Hyperkult

Icons for the ages: Belmondo and Seberg; Photo credit: Film Reference

Once again I’m guilty of blog neglect, which is a shame because there are so many creative, delicious (food-related and otherwise) things that I’m enthused about right now. I’ve often felt compelled to share them, yet haven’t been able to muster the energy or focus to write.

There’s the otherworldly brilliance of Flying Lotus‘ new album, Cosmogramma, the joy that Cinespia season brings, my overwhelming devotion to L.A.’s nonpareil beat scene, my obsession with Echo Park designer Clare Vivier’s gorgeous bags (in sumptuous leather and, for summer, smart-looking canvas), and the 50th anniversary re-release of one of my favorite films, Breathless. And that’s not the half of it.

In short, I’ve been busy, but with Hollywood Bowl shows, many a weekend trip planned, culinary explorations, and so much more in store, now is not the time to slacken my writing pace.

My sweet friend and savvy co-worker Sarah is someone that I’ve been looking to for blogging inspiration. Fancy Eats, which she co-writes with her friend Amanda, is the stylish duo’s online fashion and food diary. There you’ll find them musing about everything from Isabel Marant (love) to amazing ramen restaurants, and encouraging readers to “Eat Well. Dress Fancy.”

I recently joined them on a Fancy Eats outing to M Cafe de Chaya in Beverly Hills, which we hit up with our Blackboard Eats coupon codes in hand. I frequent the Melrose M Cafe far more often than I’d like to admit, never tiring of their Sesame Soba Noodles and Kale with Spicy Peanut Dressing. This time around, I was floored by the layered fudge cake, which tasted nothing like any dairy-free dessert I’ve tried in the past. It puts mealy, dry vegan pastries to shame with each thickly-frosted, dark chocolate layer.

Our post-macrobiotic glow; Photo credit: Fancy Eats

Meanwhile, Luisa—who is a great storyteller, easily my funniest girlfriend and one of the most generous, warm people I know—shares the things that she loves on Free the Inspiration. From philanthropic outreach to runway stills to short films, Lu consistently unearths cool things to share with the online masses. Her latest pet project is an audition tape she made for Oprah’s soon-to-be-launched network.

Considering how much Luisa manages to inspire me, whether through her creative endeavors or during long conversations shared over wine in my living room, this contest seems like it was designed for her. Of course I’m biased, but I think you should vote for Luisa—multiple times, if possible. She’s a lovely person whose individuality would really shine on a show of her own design. The concept: to get meandering adults in touch with their most deeply held dreams. Hell, we could all use that kind of help, and who doesn’t love a good makeover? Vote for Luisa by clicking here.

In other news, I’m still mourning the recent loss of Lala and searching for a suitable playlist alternative. Fairtilizer will have to do in the interim. Here’s a taste of what I’ve been listening to lately:

Related Links:

Major Lazer and La Roux Present Lazerproof (Mad Decent)

Over the Weekend: Flying Lotus at the Echoplex (LA Weekly)

See Vivier (Clare Vivier Blog)

Trosman A/W 2010 and S/S 2010; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Generally I avoid shopping on Melrose for obvious reasons: Fairfax eastward is touristy, congested, and stores hawk kitschy stripper wear, while boutiques around Melrose Place are too expensive and don’t really appeal to my style anyway.

Wasteland is a Melrose exception, though my main gripes with the store—unlike its more vintage-oriented San Francisco counterpart—are that pieces tend to be overpriced and the designer selection very stereotypically L.A. (You’ll find no shortage of Corey Lynn Calter dresses or Mike & Chris cropped leather jackets, with wayward Juicy Couture items here and there.) And God forbid you try to sell pieces to Wasteland L.A., a notoriously difficult task that often results in would-be consigners being sent to Crossroads, rejected items in tow.

Bartering aside, if you dig—really dig—through the racks you’ll probably walk away with more than a few gems. Today I lucked out, mentally instructing myself to “put down the Margiela” at one point and discovering a new label during my trip.

Jessica Trosman is a Buenos Aires-based designer whose clothing is inspired by everything from National Geographic magazine to Mid-Century modern architects. After flipping through a few recent collections online, particularly the Autumn/Winter ones, I saw some Rick Owens/Haider Ackermann seeping into her work—and I approve. It’s nice to connect with a designer outside of the New York-Paris-London-Milan network; the colors and textures of her spring collections speak to a South American sensibility that I find refreshing and youthful.

My find was a simple racer-back tank that skims the body then flares out with loads of deconstructed ruching, a mere $35. Slim jeans and slouchy pirate boots and I’m good to go for my next show outing.

Trosman ad campaign; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Va-Va-Vuitton; Photo credit: Style.com

If I could sum up Marc Jacobs’ Fall 2010 presentation for Louis Vuitton in one word, it would be “breasts.”

