La Vita Nuova

Allegra Goodman wrote a beautiful short story titled La Vita Nuova in last week's New Yorker. (Two weeks ago? The white one with the line drawing.) It's the story of a young woman learning to cope after her fiance leaves her, but it's about is love in its many forms. It's about that tricky transfer of love that inevitably follows loss.

I emailed Goodman's story to my friend Lo, who immediately shut her computer in horror of the first sentence and then in horror of the girl recommending that she read it. It's sad, of course it is. But there is something significant to be gained from stories like this one. Besides being absolutely gorgeous prose, this story hit a very raw and honest note of grief without hinting at Sadness's comrades, Bitterness and Pity.

I remember hearing Katherine Paterson, the author of Bridge to Terabithia (who shares my birthday! Thanks, Wikipedia!) speak on NPR one morning about the shift in children's books and films from learning to shielding. We are so much more apt to shield children today from anything remotely harmful or upsetting than we are to let them experience life on their own terms. Paterson touched on topics like loneliness, tragedy, and jealousy--emotions that she truly believed children faced and needed to empathize with in literature.

She spoke of her interest in helping children learn how to feel. How to cope, how to be brave. She wasn't interested in teaching lessons, showing healthy examples, or shielding children from harm. She was interested in helping them cry, helping them grow, helping them learn how to love. Paterson's books were therefore at the center of the banned books witch hunts of the late 70's-- something which she talks about with pride. She firmly stood her ground, never abandoning her young adolescent fans who were affected and healed by her words.

Ludwig Bemelman also has an ever poignant line in his first Madeline book. 'They smiled at the good and frowned at the bad, and sometimes they were very sad.' I'm always so touched to read this inclusion in the happy lives of the twelve little girls in two straight lines. It's a testament to Bemelman's clear understanding of young minds, and to an era not so concerned with shielding children of all that is not-so-good. It's the same point on protection that God of Carnage snuck in there between bites of clafoutis, remember?

And like Bemelman and Paterson, Allegra Goodman refrains from teaching her audience a lesson. She doesn't lecture us or chide her character for neglecting societal norms in grieving. Goodman writes, 'Amanda tried writing a card or something. She wrote that she and her fiancé had decided not to marry. Then she wrote that her fiancé had decided not to marry her. She said that she was sorry for any inconvenience. She added that she would appreciate gifts anyway.'

So good, right? I actually have a lot more to say about the story's prose, and the effectiveness of interweaving the main character's inner dialogue with the physical plot. Isn't that how it always is? That continuing reassessment of past conversations despite our best efforts to forget? Talking with your boss, but thinking about how he once told you that you were his best friend? I also like stories that reference real books within the text, so that we have the option of reading the same books that the character is reading. So fun! (And extremely nerdy, I'm realizing as I type this.) In this case, Dante's La Vita Nuova plays a big role (obvs). At any rate, I need to get to work, so here's a link. Enjoy!

Kiki Smith: Sojourn

Thursday night was a busy one for me, but I managed to zip up to the Brooklyn Museum on Eastern Parkway to catch the tail end of the American High Style opening party in time for two quick glasses of bad Chardonnay and a scurried look at the new exhibition.

The fashion was lovely, to say the least. I'm still a little unsure of the overarching theme of the show other than "The Brooklyn Museum Is Now Partnering With The Met's Costume Institute And Look At All Of The Pretty Clothes We Have Now", and it seemed a bit small to be all that cohesive in terms of American Fashion-- but we loved the shoes, the gowns, and the big fashion house names. Dior, Chanel, Balenciaga, and Biambattista were all represented in their full regalia. Rachel should have been there, she would have loved it.

Like I said, the fashion was great. Really, really pretty. But what I'd rather discuss is the Kiki Smith exhibition just in the next wing. As usual, I have more to say about art than I do about fashion.

The last time I saw a Kiki Smith solo show was at Minneapolis's Walker Art Center in 2006. It was dark, VERY dark, but worked with a sickly fascination that college girls crave. That exhibition, titled A Gathering, included umbilical cords hanging from the ceiling, vats of 'puss', 'urine', and 'saliva' on a solid ledge, women's portraits covered in hair, and one remarkably memorable sculpture of a deer birthing a woman.

