The History of Love: Part II

I am serious, people. The History of Love might be my new favorite novel. I am clearly inching through it, though not for lack of interest. I've been busy!

Busy doing things like baking chocolate cakes in heart-shaped molds that I found in my Grandmother's 'give-away' pile when we moved her to an apartment last year; busy sharing homemade gnocchi and triple-cream goat cheese dipped in truffled honey with my parents; busy expanding my heart a full size during the St. Olaf Choir's power rendition of Persian folk tunes (and of course Beautiful Savior, although I did not cry); busy with dance classes and happy hours, friend visits and movie marathons.

The point is-- I've been busy. I'm only halfway through this book, reading in whatever 10 min train ride I have to myself or reading 2 pages before my eyes blink heavily shut after another whirlwind February day. Meanwhile-- Will has finished an entire other book (although I'm not envious of his finishing this one. I surely don't wish it to end.)

That said-- I will give you another taste. Another taste before the grand finale of my actual review of the book upon its completion (perhaps on February 14th? A day celebrating no other than the very HISTORY that is love?). Some background on the story itself-- The History of Love tells the story of a book called The History of Love and those affected by it. Confused? Me too. The piece below is from the fictional book The History of Love within the novel The History of Love. It tells, quite literally, the history of... thats right... love. Never mind. Just enjoy---

The Age of Silence

from The History of Love in The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

"If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms-- if you find yourself at a loss for what do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body-- it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what's inside and what's outside, was so much less. It's not that we've forgotten the language of gestures entirely. The habit of moving our hands while we speak is left over from it. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up: all artifacts of ancient gestures. Holding hands, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together."

Happy early Valentines, my loves.

ps. The valentines above are in honor of some of the great men in my life. (Both of them are fictional. Clearly.)

A Gift

I'm reading a book about love right now (I actually JUST told you about the book, but whatever) and each morning I step on the train I get lost in a world driven by heartbreak, by love, and by absolute emotion. Just when I think I've felt every tone of this thing called love, I read another chapter and my world shifts on its axis. For example:

"My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," I'd say. Bird would point to the table. "THIS IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," I'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." We'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" Bird would yell. I'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." Bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: "I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!" "But you're only seven," I said."

Now, you might not find that paragraph all that compelling, as you don't know who Bird is, and your heart hasn't expanded three times it's normal size (if you're going to rip someone off, it might as well be Dr. Seuss) since meeting Bird via book, but it gets to me. It gets to me like a punch in the stomach. Will and I actually agreed over text message yesterday, in true two-person-book-club-form, that The History of Love is in many ways shamelessly taking advantage of our emotions.

THE POINT IS--- I've been thinking a lot about love.

And yesterday-- I received love. Love in the form of a package postmarked Seattle from my dear friend, Lo. (Lo of Movie Monday fame.) In a brown-paper-wrapped Derby Game box from the 50's I found the following treasures:

*a children's book published in 1973 entitled 'Do You Know About Stars'

*10-15 Kinder toys from Lo's personal collection

*a t-shirt with the words 'I left my heart in New York City' embroidered on the front (didn't we all?)

*a rock to befriend Papa Rock, my childhood rock who still sits on by bedside table and might be my only childhood position to travel with me to 7 different apartments as a sort of security blanket (not as weird as it sounds. Well, maybe as weird as it sounds.)

*a pin from the 1939 New York City World's fair that her grandfather gave her grandmother in 1939 AT the World's Fair

*and a dvd of Lo explaining it all.

It wasn't just a package, it was a little world. I little world where I can escape, between palm trees and aliens; stars and pet rocks. A world that takes me away of my current reality which is an extremely delicate balance of laughter and tears; dancing and falling. This gift is love physically felt-- across all the middle states between New York and Washington (both of those states often have the word 'state' after them, isn't that a neat connection?) and between cell phone calls and gchat conversations. Thank you, dearheart. I love my gift.

The History of Love

Hello, February.