Fashion journalists and bloggers have been abuzz about Jacobs ushering in the “return of the curve” with dresses that Mad Men’s costumers should take note of. Waists nipped in by long belts and flared, A-line skirts dressed women of notably more shape than the usual crop of rail-thin models employed for runway shows. Though the latter had a presence at Vuitton, attention was showered on the heaving bosoms of Laetitia Casta and Adriana Lima (both new mothers), and model-turned-lingerie designer Elle Macpherson, the show’s queen bee in a voluminous pink strapless gown.

The clothes were indisputably gorgeous, hearkening back to one of my favorite ’50s-inspired Jacobs collections, that of Spring 2003, but done up with the exaggerated opulence that the House of Vuitton demands. Lately I’ve found myself trading minis for high-waisted, below-the-knee skirts and Mary Jane heels, and come fall I can see myself pairing them with cashmere (okay, faux cashmere) sweaters, new tortoise shell glasses*, and a vintage schoolgirl’s satchel that I really wish was Proenza Schouler’s PS1 bag.**

Miuccia Prada’s Fall collection was also a celebration of shapeliness, a term I use with reserve. When reporters say “bigger” women graced the catwalk at Vuitton and Prada, they’re referring to models over a size 2. If these are diversity efforts, then we are eking toward variety at the slowest possible pace. My instincts tell me this is the best we can hope for at the moment, the swerve and bounce of these women’s figures labeled “radical” by an industry accustomed to denying difference—denying bodies—altogether.

But in Paris and Milan many of the collections themselves were glorious, leading me, a sun-worshipping Californian, to daydream about colder climates and donning nubby knee-high socks or Hannah MacGibbon’s rust colored turtleneck jumper for Chloé. Brilliant.

*Thanks to my friend Luisa of Free The Inspiration for introducing me to Warby Parker’s awesome glasses.

**If you’ve seen the bag in person you know that the bigger the size, the more it starts to look like a laptop case, as my sister astutely pointed out. In fantasy-land, I’d prefer the smaller version for everyday wear.

Proenza Schouler PS1 bag; Photo credit: Net-a-Porter

Prada and Chloé Fall 2010 RTW; Photo credit: Style.com

"Miles" Glasses; Photo credit: Warby Parker

The first strawberries of the season

I spent last weekend surrounded by rain-soaked vineyards in Napa, warmed by meals prepared in the localvore tradition that us Californians love. That is to say, simple, rustic, and dictated by market-fresh produce, paired with wines that left a lasting impression on both my tongue and psyche.

This all sounds silly if you view food in unromantic terms. Certainly food is fuel; I’m of the strong belief that what we put into our bodies is wildly important, as is knowing its provenance—the who, what, where, and how of its growth and delivery. Food also happens to be one of the few things which assaults multiple senses at once. I recall pink, falling-off-the-bone pieces of porky flesh nestled against a whipped cloud of potatoes at one meal; the deep, deep burgundy of an as-of-yet unlabeled wine spoke to its peppery richness before I took the first sip at Friday supper; caramelized baby root vegetables added bursts of orange and purple to my pasta dish at Bottega. Food stimulates; it beckons; it conjures meaningful memories; it taps into our hedonistic tendencies. For many women (and men, for that matter), myself included, food is/has been a source of great fear and anxiety at times. I know all too well what it is like to suffer an embattled relationship with food, a dynamic that persists but that I fight at every turn to overcome.

Dining among fellow “foodies” these anxieties fell away, replaced by slow and savory meals and conversations spoken in high-pitched Napa-ese. We discussed the merits of using Anjou versus Bartlett pears for fruit tarts, raved about the punch of a long-simmering duck ragu drizzled over pan-fried gnocchi, and drank to a comfortable buzz, not wretched intoxication.

I write about my Napa experience in light of two articles I recently read, one an essay written by model-turned-cookbook author Sophie Dahl in Vogue, the other a brief overview of Tamasin Day-Lewis’ Supper for a Song in ELLE. Dahl, once fetishized for being the “curvy girl” during her modeling days, much like Lara Stone (at a shocking size 4-6) is today, writes about being a fleshy deviant on and off the runway, and how an illness later robbed her of pounds but earned her the envy of women “tight-lipped in the face of a chocolate brownie.” Her new cookbook, Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights, is a celebration of seasonal ingredients and the communion of feasting. Her essay was a profound personal reminder that, yes, food is fuel, but it is also a life source in the esoteric, spiritual sense.

The article about Day-Lewis (sister of Daniel, but a celebrity in her own right) spoke about her no-nonsense philosophy to cooking and eating: use quality, ethically-sourced ingredients and preparing delicious meals need not be cumbersome. Her Spanish Chicken with Saffron and Almond Sauce, pictured simmering in a gorgeous yellow stew, is a recipe I vow to try soon.

