This is what becomes your cotton yarn, folks!

So pretty.

Indonesia

We were sitting at a coffee shop in Seoul, checking our emails and getting the web-dates on that Sunday the plane went missing.  And it took everything I had not to freak out about the flight to Jakarta I was due to get on the next day.  Might I remind you of the whacked out thoughts I have every time the plane goes bu-bum-bump, and now you're telling me a plane is missing?  As in GONE?  And it's gone missing in a country just over from the one I'm headed to?  What is going on?!  Is this part of something bigger??  Are more planes just gonna go missing?!?  I feel like I could freak out now just writing about it.  So, back to the coffee shop in Seoul... I managed to talk myself down by considering that the odds of another plane crashing or being hijacked or going missing in any way the very next day were slim-to-none, so MY flight was probably gonna be just fine.  (Thanks for sacrificing yourselves, passengers who were part of this tragedy, so that I may live.)  But that didn't make me feel less terrible about the fact that something had gone down on another flight, even if it wasn't mine.

That said, witness what a trooper I was to adult-up and get on the damn flight to Jakarta the next day. Yay, me.  While we're heaping praise on the nutcase that is me, I can also tell you that I kept it together pretty well *most* of the time I was in Indonesia, too.  I know that there is a big sect of people in that country that doesn't like me as an American, and I know that this same group is pretty skilled with bombs and known for surrepticious attacks in popular places to maximize casualties.  And when the driver quickly assured me that it was thunder making the bombing, er... booming noise on my first morning's drive to the office, it really didn't calm me at all.  And when the craziest storm woke me up at 2 am one night with thunder and lightning such that only happens over islands in remote parts of the ocean/world, I took cover in the bathroom (I am from tornado country in the US) because surely this was gonna kill us all (now it was the heavens bombing us), I didn't feel calm either.  And when I realized that the flight my local colleague had booked me on to fly within Java island was with a carrier not allowed to fly into EU airspace and whose pilots had had issues with meth use, I was pretty calm but I did call the travel department in Stockholm right away to rebook on a less-shady carrier.  But when the flight on the less-shady carrier was swaying and bouncing and bumping over who-knows-what-part of Java, I was white-knuckling the armrests (germs be damned) and talking to myself out loud a little bit because of course the shitty meth pilots were gonna have the fluffiest marshmallow landing while my re-booked flight was the one that would crash because I totally saw that made-for-tv movie and I know how fate/karma/irony/etc works.  But I would be lying if I told you that I didn't lose it (and I mean crying lose it) when I got to the hotel the same local colleague booked for me in a lovely city called Bandung in central Java and I had to walk by a public restroom to get to my 1st floor room, which did not contain a window nor an extra lock and which also had brown pillowcases.  I went downstairs to pay the approximate equivalent of 30 dollars to move to a "deluxe" room, which had a window but now had YELLOW pillowcases.  And that's when I finally lost my shit.

I did like Indonesia and am glad I visited some other parts of Java besides Jakarta, despite the getting there and the accommodations in these places.  Now that I'm through it, I can praise my adventurous spirit and survival instincts.  (Heh.)  Though I'm not ready to be dropped in the jungle or something anytime soon...

And now, the photos!

Nom nom nasi bali, which I ate 2 out of the 5 nights I was in Indonesia.  How about that palm cone?

This is snake fruit, which is totally chic but also totally delicious.  Check the link and you'll see that it is filled with what looks to be large garlic cloves.  It is not too sweet and, come to think of it, might be exactly what I am craving right now.  Yum.

Some random shots outside of Bandung.

Bad iphone shot of brown pillowcases.  I promise you they were way more skeevy in person.

A fancy lady in Bandung showing off her colored Pomeranian puppy.  Colored dogs are totally trending, I know because I saw some in Seoul, too.

Snacks at the rest stop along the route to Bandung.

Speaking of food, the Indonesians have a thing for donuts... but with CHEESE?

Yep. With cheese.

And I spotted these interesting pastries in flavors like "salami brown sauce" and "lady finger beer." Hmmm....

I sneaky shot this guy at the airport in Bandung.  All the dudes were rocking some batik prints there, but this guy really brought the style.  I mean, look at that scarf!  

Gender bending.

Stockholm

It's 3:06 pm and the sun is setting.  But I really don't mind.  I've still got beef with Stockholm, sure (the disproportionate ratio of full-body checks to utterances of ursäkta and the overpriced food and drink for starters) but I've really mellowed.  You know why?  Because we've met some really swell people in the past week.  People we jive with, people doing cool stuff, people including us in things, people who you want to stick around and have another drink with, people who make you feel creative because they are creative.  I think we're on the cusp of something here.  It feels like some of these people are gonna end up our super-awesome homedogs.  And everybody needs some homedogs, amiright?  I don't know why the universe waited until last week to throw ALL of the best people in Stockholm our way, but I'll take it.  I'm gonna try to ride out this warm and fuzzy new-friendship feeling as long as I can, though I guess it'll just get warmer and fuzzier if some of these new groupings become old ones.  Anyway... thanks, universe.

Helsinki

Oh, Helsinki.  How do I put it?

I will try to express it here without sounding like a total jerk.  Because I liked Helsinki... I did.  But I felt a bit let down, I'm not gonna lie.  So many things that looked super-duper online turned out to be merely ho-hum when we were actually standing right in front of them.