Oh, how I love this time of year-- when the calendar turns from snowy, contemplative January to lovely and hopeful February. When local businesses tape paper hearts in their windows and Duane Reade starts selling those awesome red sour cherry balls (Laura, you know what I'm talking about.); elementary students craft Valentines boxes, Be my Valentine, Charlie Brown plays on network television, and I have a solid excuse to sit in my apartment all weekend making glittered hearts with colored paper. I love it.

I'm just going to jump right on the bandwagon here with two of my favorite bloggers (and friends), William and Jennifer, and start off February with a "love" post. A love post and a commitment to more love posts for the next 14 days. A Valentines post, you might say.

I have long been a fan of the 'two person book club'-- something I started with my dentist a few years ago. He recommends a book for me, and I for him, and then we talk about those books during my next appointment as he polishes my molars. It works pretty well, but he has a clear advantage on the talking portion of the club.

Well, since Dr. Silver Fox D.D.S. (not his real name) introduced me to this fine pastime, two-person book clubs have sprouted up all over, sometimes without even any real recognition. Alison and I host them regularly (Mystic Lake in Palm Beach, hello), and my entire department at work recently finished Happens Every Day, and you KNOW how much I have to say about that book.

The greatest part of two-person book club is that you don't have to host those high-pressure wine-and-cheese meetings every other Tuesday. You don't need a menu, or a Cabernet, or a babysitter (well, I never need a babysitter, in fact i AM a babysitter! But you get my point.). You just need a friend (or dentist) to call whenever something awesome or terrible happens in the book you are reading. It's nice to have someone there to agree with you when you're disappointed in a character, surprised by a plot shift, or simply enjoying a sentence.

It's helpful to have someone to challenge your conclusions and support your opinions. And if one of you doesn't finish the book-- who cares! You can give lame excuses for your tardiness in finishing like "Shut up, I've been busy!" and only ONE person will be upset, not an entire room. You can even quickly move along to another club without the added guilt of six women in twin-sets glaring at you over their Camembert. (Do I have a skewed view of book clubs? I think its coming from Tom Perralta's description of them in Little Children?) Anyway. 'Two person book clubs are-- in general-- just a good idea.

This month, William (look- he posted about two person book clubs once before as well!) has joined me in the honorable quest of finishing 'The History of Love' by Nicole Krauss for a February edition of two-person book club.

I've actually only just started the novel (shut up, Will! I've been busy!) but I've already fallen head-over-heels for this book. Krauss falls in line with Jonathan Saffron Foer as only the second author to actually make my heart expand. Like, physically expand. And guess what--she is MARRIED to Jonathan Saffron Foer and their writing style is shockingly similar. They were actually rumored to be working on The History of Love and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (my favorite novel of all time) at the same time. Maybe they discussed plot twists in bed and chatted about their characters over cereal. You might even say that in writing these two novels, Krauss and Foer had their OWN two-person book club! Moving on...

The book is fantastic. And I'm somewhat convinced that it was written just for me (see, this is why I am a good candidate for a two-person book club. I need someone like Will to tell me that statements like that one are complete nonsense). Here's a taste:

"Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist, there are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges and absorbs the impact."

I'm completely smitten.

Happy February, all :)

Love Darts

In honor of my very favorite month, February, I give you the loveliest couple in all the land-- Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos. NOTE: If you press play and think I've gone crazy, or believe my credibility to be completely shot--wait for it (or skip to 3:45 into the clip if you must)... wait for young Joaquin Consuelos and his partner Julie explain snail mating patterns. You will not be disappointed.

Happy early Valentines Day, New York. :)

Lovely Day

Yes, I have decided to rename the ol' blog. It's the same blog-- same everything-- but new title. It's just time for some change, that's all.

I chose the long and droning title 'So Much to Fall in Love With' late one night after watching some old black and white movie in bed in a fit of panic. You all know the story... I had hit rough waters and found myself grasping for comfort in any way possible. I needed to fall back in love with my own life and fast. And for some unknown reason, a blog suddenly sounded like a brilliant and perfect way to do so.