Is it a coincidence that these women, who, along with fridge-picking Nigella Lawson comprise a trinity of respected female food personalities, are British? In America we herald Giada De Laurentiis (who I spotted at Lou on Vine last week, apparently enjoying the pork candy) and—gulp—Rachael Ray as our culinary mavens. While I adore Giada, there is something unique about the sophistication, sexiness, and vivaciousness with which these British women celebrate food. Here in the U.S., we do it quick and so often get it wrong. Semi-Homemade my ass.

Yet, I understand the sad reality that eating the Alice Waters way is a financial impossibility for many families, not to mention a matter of access. This is why food politics matters: health is a human right, and food is a core component of this complicated issue.

As I explore what it means to properly nourish myself, I hope to take a page from the Sophies and Tamasins of the world. There is no pleasure like that of good food shared among good friends, nothing more sensual than that of seeing a woman who enjoys eating. Decadence and health are not mutually exclusive, though the diet industry makes money off of this schism.

Instead, I propose that we all be active, be mindful, and always relish the sacred act that is eating. Artisanal cheese affords great joy, I’m learning.

Related Links:

Food for Thought, Q&A with Sophie Dahl, Vogue.com

Chocolate Brownies à la Tamasin Day-Lewis (Video)

A cloudy view from Silverado Vineyards

Market fresh asparagus

Perfect pear crisp

After the rain, Napa, CA

As I’ve taken the time to slow down and refocus both my energy and attention span lately, my writing has slackened in kind. I’d expected to have something to say about New York Fashion Week (didn’t flip through one slideshow), the Olympics (missed them completely), or the upcoming Oscars (still haven’t seen Avatar), but the opposite is true.

There’s never a dearth of blogging fodder, just an occasional lack of steam to write about any one of many topics. Instead I’ll share something that held my rapt attention last week: a Human Media piece on editor, composer, and artist Tucker Stilley. I could wax philosophical about the powerful segment, but I think it’s best to simply listen, and that I’d probably spoil it with a wordy synopsis. So listen.

J'taime. Photo: Anna Karina and Jean-Paul Belmondo in 'Pierrot le fou'

Every year around Valentine’s Day I embark on a personal music project: create super-duper, holiday-themed playlist for a coterie of friends who care to listen. I really enjoy the process and absolutely adore V-Day, however constructed and commercialized it may be. Any excuse to shamelessly play Roxette, right?

Though I’m something of a pop culture zealot, I’ve managed to miss out on many of the biggest entertainment phenomena of our time—often deliberately so. I’ve never seen a Lord of the Rings film nor read any of the books, don’t know what The Secret is, am vampire-averse, and, most offensively (depending on how you look at it), have altogether avoided Harry Potter mania.

Among Potterphiles, author J.K. Rowling is a veritable god. While I don’t share this enthusiasm, after watching her commencement speech to Harvard’s graduating class of 2008 I have garnered an enormous amount of respect for Rowling. And, to further prove that I am as contradictory as they come, I’ll admit that I discovered this video via my Facebook friend feed (perhaps a “repost of a post of a thing that was seen on a blog”).

Her speech, an earnest and thoughtful meditation on “the fringe benefits of failure,” resonated with me. Over the past year my own confrontations with failure have forced me to question my beliefs, motivations, and what continues to buoy my optimism in the face of shit-tasticness. We all need a little pep talk sometimes, and Rowling’s speech helped restore my waning faith this week. I hope it does the same for you.

Totally unrelated post-script: I stole this blog entry title from the show I’m about to see tonight—a triple-bill of Jogger, Daedelus, and Nosaj Thing. This remix is magical in its own right:

Photo credit: Gauldo, via Flickr

Five words, together so ambiguous except to the handful of friends who actually know the real-life referents that bore this Facebook status update. On a screen cluttered with links to songs I like, articles I find interesting, a 10-comment-long thread on Coachella 2010, and a photo of the book I’m currently reading, the text gets lost—lost in a trash heap of social networking miscellany that is supposed to represent me, the person.

“Strange week in coffee shops.”

About every six months, I have a full-blown Facebook anxiety attack, during which time I try—and fail miserably—to stay away from the website, wondering why I feel the need to broadcast my hunger pains (”Desperately Seeking Soba”) and other absurd fragments that have no business being on the internet. I do not see how, on a site where information is dispatched with Bloomberg ticker rapidity, the lives of my 300-odd “friends” could be enhanced by seeing a picture of my birthday cake.