First, our neighborhood--Kallio.  Hailed as the hip, gentrifying area, it seemed like the right spot for us. But it felt a little too spread out or not dense enough or, well, just a bit sad.  We hit a few bars--one with incredible vintage Pan Am decor, but didn't feel inspired by the patrons style or vibe.

How do I put it?  This should be where the cool kids are kicking it... but instead it looked like a bunch of Latvians (or is it Estonians?) outfitted in fashions from a suburban Marshall's (or is it Ross?) in Crapsville, USA.  I mean, Kallio is full of vintage stores... but who's buying the cool old shit?  Because no one was wearing it!

Swedes don't hesitate to share their generally held feeling that the Finns are a bunch of drunks.  (Yo, is that racist?)  And I really wanted to disprove that--really I did--and come back and tell the next Swede who deigned to judge the Finns in this way that I saw them writing theorems with a G&T in one hand or discussing opera over glasses of rosé.  But I actually saw them pounding shots, stripping down and jumping in fountains, and beating each other with belts so aggressively that I had to run into a store and ask for the cops to be called.  (The latter happened right outside our apartment.  What a nice welcoming committee!)  I guess I should be happy (or is it disappointed?) these shaved-bald neo-Nazi jerkholes weren't stabbing each other, as it first appeared.  I hate to admit it, but I was a little shocked at how rough some of the Finnish folks were.  And this was in Helsinki--their metropolis!

I find Swedish style (I'm talking about what people are wearing around town) pretty one-note and boring.  Lots of black and, sure the cuts can be creative, but no one wants to really stand out or take chances here in Stockholm.  But compared with the Finns, the Swedes are style stars!  In Helsinki, I found myself longing for someone in something chic, flowy, and black.... WHAT?!

I have mad love for the design history of Finland (I'm looking at you, Aalto and Saarinen pere et fils) and I know there are creative forces still going strong there.  But I felt like the younger designers or today's innovators didn't have much of a presence.  We explored their "Design District"and exclaimed many times outwardly, "Is this IT?"  There was a killer store showcasing tons of Finnish designers under one roof that was a highlight, but besides that the designs were either tired or dowdy or the brands were from other countries.  Pfflbt.  And "district" is pretty inflated.

I did like Helsinki, and I'm glad we went there.  The flight was cheap and it was a new adventure.  And the food markets are pretty great, too.

Anyway, here are some shots from around town.

Lovely boat bar/resto on the water.  Who doesn't love hanging out on a boat, docked or not?

The botanical gardens might have been my favorite spot in the city.  The grounds were great for a wander.  The plants were all clearly marked and there were tons of new birds to delight in.  What is it with me, as I've gotten older I've taken more of an interest in birds.  I have to keep reminding myself I'm not that old yet... but still... BIRDS!  Yay!

Creepy doll at one of the thrift stores we went to.  This was the spot where Keegan found this album that featured tracks from "Jews," "Gypsies,"and "Negroes."  Definitely racist!

The Nacho Jr. followed us all around the city.  There are corn chips on this burger, people!

Dinner at the lovely Ateljé Finne, which used to be a sculptor's studio.

Angry Bird gummies!

Funny stuff.

No Scotties allowed, apparently.  Definitely breed-ist!

Whiskey-flavored sausage!  Slim-Jim, you are slacking!

The local burger chain.

The view from our dinner table on the last night.

Cutie bar done up in vintage Pan Am stuff.

Bear imagery is everywhere!  They love their brown bears in Finland!

Here We Go Again

This is when I wonder where all of the time went, make some excuses for not having updated, and then drop a buncha updates on yo'selves.  So I'll spare you the formalities this time and just get onto some things that have happened in the past couple of months.  And then I'll provide photographical evidence as best I can.

I have nearly survived my first winter in Stockholm.  And, honestly, it wasn't that bad.  Maybe that's because it was my very first winter here, so I embraced it with a sense of novelty (Well look at that!  It is actually dark at 3:45 pm!) and kept watching to see how I was reacting to it... and I didn't really react at all, I think.  I guess I noticed a little confusion when I found myself ready to pack it up for the day when it was dark before 4 pm, but then I hurumphed and got on with some more things before rolling out around 5:30.  And the dark, short days didn't seem to last for all that long.  It's like, once the winter solstice hits, the days start getting longer.  And now I find myself annoyed that the sun is up so early in the mornings again.  It's going to be time for some blackout curtains soon.  The summer is the OPPOSITE of the winter here.  You know that, right?

The winter wasn't all that bad for a couple of other reasons.  It was damn cozy.  Candles were lit on the sidewalks, as well as inside every coffee shop and restaurant and cafe.  And there were some beautiful snowfalls to brighten everything up.  Also I got myself out of town a fair number of times--and this really is a big help.  Even if it's just going to Bangladesh for work (though I was lucky enough to have a 3-week holiday in the US and trips to Shanghai and India, too), getting yourself to somewhere warm and sunny sure does help.

I don't think this Stockholm winter was any colder than the winters I experienced in Philly or Ohio, actually.  I bought a big dumb black puffer coat, which I resisted doing for so long, and now I'm over how boring it is and revel in its convenience.  Man, sometimes it's so nice to just throw on a down coat and not have to layer up underneath.  And this guy has a hood, too!  So I can go hat-free!  I also have a few great pairs of boots with good tread that got me through the icy and sloppy days.  I just had a revelation the other day that I had a whole other drawer of shoes that WEREN'T cold-weather boots.  Cool!

So that's basically it for now.  I'll try to fill in the rest between some photos.