It was gruesome, indeed, but absolutely had purpose. Her sculptures were rooted in folklore, in Western biblical tradition, and in sharp focus with her own experience as a woman in the male dominated art world of today. In the end, it wasn't shocking (good art never is!) but it was significant.

So, last night upon entering her current exhibition, Sojourn, I felt the need to warn my fellow viewers that Kiki Smith's work can be, um, disturbing. Disturbing and weird, I think I so articulately put it. However, much to my surprise (and delight), Sojourn was quite the opposite. While A Gathering was dark and solemn, Sojourn was light and transient.

Smith's newest works are a self described 'exploration of womanhood'. One need not look further than the materials themselves to get this strongly driven point-- her materials include needlepoint, tissue paper, paper mache, glitter(!!!), and silk flowers. She uses these, shall we say, 'flimsy' tools to trace themes of womanhood from cradle to coffin.

The mystical and religious symbolism are once again present, most literally translated in her works The Annunciation and The Immaculate Conception. Paper mache light bulbs dipped in glitter hang on fishing line. Gold leafed birds drip stars in their wake on sculptures made of toothpicks. Life sized portraits of women seated with their mothers watch us with wide eyes and eighteenth-century expressions of solitude. It's what I imagine women on the prairie always looked like. Unhappy, but strong.

We wound our way around the thin white paper held up with pushpins to the coffins sprouting tiny glass flowers, transfixed with Smith's quiet reflections on a life's journey. While her tone hasn't shifted since her days of Wolfgirl, her execution clearly has. Was it mind blowing? No. But perhaps it wasn't supposed to be. It was, in the least, a nice contrast to the fashion in the next wing over-- a quiet, white world in the midst of all that female distraction.

Sunset

When John and I lived in Martinique 'studying French', we watched the sunset every single night. We would race from class down to the water, and sit there on the rocky pier (topless!) while the big neon sun dropped below the horizon. Afterwards we would skinny dip in the turquoise waters so salty we could effortlessly float and bob around for hours. Alors! C'est magnifique!

We swore to each other then and there that we would continue the tradition when we got home, because, well, doesn't the sun set everywhere? Why couldn't we pause for forty minutes in Minnesota each night as did in the Caribbean? Well, we didn't. Not once. Evenings in Minnesota were instead filled with hot cocoa and sledding and rousing choruses of Um Ya Ya. (Not that I romanticize my college experience or anything.)

Thinking back on it, I said the same thing about tea-and-biscuit-time while living in London, and about only eating local foods while living in Tuscany. Neither of those lasted either. And perhaps that is the reason we travel. Because despite globalization and gentrification and the Internet and McDonalds opening at the Louvre in Paris, some experiences cannot be translated outside of their resting place.

But luckily... LUCKILY... I am once again living by water, and can see the sun drop into the East River each night from my apartment windows if I so chose. Perhaps I can finally fulfill my sunset goal.

I ran for my camera the other night to catch the almost-pink-it-was-so-orange sun falling quickly. But alas, by the time I was back at the window, it had just dropped out of sight. The after effect was nice though-- the orange sky and the blue water... the silhouette of Brooklyn's dirty windows there to the left. That splat almost forms a smile, though, if you're an optimist like I am. I will, however, save the skinny dipping for Martinique. Some experiences just shouldn't translate to the East River. Ew.

Walter Martin & Paloma Muñoz: The New Pornographers NEW Album Cover

Don't you just love when bands use the work of contemporary artists on their album covers? In fact, I admittedly judge bands who use lame photographs of themselves making sultry eyes, and give graces to those who chose an appropriately felt piece of art instead. (This is an exception. You can use your own photograph if you also have a sword and an old car from the 70s and no shoes. IRONY, get it?)

The New Pornographers released a new album a few days ago and imagine my thrill when low and behold, one of my favorite photographs was proudly displayed it's glossy cover. The album is 'Together' and the artists are Walter Martin & Paloma Muñoz, who I've seen multiple times at P.P.O.W. in Chelsea. Also, my friend Kim owns a print of theirs that hangs modestly in her kitchen hallway of which I'm insanely jealous. (Oh, is that a good artist? I just bought it at an auction, I thought it was pretty!)