I didn't intend on showing anyone the blog, save for a few close friends and my sisters. I was extremely embarrassed that I was being so very 'internety' in blogging but slowly began to unfurl and share my little thoughts and happenings with more people. I knew that the title was too long and not catchy enough from that very first post but decided to focus on writing and loving and think about the title later.

Well, almost ten months and 118 posts later I still don't like that title. I LOVE what the blog has done for my life-- I fully credit this outlet for suturing my heart. It did what it was supposed to do. It brought me back into my life in a very real and tangible way. I transferred the love I thought I had lost to other things: art, movies, books, theater, and above all else-- New York City. I found out how easy it is to be actively in love. (Are you with me?) New York became my rebound. And it worked.

Anyway.... I love writing and I love hearing your comments and I don't intend on stopping anytime soon. But I still hate the old title. So, for the past month or so, I've been consulting a Blog Renaming Committee that I formed myself. Some of the committee members were very enthusiastic and others (fine, MOST) could have cared less what I call this thing. We all talked about many options (my favorite being Que Sera Sarah, hahahaa) but in the end of course I chose my own title that no one else really loved. Go figure.

Lovely Day. Will thinks its too 'old lady-ish'; Lo thinks it sounds like I am 'trying to be British'. Meghan very tactfully told me to 'keep thinking' and Alex just changed the subject most of the time. Alison just wanted me to keep working on the 'Character Page' (COMING SOON!) and Annie wanted me to include the word 'gold' in the title somehow because its my favorite color. Katie pretty much loved every title I mentioned, and that's why she's the best roommate ever.

But I like it. I like Lovely Day. I completely stole it from a great little restaurant in Nolita, but I think it fits this blog just fine. And to be honest, if this blog were to be a restaurant, I would hope that it might look a bit like the interior of its namesake: floral stenciling, diner-style red leather booths, Formica-topped tables, an old wooden soda fountain–era bar, and an antique cash register. A little sloppy; unashamedly nostalgic; oddly chic.

I have perfectly held memories of ordering cold noodles at Lovely Day in a red vinyl covered booth over 4 years ago as a student studying art in the big city. I remember how it felt 'so New York' to me at the time (which is phrase that real New Yorkers would never use but I didn't know that then) with its chalkboard wine list, crammed tables, dark interior, and slightly rude wait staff.

I can remember sitting there, slurping those noodles, and thinking that my life would be perfect if I could just live in a city that offered little places with names like 'Lovely Day' on little streets with names like 'Elizabeth.' None of it seemed big to me... it was all small and secret and wonderful. New York was a million little nooks and crannies and I wanted to fit into each one.

In all ironies, I now work just down the street from Lovely Day on Elizabeth and walk by often. I live here and work here and have discovered many little places like Lovely Day-- places that I've laughed and conversed and fought and cried and kissed and laughed some more. I was naive then and I'm naive now and you know what... that's okay.

So the new name is Lovely Day. Let me know what you think. :)


(Oh, and its still the same web address! Don't get confused! Its still somuchtofallinlovewith.blogspot.com. I couldn't change that.)

I Heart Art

In honor of this lovely holiday, I am taking Katie's lead and bringing you some of my loves... all Valentine's Day themed artworks. (If you can't be corny on Valentines Day, when can you be?)

Hanging Heart (Magenta and Gold), above, is my absolute favorite piece by the famed Jeff Koons. It is currently in a private collection (if I'm wrong please correct me) but you can view his sister piece Sacred Heart (Red/Gold) on display on the Met's rooftop. It feels just how love should... big, juicy, and bold.

Further downtown tonight, Fernando Mastrangelo's show LoVE is a smoke made with the fume of sighs... is opening at Kumukumu Gallery on the Lower East Side.

Mastrangelo is a Brooklyn artist who has transformed Kumukumu into a three part sea vessel-- a metaphor for life, death, and love. It's a romantic yet forlorn look at love as conveyed through history, literature, and art. And the title, if you weren't aware, was taken directly from Romeo and Juliet. Yep. LOVE IT.