Rockin' Well

After St. Louis, we headed west to Sacramento to see B's family.  We spent an afternoon at the Crocker Art Museum, taking in the Norman Rockwell exhibit.  I took photos until I got busted by a security guard, which created a mini-scene wherein two bystanders got involved claiming that there was no sign up and blah blah.  Um, thanks.  The whole time B stood by, when he should have hightailed it like he didn't know me.  That way at least one of us could keep taking photos!  We've got to get our in cahoots down!

I feel bad for Rockwell.  Or for his memory, at least.  I don't think he gets the respect he deserves.  First, he has chops.  His paintings are good.  But he also earns a place in my imaginary Big Book of Great American Artists for his capturing the minutiae of middle America's daily life.  Time stands still.  These are snapshots done as paintings, telling stories with their details.  Yeah, it's a little bougie but don't hate.  You want the other side of the coin, go ground yourself in some Dorothea Lange.

He was famous for his Saturday Evening Post covers (all--and I mean ALL--of which were on display at the Crocker), and this is how he made his dollar-dollahs.  It's easy to dismiss him as too commercial for his ties to the magazine.  But looking at all of the art he produced over 47 years for the periodical, it's a wonder to see the styles and the attitudes and the concerns of the country changing before your eyes.  When he was finished at the Evening Post, Look Magazine allowed him to take on social issues, as he was way more progressive than the Evening Post would allow.  For example, The Problem We All Live With.  Rockwell was a pretty liberal guy for his times.  Betcha didn't realize that.

I came away from the exhibit with mad respect for Mr. Rockwell.  I don't care what the critics say.

Thankfully I got this snap in before the guard found me.  Here's Rockwell posing his dog Butch for a study for the painting Going and Coming.  You can see more charming shots of Rockwell working with dogs here.  Go check the link!  You won't regret it!

Of course the circus dog in the ruff got me.

My Window

My writing window, I mean.  I tried to pry it open last night--and the night before, but gave up without much effort.  Because I know that if I have to force it open, I'm not going to like what's on the other side.

It's just, I haven't been in the mood much lately.  M was in town visiting us from the States last week, so it was an all-out binge.  I'm talking elk sausage and Beef Rydberg (holy hell, it's like gourmet breakfast--for dinner!), veal meatballs, and some deer something or other at a Viking-themed restaurant... and enough wine to wash it all down.  I am still blimped out, despite being on a relative detox this week.

But back to the writing mood.  I am hoping it will hit just about when the winter weather does.  I'm anticipating blogging like crazy while it is cold and dark outside.  Sounds nice, right?

It's funny because I write this blog a bunch in my head, but it always happens when I'm on the metro or at work or in the shower or something.  That's when the words come and line themselves up on their own, so that the phrasing is perfect and I'm the funniest person in the world.  I think, yeah, I'll pop that on the blog later.  Good job, Jode!  But when it's later and I'm home from work, sitting in front of my laptop on the coffee table, I'm wondering what it was exactly I had wanted to put down.  Or if I remember what it was, I can't string it together in a meaningful way anymore.  And that's when I close up shop and put on some Mad Men (season 5 finale is tonight chez moi!) and hope that I'll feel more inspired tomorrow evening.

It makes me think of some advice Anne Lamott gave in her book Bird by Bird (which I read so many years ago and lent to someone who never returned it... boo) to always carry index cards with you to write down phrases as you think of them or dialogue as you overhear it or whatever.  Fumbling with index cards during a moment of inspiration sounds like a real pain in the ass (especially in this age of techno-gadgetry... I'll bet there's some damn device that can record what I'm thinking while I'm thinking with no effort on my part by now... right?).  But it's the idea of always having something at the ready to record your creative moments.  Because once they pass, they are often gone for good.  Or they never reappear in their initial brilliance, anyway.

It's like the watered down drink you find on your coffee table the morning after a great party.  It was such a good idea at the time, in the moment, but now you wonder what possessed you to mix it... and why you thought it was a good idea to get out the Kahlua.  You question how this milky watery mess ever made sense to you, much less was appealing.  Yeah, that's how it goes with my blog pops, too.  Did I really crack myself up over hearing two different radio stations across my work department morph into Kate Bush singing "This Woman's Work," when it was actually like, Robyn on on side and Skrillex on the other?  Or some shit?  Yeah, I did.  And see, it doesn't hold anymore.  Stupid Kahlua.

So here's hoping my writing window glides right open when the season goes south.  My literal windows will remain firmly shut however.  It's gonna be cold out there.

S.N.A.R.K.

Someone (Mom, you're busted) sent me a link to a "Fashion Designer" competition sponsored by this total crap magazine in my hometown.  This is a glossy mag that looks professional until you open it and see that it's rife with typos and bimbos.  It is all about the "scene" in St. Louis with the same people popping up at the same places, looking like they were just teleported from 1998 in their James Perse-tanned-watered-down-LA looks.  A high-end version of them is shopbop.com.  A low-end version is, well, them. 

Let me pause before going further.  I know there is good style in my hometown; I see people bring it all the time when I am home.  I have friends there who have great style.  But generally, there is a lot of brand-whoring bad taste.  And it's this BS that gets the local "press."  To me, good style is not trying to be something you're not.  It's not showy (except when it's in feathers or gloves or feeling dandy... more of that, please!).  It's not trying to emulate what you think is another city's style.  (I see the photos of the people on the scene, pretending they are in LA.)  It's not tarted and pushed up or fake-tanned.  That's too easy.  (Oh, and it's also gross.)  I realize my hometown is smack in the middle of the country, so why not make St. Louis style about authenticity, vintage, or well-crafted midwestern items?  When did St. Louis become infatuated with bastardizing bad LA style?  (I will not even sink so low as to give Christian Audigier the thrashing he deserves, but I don't understand why so many people in St. Louis wear that mess.)