Anyway. I've yet to listen to this album as, well, let's not get into my difficulties with itunes and the checking account fraud that victimized me Wednesday morning, but Neko seems to be there in the snow singing her little heart out on the website version, so I'm not worried. But I need to start listening soon, as one Miss Katinka Henly has warned us all that The New Porns are singing exclusively from this album on their upcoming tour of which we are all attending. Crossing my fingers for Myriad Harbor, though. Please, Neko! It's been a rough week...

Art Chicago and NEXT Art Fair

Mitsuru Takeya, "Shark", Megumi Ogita Gallery, Tokyo

Judy Pfaff

Judy Pfaff

Matthew Abbott, Electric Doorbell Machine, 2010, acrylic and oil on linen

Richard Bosman

Rob Wynne, "Oops!", Rebecca Ibel Gallery, Chicago

Rob Wynne, Rebecca Ibel Gallery, Chicago

Barry Lategan, Twiggy

Art Chicago and NEXT Art Fair took place last week in Chicago's towering Merchandise Mart there on the river. I spent two days winding my way through booths, chatting up dealers, and clicking photos with my phone camera.

The Chicago fairs are inevitably much more conservative than their New York/Miami/Basel counterparts, and less shocking to say the least. Chicago's scene is much more 'hangable', as they say in the biz. It's art that we want to own, live with, hang over our sofas. Rothko called this type of art 'mantle paintings' for that very reason. Yes, he meant it as an offensive critique, but there is a time and a place for art that we relate to on a aesthetically visceral level.

Take Barry Lategan's Twiggy. There is nothing new or radical (let's use the word 'radical' more, shall we?) about those sepia tones and familiar coal eye liner, but its just so good and iconic that it still works. No one would care about such a portrait at the Armory Show, but in Chicago we gape. Brooklyn's Judy Pfaff is an old favorite of mine, and I would KILL to get a Rob Wynne exclamation for my bedroom. I've used that Richard Bosman piece on this blog before, and seeing intaglio so beautifully executed actually made me salivate.

NEXT is Art Chicago's cooler, hipper, younger, and more affordable counterpart, and took place just a short elevator ride away. (Actually the elevator service at the Merch Mart is nuts! Can someone please get in there and restore those cables before they all start plummeting, as is one of my worst nightmares post The Tower of Terror circa 1992.)

Ryan and I ate up the tiny watercolors by unknown (until now!) Japanese painter Mitsuru Takeya at the Megumi Ogita booth who painted that shark up top. He's also living as my phone wallpaper at the moment, grinning all the while. We were introduced to the work of Brooklyn painter Matthew Abbott who has an opening in his Williamsburg loft later this month and you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be there showing my support. (Congrats Matthew and Amanda on the space!)

The art was good. It was solid, clean, and worthy. But, let's be honest, I'll be ready for something a little less 'solid' come Basel. I'll side with Rothko over Picasso any day.

(Note: sorry about the formatting on this. Much to my annoyance, Blogger just can't seem to get it together when I try to add multiple photos to a post. Gar.)

The Wednesday Chef: A Helluva Town

A nice start to my Monday morning--- Luisa's very sincere tribute to New York on her blog, The Wednesday Chef. Enjoy.

***Note: although I read her blog daily, I have only attempted one of Luisa's recipes. During Meghan's last visit to Brooklyn (second to last visit, if you include that rushed dinner at Cafe Luxembourg a few weeks back) we made Testaccio's Gnocchi alla Romana. Despite looking nothing like the photo and tasting somewhat bland, it ended up being one of my better nights in this city. We squeezed the ghocchi assembly in between Up in the Air at BAM, a rushed trip to Whole Foods on the Bowery, and a few bottles of Olivino red. I should cook more, I really should.

This Summer

This summer you will find me-- and those ding-dong friends of mine-- here. On Kate and Helen's patio on Avenue C, just past that massive weeping willow on 10th Street. We will be drinking Cava, listening to Paul Simon, and hoping that that guy in cut-offs crawls out the window again. Off to a good start, wouldn't you say?