My final heart is an Andy Warhol 1979 screen print. I actually did a similar series in college of intaglio prints of hearts that I sketched from human anatomy textbooks. There is something so alluring about this grotesque yet poetic human organ that has been the physical embodiment of love for centuries. And coming from a medical family background, this was my meager attempt at connecting art and science.

Warhol completed this version late in his career when he could pretty much stamp anything and make it famous. While this phase of his life annoys me a bit, I do love the piece.


Happy Heart Day, my loves. :)

Reasons To Love New York (especially right now.)

New York Magazine dedicates their last issue each year to reasons why we love New York. And I, obviously, love it. It is Christmastime in New York City and before I head home to the Heartland for the holidays, I thought I'd reflect a little and post my own list. Because, yes, Virginia, I do love this city.

1) It finally snowed.
Just as we were all getting a little Grinchy at the Art in America offices on Broadway (myself included), quarter-sized snowflakes started slowly dropping from the sky. If you live here, you remember them. I kept hearing the word 'snowglobe' said around Soho, no joke. Because it absolutely looked like one. A cheesy Christmastime New York snowglobe. And we ate it up.

2. Rockefeller Center still uses colorful Christmas lights.
I don't know about you, but I get really sick of all-white lights. They look nice in certain situations, like in Aspen year round, but at Christmastime I wanna see some big bright C9 bulbs like my dad always used. Rock center, Christmas central, does not disappoint.

3. The Anthropologie Christmas Windows
Better than Macy's and better than Bloomingdales and better than Bergdorf's. The three main themes this year: tinsel, big C9 lights, and paperchains. You can see why I was struck... It looked like my apartment.

4. This snowman on Gates Avenue

And that a dude was standing on top of his car kicking off the snow on the next car over. New Yorkers don't really know how to handle snow that well. They kind of panic, lets just be honest.

5. The "The Economy Sucks but We Don't" sales
Alison and I Christmas shopped all day on Saturday and encountered the best sales we've ever seen. Bloomberg got on the news to encourage Christmas shopping and to remind us that we are all in this together and that businesses really do need us this year. The mood was nothing but merry on 5th Ave, and the employees so very helpful. The later was definitely a Christmas miracle.

6. The homeless subway entertainers have switched to Christmas Carols.
And they probably get more money that way, so its a good thing all around! (I'm dying for an entire train car to join in one of these days, but this is still New York, after all. And even though it is Christmastime, we are usually still pissed off on the train. Its tradition.)

7. Because Robert Moses would have a coronary if he were to see our streets now.
(Yeah, I stole this from the NY Mag list but it is deserving.) New York is reverting back to a pedestrian city. Strips of street have been painted tan, flanked with planters and benches. Bikers, walkers, and observers have taken over traffic and everyone seems to be okay with it. If there is one reason I love New York right now, this is it... and Jane Jacobs would be oh-so-proud.

8. Because New Yorkers still understand the concept of a lazy Sunday.
I had this discussion with friends today... only in New York will people drop all of their plans to sit in a cozy apartment or bar with a fireplace and a glass of wine for the entire day without a second thought. In the summer, Sundays are spent doing as much as we can, hopping from one Brooklyn activity to the next. But in the wintertime, we sit around and talk all day and never go outside because its just too cold. That's exactly how I spent my day today. An older coworker of mine once hinted at this and told me to enjoy it while I am single and young... 'there is simply nothing more decedent than drinking all day on a winter afternoon,' she said. I completely agree.

9. Because people actually stop working between Christmas and New Years.
Well... maybe just in the art world.

10. Because when you are single and 25 and working a 9-5 job in New York City, you can do whatever the hell you want from 5pm to 9am.
I totally stole this from last year's list, but I've been thinking about it for the entire year. The point is that there is so much to do in New York--anytime, all of the time-- but especially at Christmas. And people actually get out there are do it! That's the major difference between New York and middle America... people share in community activities and aren't dead set on being at home. Perhaps small apartments might have something to do with it, but whatever the reason, New Yorkers absolutely take advantage of all that the city has to offer. People get excited, parties are thrown, everything is holiday themed. I haven't been home after work in months. I find myself with plans every single night, usually multiple engagements to choose between. And while my laundry has suffered, my spirit is all the better for it.