OK, so back to this shit rag.  Because it is so removed from relevance or hipness, this magazine is sponsoring a competition to find the top 6 Fashion Designers in St. Louis.

Wait!  SIX? 

Why even pick winners?  "Well, thanks for coming out, folks.  Looks like you ALL win!" 

I didn't dig around enough to see what all six will win (or if there will be a no-holds-barred cage match to pick the ultimate winner... YES, now I'm interested!  Oh wait, that's MY competition.), mostly because I remember how much I enjoyed watching those first few seasons of Project Runway back in SF* (with wine and Stellies and Milosh, bien sur) and now the exact opposite feelings arise when I think of anything remotely smacking of Project Runway.  Besides, isn't Project Runway itself so watered down?  (Hello... Lifetime, is it?)  How can people squeeze any more from the idea of it?  Why not figure out a new, inherently St. Louis-style competition instead of copying something that was cool 7+ years ago?  And make it about ribs, please.  (Oh wait, now we're back to MY competition.)

So my mom sent me the link for the local designers in competition to see if I knew anyone.  I did not.  Therefore I feel it's well within my right as someone who actually works in "the industry" to remark on what I found.  I didn't put names or names of lines with the quoted material below.

Except that I must tell you that one of the "labels" is called Haus.  HAUS.  As in what frat dudes call each other at the gym.  Or how one burly bub would formally address another mid-rile:  "Take it easy, Haus."  (OK, maybe it's spelled "hoss," but they are homonyms.)  At the very least, it's the German word for "house."  So why why WHY would you ever choose this word to represent your line of ladies' wear?!? 

For the rest, I tried to categorize them for your laughing, er, reading pleasure.  I was struck by how serious these designers took themselves, especially for people who aren't seeing major sales, raking in real dough, or working in a major fashion market.  (Sorry StL, but I don't think anyone considers you a global fashion hub.)  My favorite was all of the designers who wrote about themselves in the third person.  Wait... is this blurb from Vogue?  Oh no, it's just YOU trying to make yourself seem more important because "someone else" is talking about you.  Phhffft!  You don't fool me!


Here goes:

1. BOHEMIAN
This word was a real bugaboo for our designers.  I caught a "boehmian," but the real beverage-spitter was "bohomenian."  Bohomenia?  That's in eastern Europe, right?


2. CHIC
This simple one had them all a-tizzy, too.  Witness:  "Sheek" and my favorite "Sheik."  As in "Duncan"?  Or "Mohammad"? 


3. AVANTE GARDE
Is that what they called it in the Olde West?

I blame the magazine for this, as apparently they offered this spelling in their drop-down menu.  Shame on you, dumb magazine;  you're making this worse than it has to be.  The best part was seeing how many designers slotted themselves as "Avante Garde," when there was nothing at all edgy or avant about their pieces.  One "Avante Garde" designer went so far as to reference the great gateway artist Salvador Dali**: 

"Artistic Influence? Salvador Dali is one of my favorite artists, and definitely influences my work. I love the fact that since he is a surrealist artist, when you look at his work it is always different, nothing is normal. And I would definitely say that when I go to create a garment it is my goal to produce something different and unique."

Still bad, but at least this one has heart!


4. IN OTHER BAD SPELLING NEWS
I give you:  "Izzac Mizarahi" and "Dani Atrach."  The last one's actually a dude.  He may be no "haus," but he certainly doesn't end his name with an "i."  Tsk, tsk.


5. BONDAGE TAPE IS NOT ELEGANT RESTRAINT
"[Label name deleted] is inspired by the black-and-white visuals of Hollywood's classic film noir and tossed with a dark gothic aesthetic using corsets, buckles, and bondage tape. It projects a feeling of the elegant restraint of women throughout past centuries."

Also:  "tossed with"!  Hi-yah!


6.EARTH, WIND, AND FIRE
"My line is for those fearless ones that love being vibrant in bold colors. What you see now is what happens when I listen to music whilst sketching. In this particular case, I was listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire."

That's right, in this case I had on the grooves.

Also note:  "whilst."  Thank you, your majesty.  We will let you know if you're in our top six.


7. GIVE IT THE GUSTO!
"MY LINE REPRESENTS A PLETHORA OF STYLES, URBAN,CASUAL, SHEIK, EDGY,COMMERCIAL, ALL WITH A LITTLE SEX A PEEL. I'M NOT A ONE NOTE DESIGNER, I HAVE RANGE. MY PHOTOS ALSO SHOWCASE VERSATILITY, MY PIECES ARE NEVER CONSTRUCTED TO GO WITH ONE THING, THE SHIRT COULD BE PAIRED UP WITH A SKIRT OR A HOT PANT DEPENDING ON ONES PERSONAL STYLE & PERSONA. ALL PERSONS, PLACES, AND THINGS ARE MY INSPIRATION!!!"

This guy barely comes up for air.  (Also, he used the ol' ALL CAPS trick to put him in front of the others!)  You surely caught:  "Sex A Peel." (Reminds me of the big "potato a-peel" ending of the old Tato Skins commercials.  Except there it actually made sense.)  And "Sheik" (previously discussed).