The idea of nurturing online friendships is another issue altogether. There are unspoken rules to using Facebook. For instance, if a friend “likes” your status, you duly repay them by commenting on a photo, or something adequately reciprocal. Perhaps this isn’t done on the same day, but within a week’s time should suffice so as not to bruise anyone’s ego. And who, exactly, should you let into your online clique? I’ve just spent the past 24-hours scrubbing my Friends list of people I never speak to, don’t know, can’t remember, and so on. Nearly 50 innocent souls were lost in the process (sorry, Alain Macklovitch and Dana Cowin), and that was only a very hurried first-run. I will quit for the time being, but watch out this summer, because you could be next.

I take issue with the ways in which the Internet intervenes in our lives, but moreso with my complicity in the process. I’m concerned that we’re inundated with information for the sake of information, and that nothing meaningful sticks. I’m concerned that my online behavior is sometimes a cry for social approval. I’m concerned that experience is devalued in favor of recording said experience. I’m concerned that it’s all a terrible farce.

Having deleted my Twitter account months ago, I wonder if I’ll ever have the fortitude to axe my Facebook account for good, too. The answer is probably “no,” because I, like fellow addicts (admitted or not), get voyeuristic fulfillment from seeing what my “friends”—always in scare quotes—are thinking, feeling, doing, and I give them the same in return. I enjoy seeing the tiny red notification flag pop up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen, as if I’m the fucking Sally Field of the web.

Facebook, web-specific news outlets (more like aggregating tools and platforms for punditry), and yes, blogs, too, all belong to a family of new media that I am as apprehensive about as I am an active agent in ensuring their survival. The moment I become overtly concerned I’m living out a Huxley novel, I banish the upsetting thoughts and status update (verb) that I’ve just seen Jason Bateman at my local Peet’s (four comments, six likes).

Maybe I’m a neo-Luddite, don’t “get it,” or am just hopelessly uncool. All I know is, I derive far more pleasure from taking the time to truly breathe, participate in and ingest the world around me rather than worrying that I’m missing out on an online world that is mainly meaningless noise.

I value those indescribably wonderful moments that can’t be reduced to 140-characters or less, the richness of real-life conversations that GChat’s paltry window can’t contain, sitting down with a real, ink-and-paper magazine filled with articles that writers labored over—not some repost of a post of a thing that was seen on a blog. I find the bright light of my laptop screen blinding and somewhat paralyzing at times, and not just because I had my eyes dilated this week.

If I were to status update right now, I would have but eight words:

The road to hell is paved with tweets.*

*Pretty sure I stole this from my friend Chas, but at least he’s getting credit on my blog.

Photo credit: Boston.com, "Earthquake in Haiti: The Big Picture"

Via Splendora, links to pictorials, coverage, and ways you can donate to the relief effort in Haiti. Texting “HAITI” to 90999 is an easy way to make a small, but meaningful contribution.

Today, of all days, is an especially appropriate time to remember our shared humanity.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Mellow yellow: Shelley Duvall in '3 Women;' Photo credit: lecinemadreams.blogspot.com

I have no clue what happens at the end of 3 Women, and neither will you. It is a fantastic film nonetheless, probably moreso because it’s so dreamlike and indecipherable. As I readied to slip on my Judi Rosen stovepipe bells this morning, a flash of Shelley Duvall clad in her ’70s wardrobe from the film struck me, hence this post. I blame the jeans.

During my Robert Altman kick of yesteryear, weeks on end were spent watching his films: Images, Short Cuts, Nashville, California Split, M*A*S*H, The Long Goodbye, and 3 Women, of course, are my favorites, and I have a special place for A Wedding and Secret Honor, too. I’d like to revisit McCabe and Mrs. Miller to see how it measures up today, because I didn’t particularly like it at the time. Needless to say, I think everyone needs a little Altman in their life, even me, the T.V.-less, apathetic moviegoer. Maybe 2010 is the year I get my groove—and my Netflix account—back.

Anyway, 3 Women. Its strange plot—or lack thereof—aside, it’s a marvel to look at. Arid California deserts, ’70s apartment complexes, Sissy Spacek’s lustrous hair, and, oh, the pastels! The costumes are deceptively simple and decade-specific, but because the film’s visuals are so distinct, I can’t help but think that every scalloped lace collar, every nightgown print, every chiffon flounce, was meticulously considered. The movie is rife with keywords I use when searching for vintage dresses on eBay.

And, while I know the artwork is wildly different (for obvious reasons), I can’t help but associate the mural painted on the interior of a pool in 3 Women (Exhibit A):

3 Women and phallic art; Photo credit: lecinemadreams.blogspot.com

…with one of my all-time favorite Prada campaigns, a collaboration with L.A.-based illustrator James Jean (Exhibit B):

Prada Spring/Summer 2008 campaign; Photo credit: populargoodness.files.wordpress.com

At best the only similarity is that they’re both murals. Plus the pastels.