Happy Christmas, everyone :)

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

It would be a long while because, quite simply, I was in love with New York. I do not mean “love” in any colloquial way, I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you and you never love anyone quite that way again.

I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage.

-Joan Didion, 'Goodbye to All That'

Joan Didion's Goodbye to All That from her collection of essays entitled Slouching Towards Bethlehem both affirmed and frightened me. It really is quite terrifying to read as a 23 year old new New Yorker, which is the age I was when I first read it. I love it and I hate it but I think I love it more. It changed me, no doubt, and jerked me into a better understanding of self in my current life, however odd that may sound.

Didion writes an account of her love affair with and subsequent fall from New York City. Her words are so familiar that they bite. They were familiar the first time I read them, shockingly so, and even after I read them again today, for what have been the twentieth time, they still bite.

My roommate Meg often tells me that no one loves New York as much as I do. I don't know if that is true, but I do know that few love it in the same way that I do. But Joan Didion absolutely understood what it felt like to be in love- real heartbeating love- with a city. With this city. (Remember how lovingly she phrased it? 'the way you love the first person who ever touches you and you never love anyone quite that way again...') The problem is that she fell in it and then she fell from it and she wrote about it with such bitterness. One can only fall that hard and be that hurt if she is in very, very deep. Joan was, and I am.

Didion moved to New York when she was twenty and it was the summertime. She had no idea what she was doing but she thought she did. She dove in and without coming up for air, embraced everything around her. She went to parties and roamed the streets and stayed up all night and never bought any furniture. She talks about the smells, the snowflakes, and the very clear naivete. She writes about her young self not with fondness as most writers do, but with a sort of dissonance. Sour grapes, almost.

Didion has always written with a certain harshness. She can go on about the scent of L'Air du Temps perfume mixing with Henri Bendel soap and the salty smell of the crab markets without getting the least but romantic. In fact, she isn't romantic, not in the slightest. She is a gorgeous, crafted writer--sentimental, even. But her words and sentences and phrasing are nothing but honest. The way that she writes takes you into her world with a clear lens and felt truth. It scares me a little bit. So much that I can't stop reading her.

The 'long while' that she refers to in the passage above is an understanding of what it means to become jaded. It would be a long while before she would fall from the girl not understanding the big joke and not caring in the slightest due to the distractions of Christmas trees on Fifth Avenue, the first snow as seen from a cab, a new party dress, and Park avenue in December. She didn't care to pay attention to the naysayers because she wasn't one yet and that's a good enough reason as any.

Didion started to fall when she began to avoid the city. This is what struck me to the core the first time I read this. I think about it all the time. Everyday maybe. Once she had been here for a few years she learned what spots to avoid... couldn't bear upper Madison Avenue on weekday mornings, couldn't stand Times Square in the afternoon, and stopped going to the New York Public Library all together.

If you live in New York, you understand. These things are helpful and even necessary. But for Didion it started building on itself. Pretty soon you can't leave your apartment because you are paralyzed by all of the places you can't stand to be. And Didion eventually sat in her apartment on Seventy-Fifth street for days, too frightened to go outside. You can see why she started falling out of love. The city had stopped loving her back, or so she believed.

I know that Soho is horrific on the weekends, so is Times Square. The village is crazy after midnight and Prospect Park is a madhouse of buttercream cake, helium balloons, and sticky children every Sunday afternoon. But you have to go anyway. You have to. Didion stands as a warning as to why its so important. My dance class is in Soho on Saturdays and Times Square has the good movie times, not to mention most of the theater.