Also, thanks for telling me what your photos show.  I'm reading this on the internet so I'm not blind, bozo.  Noted that the shirt could be "PAIRED UP WITH" a bottom of one's own choosing.  I'm pretty sure this "up with" phrasing is accompanied by a mouth click or a hand snap when stated live.  And finally, settle the hell down with your inspiration.  Really, "ALL PERSONS, PLACES, AND THINGS" inspire you?  Well, I don't want to see a line based on the turd you dropped this morning.  Hey, you said "ALL."


8.  META
"The line explores a variety of design elements, such as line, shape, and repetition."

Wait... the "line explores... line"?  Duuuuude.


9. TOO GOOD NOT TO SPILL
I know I was going to keep this anonymous, but what is this??

N9NE17

How do you even pronounce that?  And what does it mean?  If the name of your line is written in code, how could it possibly be marketed to the general public?  And the people with good taste, the people circling in the real fashion world?  Well, I'm pretty sure they don't play this shit.  Go on, you try explaining your line's dumb name to Andre Leon Talley.  I dare you.  I guarantee you he renames it something descriptive in no more than four letters, the first two being S and H.


10. YARN-SPINNERS
Check out these scene setters.  Please allow me a few [] interruptions:

"When you walk out your door, the world becomes your audience. The streetlights suspended from above guide you down the runway. The flashbulbs are going off, blinker by blinker as you walk down the street. The beat of your heels mimics the one being projected through your headphones. Your thick designer sunglasses morph into blinders [Blinders?  Oh, I get it now. I'm a horse.], delaying the daylight of reality.  [Stupid reality and its light.  Good thing I have these blinders.]  Anything other than that cup of coffee in your near future seems to fade away. Slow sipping leads to reminiscing, while staring at the red lipstick kiss on the side of your coffee mug… [Yuck?  Why is this mug dirty?] You’re suddenly thinking of his voice and how delicious he smelled… [And how good that NARS Dragon Girl looked on him?]  You just had to slide him the napkin with your number signed in that same red lipstick. [Oh thank god, you've been talking about MY red lipstick this whole time.]  The memory makes you smile as you take another sip of your coffee.  [So I'm a whore not a horse?]"

AND

"Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a beautiful Princess and her beautiful Mother, the Queen. [The Queen Mother, is it?]  If you close your eyes and let your imagination gobble you up, you'll escape to the mysterious kingdom. [A monarchical kingdom?  That is mysterious.]  It IS a wonderland. Animals, trees, flowers, and the even the shadows at night, talk to you for hours and hours. [Are the walls melting yet?]  All the mythical stories are here for the taking. [Tell the one about when Zeus wants to get in that one lady's pants so he turns her into a cow!]  The kingdom has no sense of time. [Oh, no requests?  Boo.]  What year is it? No one knows. [And no one cares if the Zeus story is off the table.  Hurumph!]  Everything glistens in the fresh sunshine and when the moon rises, the dark creatures come out to play. The little Princess twirls everyday, like a ballerina swallowed by a perfect tulip. [I don't like the idea of these predatory tulips.]  The Queen is independent, generous, and caring. The kind of beauty that never gets lost. [Can someone tell me where I left my beauty?  Please??]  My designs are born in this wonderland. A dream land that is delicate, brave, unexpected, and enchanting."

I can't make this stuff up.



In conclusion, I would put up anyone--ANYONE--I have ever worked with in this industry (or any other industry, for that matter) against these jokers.  Hell, I would even put up my own self--and I can't sew!  At the very least, I could guarantee an insightful and creative blurb with no more than one spelling error.  And that might just be enough to take this competition.




* (Disclaimer, I watched most of the 2010 season when I was home for 3 months and was trying to support one of the St. Louis designers in competition, but there was lots of bad shizz, to be sure.)

** After a discussion with Sweet Daddy on the road somewhere between Biarritz and Bilbao, I concluded this:  Dali is a gateway artist.  He got me and many other 8th graders interested in art.  But when I look back at Dali now, most of it doesn't hold for me.  I know he had chops; he could really paint.  And I appreciate the code, the idea of things representing other things.  But I just don't respect it like I did way back when.  Partially, this is because of later Dali's overly marketed persona.  But also it's because I don't think surrealism holds up so well.  Most of it looks so dated.  And why must every museum gift shop--no matter the bent of the museum--have some melting watch paraphenelia on offer?  Stop it, people.  So thanks to Dali for piquing my interest in art, but 37-year-old Jodi sure doesn't see it the same way as 14-year-old Jodi.  But that's growing up for you.

Richard Serra Excites Me So!

Getting off all things Gehry (yo, I would never even get on that), let's talk about the BEST part of the Guggenheim--the Richard Serra room!  Seen below, it's called "The Matter of Time."

I knew of Serra well enough (my fine hometown is home to two of his pieces; see me wander through "Joe" here), and my first thought on seeing the pieces in this enclosed environment was, "Boo!  They should be outside where they can weather appropriately."

My second thought was something like, "Hey jerk, could you move your ill-placed baby vehicle so others may enter the sculpture?!"  Yeah, some ass-mom left her child blocking the entrance while she was nowhere to be seen.  Hurumph.  This woman clearly was not up on her sculptural etiquette.

But back to my first thought about the sculptures being better served out of doors.  Well, tally that point for the Guggenheim because having the pieces in a controlled environment allows you to experience the acoustic changes in a way impossible outside.  There were moments I was damn-near playing foot piano, listening to the way the sounds changed.  (Touché, Guggers.  Touché.)

Which leads me to "All of The Ways to Experience a Serra" (or, "How I Almost Lost My Proverbial Shit Inside a Serra Sculpture").

Look, it may have been the glass of wine I had at lunch or it may have been that I was wearing my glasses that day (this sometimes trips out my peripheral vision ever so slightly), but when R.Serra started tipping the snaking metal toward me and I felt off-kilter and the sound of my footsteps was changing and I started to feel space tightening around me and my feet fumbled a bit but I kept leaning, leaning, leaning into it, trusting it was going to open up and free me, listening to the sounds continue to change, looking at the crusty metal patina, walking walking, thinking how much longer can this go on the thing didn't look that big?, when it opens... and I've reached the middle... and I can breathe and smile and want to start clapping and squealing like a baby child.

You got me, Mr. Serra!  Your big metal thingy that looks like nothing from the outside, it ingested me, squeezed me tight, tripped me up, and released me to stand there and wonder what the hell just happened.  There were times when I felt like I was either going to cry or vomit or have some kind of extreme physiological response (I bring your attention back to the glass of wine from lunch), but I assure you this is GOOD.  I am trying to tell you that I enjoyed this experience because it was a giant freaking EXPERIENCE brought on by A-R-T.

After I realized what a trip I had been on, I grabbed my sense of wonder by the arm and took the rest of them with such a curiosity.  All of my senses were firing.  (OK, except taste.  Shoot, I should have licked it!)  I didn't want to miss one damn thing that Serra was putting out there.  Snake me around, buddy!  Let's see where you take me!

I have not had such a visceral and emotional and multi-sensory experience to art in ages.  (Though, I think often of the hours I wasted on the Cremaster cycle and this always incites an urge to vomit, but that's different.  Hey Barney, I want my money back!  No, even better, I want those HOURS back.  You insult us to assume that anyone has time to spare on your schlock.  *End digression.*)  I loved experiencing these sculptures more than I can tell you, and I am fairly certain that Richard Serra is a genius.

Now if only they would have let him build the damn museum.

Things I Should Have Been Blogging About This Whole Time

Lest you think this dormancy is permanent, I give you the following things that I should have been blogging about in the past few weeks.  Shame on me for my lack of presence lately.  Why is it that when so many exciting things are happening, it's hard to find the time to record them?

1.  A trip to Biarritz, San Sebastian, and Bilbao with an old friend.  (Takeaways:  my bile toward Frank Gehry is ever-bitter.  I almost lose my shizz [in a good way] in a Serra sculpture.  Pintxos are rad.  Must visit San Sebastian again, on a non-rainy day.  Bilbao is definitely the Pittsburg of Spain.  The Basque wild ponies are my babies!)

2.  A new job!  I'm moving to Sweden!  It's official!  I leave Paris August 2!  The only exclaiming I do on that day will be in a sad way, as it's going to shake me to leave Paris, my dream city, my favorite city, my home for the past year and a half.

3.  Paris sales, starting tomorrow.  I don't know if I will be able to sleep tonight.

4.  Moringa oil.  I got a hot tip on this stuff from one A.T.S. and holy moly, google it for yourself.  Now if I could just find a supplier in Paris.  Or maybe I just shell out for the shipping costs?

5.  The spicy peanut sauce I made for dins tonight.  I even did the dishes afterward (an event that rarely happens on the same night) in order to avoid this blog for a while longer.  It didn't work.

6.  My first midsommar in Sweden.  It was glorious--the skies that were bluer than blue, the quaint country house, the barbecued meats and the gluten-free fika, the heavy metal mowing and the interpretive dancing, the mosquito tent.  I couldn't have asked for a better time.  If I had brought a change of underjams, I might have even stayed an extra day.  Who knew I could get down with the country like that?

7.  Mad Men.  Damn you, Mad Men, for being as good as they all said you were.  Damn you for sucking up my evenings and for keeping me up late to watch episodes before bed when I've prematurely pulled myself away from real socialization because I was getting itchy about what Don Draper was going to do next.  And damn you most of all for making me part of your cult so that I have recruited others.  At least I have more people to talk about you with.  Mad Men.

8.  The dear new friend I have made here in Paris, though I will be moving to her home country soon. (Hey irony, why don't you jump?)  Still, we have been maximizing our time while we are in the same city and no doubt will know each other for a long time.

9.  I am getting older.  Again.  On Thursday.  I will be transitioning from my mid-thirties to my late thirties.  Or so they tell me.  I ain't skeert!  Besides the hangovers, life just keeps getting better.

These Things Have Been Happening

My feet are torn up.  Torn up on the level of someone who lives in the jungle without shoes.  Actually, the feet of someone who lives in the jungle without shoes probably morph into something like shoe-feet, all coarse and leathery and tough--without the 1st world blisters and rubs mine are currently exhibiting.  So it's closer to say that my feet are torn up like a castle-dweller who was suddenly dropped in the jungle and forced to subsist unshod.

I mean to say that there are blisters and open sores and glaring manifestations of pain all over my tootsies.  I am running out of "safe" shoes that avoid the problem areas.

So what am I doing?

Well, for one, I bought these:

It was part celebration (more on that later), part because I know they are well-made comfortable shoes (Chie Mihara), and part because I have coveted them since they appeared in the Manoush window two days before.  Hey, at least I could wait 2 days.  