We go to the Village for its craziness and there is enough room in Prospect Park for all of us. Its a goddamn piazza (as Tom Hanks once so eloquently said). The city as a whole is a place we all can gather and must do so to keep its pulsing streets alive. You can't just love New York as an abstract concept, you have to love its parts too. This is what Didion failed to understand. Its why she had to move and she knows it.

I had a huge party marking my One Year Anniversary with New York... one year from the day I moved into my first apartment on 102nd and Central Park West. I told the same joke over and over-- that my relationship with New York is the longest, most significant, and most rewarding relationship that I have ever been in. New York and I are getting on fabulously, I gushed. Its been a whole year, and I know its still the honeymoon phase but I think this might be the real deal. We're just so in love... It was self deprecating, clearly, but everyone thought I was really funny and they all bought me drinks to cheers my love story. The fascinating part, however, is that its true.

And I am the naive girl, I know that. This entire blog is naive in its tone, right? (Was anyone ever so young, she asks.) This is where the better understanding of self kicks in--I am Young Joan still, not Wise All-Knowing Joan. I know.

Didion lives in Los Angeles now, and has for many many years. She stayed in New York for eight and never regrets leaving. She loved New York (still loves? Its hard to tell...) but her love affair ended at twenty-eight. And that's okay. Its not easy for me to say that, ask Meg. I get harshly defensive when people don't love New York as much as I do. But I'm trying to work on it. To understand that New York has many many stories. Eight million, in fact. And Didion moved on to what some would consider to be a 'more important' love story--take an afternoon to read A Year of Magical Thinking, you'll know what I mean. And perhaps someday I will have a story like that too.

Falling in Love.

Love, Love, Love is a collection of essays written by one of my most memorable professors at St. Olaf College, Charles Taliaferro. In the essay with the same title, Charles speaks of the epic, grandiose concept of love with his dying father. "You know, Dad, when you get to the other side, there might be lots of questions. I hear that it's a good idea to say the word 'love' a lot." Shortly thereafter, his father takes his last breaths, squeezes his son's hand three times and whispers, "Love. Love. Love."

On a similar (lighter?) note, my dance instructor, Corey Hill (the magnificent) often says that words are best when repeated. I think its because he is too excited to say anything once... 'Here we go, here we go!' 'one more, one more!' 'dance, dance, dance!' 'its Britney, Its Britney!'...

Since I moved to New York City slightly over a year and a half ago, I too have come to realize exactly what this epic and grandiose concept can do... what power it can have. I have fallen in love time and time again with its streets, with its light, with its vigor, and its grace. I love its people and its energy and its temperance. New York taught me how to love unconditionally and what the word unrequited means. It taught me that loving is enough, and something we can absolutely choose to do. (It is a choice, ah ha!) Its fluid and easy and simple... its sharp, and biting, and clear.

However, in the recent past, New York and I have experienced the opposite of love: heartbreak (not hatred, yo). The city’s streets are screaming with economic upheaval, my dear friends' hearts are breaking over jobs, grad school, friendships, and boys. We are crying over stress and homework and deceit. It’s awful. I feel myself falling, failing, and flailing and realizing that there are things in this world that I can't make happen... things that I cannot fix. This is new to me.

Until this point I have rested my trust on the belief that I can create the very world I want to live in out of dust, and clay, out of paint and generosity. But I am quickly learning that I cannot create everything. I suddenly find myself beliving in crazy ideas like destiny for the first time. 'Destiny' being a future and livelihood beyond my control. This 'destiny' is happening to me whether I like it or not. And its kind of the best feeling ever.

I am left with an intensity to love as much as I can... to let go and fall head over heels with this city. With this beautiful old Building and Loan. There is nothing to do but release this heartbreak and start my own love story. And there is SO MUCH to fall in love with. So much to love me back.

New York love comes in many forms (and cliches) and, as Corey Hill so joyously taught me, are best when repeated. Best told over and over. So here is my small attempt at sharing my intense, crazy, and passionate New York love. That's what a blog is, right? A way to share so that others may repeat? Well, if so... these are the things that I love, love, love.