I have also been hammering.  My shoes.

I've tried to break in every damn pair by dousing them with "shoe stretch" spray, wearing multiple pairs of socks, and tippy toeing and rolling my ankles all around the apartment.  And you know what that did?  Got me right into this oozing open blister mess.  So you know what I do now?  HAMMER.  

I pound, pound, pound and break it down.  And somehow, it feels satisfying to lay it back on the thing that caused me pain.  Even if it is an inanimate object.  

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I don't know how I got by without Mad Men for so long.  Now I am in the throes of some serious addiction.  We're talking at least one episode a night, ending meet-ups with real live humans early so I can crawl into bed with some Madison Avenue haps.  And of course I remind everyone that sexy/naughty Don Draper is really from my hometown.

The best part is, I'm still on season 1.  This can keep me distracted for most of the summer!

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You know what else I've been into?  

Socca:

It's just chickpea flour and water, and it makes a magnificent pizza crust for those of us off the flour.  But you can also cook it thicker, more like a pancake, and eat it un-topped.  Actually, you can do just about anything with it.  It's pretty marvelous.  David Lebowitz has a nice bit on it here.

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You know what I don't care about?  The Diamond Jubilee.  All apologies to my English friends, but really I could give a rat's.

Givers v. Takers

There are people in life who are givers.  And there are those who are takers.  That's a little simplistic, but it's true, no?  Humans tend to be one or the other.

We all know people who thrill us with unexpected things--flowers or emails or baubles.  Things that made them think of you.  Things for no reason.  Things for a reason.  Things that are fancy, things that are cheap.  Either way, it makes the heart leap a little.  It is something to be thought of, to be gifted with something--big or small.

And then there are those who take the most expensive thing on the menu or have an extra cocktail or two, yet insist on not troubling the table to do anything but split the bill.  There are those who surely read the lengthy missive you sent, advising them about a city or giving them business advice, yet must be too busy enjoying their holiday or starting their business to craft a response--even one so simple as "thank you."  Or those who hang out repeatedly, doling out the witty banter without doling out so much as a centime for the wine they must assume mitotically keeps your cabinets full.

Worse perhaps are "givers" who expect things in return, even if they don't admit it to themselves.  These are people who tally all the tits to make sure they get their tats.  But there's also a worrying and waste of energy involved in giving something to someone and then waiting to see how he or she will "repay" you.  A true gift is free, the only expectation is the let-go.  Because if you give something in expectation of the glory you will get in return, well, then you deserve to be let down.

I am a reformed taker, and a reforming tit-for-tat-er (despite having the most wonderfully generous parents as examples).  I am learning that it can feel better to give something away, even if there's a risk the person you give it to won't treasure it as much as you would or as you would hope or expect of him/her.  It's weird because I am a treasurer (a hoarder, of sorts), who keeps everything, probably because most all of my things are special to me and have stories behind them (even if it's just that I got it on major sale--who doesn't like that story?).  Things are more special when they were given to me by someone dear--or even better when made by that person.  And because I treasure these things so, I should be especially thrilled at the idea of giving things to other people--because I know how dear these things, too, could become.  But yet there is still a small pull, a little nag that makes me wonder if *I'm* not the best appreciator of one thing or another... so much so that it makes me want to keep it for myself.  It's like I am looking out for the best interests of the thing itself.  What?  It's a damn thing.  It doesn't care.

I think of times I was really down (after a surgery) and my friends sent me something so lovely and thoughtful and I cried because I felt so cared for and thought of.  Or when, after the same surgery, friends of my mom's stopped by and brought me little things to cheer me up, and these things got me out of bed to say "thank you" and enjoy some much needed company.  Or when I sent out a desperate email for some advice or a Skype session that was promptly attended to;  those responses saved me.  Or I think of times when I didn't realize I was a little down (like recently) and, lo, there's a package on its way from the States.  Or when I was just excited to have someone here for the weekend, but then she showed up with luscious treats (and flowers like BOOM!) that I never would have splurged on for myself.  Or when someone squirreled away things from the States (even if they were crazy things like a giant candy thermometer and deodorant) in her nearly overweight suitcase (OK, it was way more than just these two things) for me without a complaint.  Or when someone spotted me when my credit card was refused, even if it was for a pair of fancy shoes.  Or when someone not only drew or painted something special, but had it framed, too.  Or when someone had photos made because she knew I missed seeing all of the action firsthand.  Or when someone booked a last-minute jaunt to my hometown (in the midst of locust swarms) so we could catch up for a couple of days before I had to go back to Europe.  And these things, some of which are in my drawers or around my neck or on my walls or in my wardrobe and some of which have expired, they are all still with me.  These moments of receipt, they are all part of me.

I am writing all of this today because the package finally came.  The package that was supposed to show up a couple of weeks ago, the package that DHL told me was likely going to be returned to sender, back across the ocean.  And just then, when I thought it was gone, it showed up.  And I was overwhelmed at what a thoughtful and sweet friend I have.  Like most all of my friends, she is pretty incredible.  This one, she is a giver.  Perhaps the ultimate giver.  If there were a competition of thoughtful and giving people, I'm pretty sure my girl would take it, she's that good.  Many of my other friends also know her, and I'm certain that if I entered her in this made-up competition, they'd have their money behind her, too.  She's also one of the goofiest, smartest, good-at-her-job (and not at all a snotty fashion lady, though she certainly talks and walks it), passionate, and caring people I know.  If I could give you one thing right now, it would be to have a friend like her.  But you know what?  This one's mine.  And I'm gonna be stingy about it.

I guess I'm still learning about giving, after all.

Recent Haps

The other day, Virginie from HR was helping me with my French tax forms.  I had filled out as much as I could beforehand so as not to waste more of her time than necessary.  When she saw that I had checked "Madame" instead of "Mademoiselle", she sighed as she crossed it out saying, "You are 'mademoiselle.'  You are not married."
"Yes, I said.  But I'm old."
She laughed and said, "Yes.  But you are still 'mademoiselle.'"

I'll TAKE it.


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Today for some reason I didn't cross to the side of Vieille du Temple I usually take home.  And I felt a smidge of excitement when I realized I was walking on the other side of the street.  (It gets pretty exciting Chez Jode these days.  The other side of the street... oh my!)  A moment later, some wacko came up to me, spouting off that Michael Jackson was KILLED.  And THEY.  KNOW.  (At first, my poor translation skills thought he was making fun of me looking like Michael Jackson in my leather pants... but then I got it.)  I went home and promptly hit up the internet news to see if something new had come to light on MJ's death.  But alas, the east side of the street is just cray.


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We get out of work at 4 pm on Fridays.  (Every Friday, not just in the summer.  It's pretty great.)  Last Friday as I was walking home, I came upon a couple with the most adorable King Charles Cavalier pup with a GIANT burgundy bow around its neck.  Of course, I stalk-walked them, turning when they did, trying to get a photo without being seen, reveling in the profound happiness that a puppy both gives off and affords.  I found myself just wanting to be around her, with her feathery paws and her bow and her looking up at them lovingly and her stiffing of everything like it was the first time she'd experienced it (because it likely was).  And then I realized that I do this with ALL dogs--not just the cute puppas--because I don't have one.  I just want to be near them... to walk by them, to sit by them on the subway.  This is a special kind of crazy.  Perhaps I belong on the other side of the street, after all.

This Weekend's Eats

I've been gluten-free for nearly 3 months now!  I can't believe I put it off for so long because I've found that I'm really into the dietary self-discipline it brings.  Despite having had not one but TWO stomach bugs (or one nasty stomach bug that reared its head twice in as many weeks, as my doctor suspects) AND a cold in the same timespan, I am generally feeling better being off the wheat/flour/bread/beer.


These are the benefits I note:

1. No post-meal bloating or embarrassing tummy tunes.

2. I have eaten more fruits and vegetables in the past 3 months than perhaps I did all of last year.

3. I have become more aware of what I eat and how it affects me.  I am trying to eat more simply, to eat foods that are less processed and more natural.  I am getting closer to my food.

4. I can still have all the wine I want!  Beer, who needs ya?

5. I have lost 10 lbs.  (This is not entirely good, as now I need to buy new jeans--something I haven't done in about 7 years.  Maybe it's time to pull the trigger on this pair that I've been stalking for a while?)

6. As one who has a hard time making a decision when confronted with too many options on a menu (in a store..., in life generally...), I can now suss out the gluten-free offerings and relish the ease of my dinner decision almost being made for me!  Also, I can always have a salad, and this has started making me happy.  Go, salads!

7. Macarons.  All the macarons I want!

That said, part of cutting out gluten was to boost my general immunity and it turns out I am just getting over a cold.  But I think it probably takes longer than 3 months to truly take one's immunity to the next level.  I was getting a cold nearly every other month so I had 4 healthy, cold-free months this time.  If not eating gluten can help me to stretch the time between colds, then I am happy.  Besides, I was running around like crazy, traveling, and stressed out over major life things.  Sometimes a cold virus comes a-knockin' and there ain't nothing that can keep it out.

I spent this weekend cooking and even doing a little baking.  It's never as much fun cooking for one, but that didn't stop me.

My first attempt at gluten-free baking:  peanut butter-banana-chocolate chip cookies.  Lo and behold, they are VEGAN, too.  (That's like 10 extra points.  Toward what, I don't know?)  The recipe was quite simple, and the cookies were wonderful--moist and banana-y with a good crumb.  I put half of the dough in the freezer to use later, but when I ran out of cookies this morning it was promptly dispatched to the oven for more cookies.  Now that I've had these cookies, I realize I cannot be without.

(You can find the recipe here.  I am in love with this website already.)

Friday night's dinner was smoked pork sausage and potato-cabbage colcannon.  I found the loveliest petite head of cabbage, which was perfectly sized for one.  The outer leaves were a pale green, but inside it was yellow and filled with hardy sprouts and stalks that were the color of cauliflower.  It was like a hybrid cabbage/brussels sprout/cauliflower veg, and it was perfectly everything for everybody (me).

Yesterday I was strolling around the Etienne Marcel/Rue Montorgueil area, availing myself of the lovely markets (and the cute boutiques on Rue Tiquetonne) when I found myself with arms full of asparagus, radishes, and the most charming grapefruit-sized heads of butter lettuce my eyes ever did see.  (As I was washing them, I thought how darling these leafy babies were, all wrapped together like a hug.  That's right, butter lettuce = a hug.  [Washing lettuce makes me nuttier than usual, apparently.])  I grabbed some scallops and an ashy goat's cheese, and went home to get to it.  The second picture doesn't do my dinner justice, so you can focus on the one of the bright salad with tomatoes and radishes and the aforementioned goat's cheese.  But I assure you, the scallops were divine.

And look at these little radish mice!  The produce cuteness don't quit!