Hyperkult

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.

Jane Birkin in all her bohemian glory

Note: I wrote half of this yesterday and the other half this morning after waking from a Bordelaise and butter coma. My actual birthday was the 9th, but posting today gave me the chance to include a couple things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Today is my birthday, giving me permission to be unabashedly indulgent for one day, and one day only. Truth be told, I prefer that these 24-hours pass with little fanfare, which is why I’ve planned a quiet dinner with a few close girlfriends tonight.

Since I have a free pass to be self-serving, though, I’ll use it to share a few of my favorite things in—you guessed it—list form. There’s no binding thread among what follows, save for the fact that I’m really loving, wanting, listening, thinking about, and/or admiring them.

1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I recently read a description of this novel, about a crew of “visceral realist” poets on a madcap quest for an elusive literary heroine, that pegged it as Y tu mamá también meets Gabriel García Márquez. That’s somewhat accurate and perhaps complimentary, but also reductive. Unwieldy as its character threads may be, Bolaño’s writing is controlled and lyrically singular. The last time I felt this way about an author was when I picked up Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I now consider sacrosanct text. Only 200 pages in, and I can’t wait for the next 400.

2. The xx, “Intro”

The xx was on many a critic’s Top [insert number] list of 2009’s Most Notable Releases. I wasn’t convinced the first time I listened to the album, but I’ve since come to like the group’s self-titled debut and love “Intro,” its succinct opening track. It’s become one of those songs I stop midway, then jump back to the beginning because I don’t want it to end. Hypnotic and moody, just like I like ‘em.

Photo credit: LuisaViaRoma

3. Rick Owens Padded Leather Jacket

If I could make sweet, sweet love to an item of clothing, this would be it. After trying it on earlier this winter, I can attest to the fact that it fits perfectly and feels like a sumptuous second skin. Now, who has an extra $1,500 they can spare (and that’s on sale)?

Photo credit: Future Classics

4. Future Classics

When I first saw this draped dress in person, I believe my first words were, “this shit is ridiculous.” And it is—ridiculously beautiful, coupling femininity with layered and intricate figure-conscious cuts. I appreciate designer Julie Wilkins’ nod to vintage clothing and the deconstructive edge of each piece, especially. And who needs jeggings when you have sexy, buttoned, stirrup-like leggings like those above?

5. Style a la Jane Birkin

When I get dressed, I’m usually channeling Jane Birkin to some degree, or doggedly attempting to. While I may not be able to pull off the signature bangs, the high-waist jeans, square mini-dresses, and slouchy boyish/feminine look I can do. Pout not included.

Garance, left, and me, right, trying to tame my Canon Rebel XT (ignore the disgusting stained mirror)

6. Garance Doré

Photographer, illustrator, partner of Scott Schuman (a.k.a., The Sartorialist), and the French woman I secretly wish I was. She’s a woman of impeccable style, with an effervescence that comes across in photos and her playful musings about fashion. Devoid of pretense, Doré’s blog offers a refreshing and simultaneously erudite take on what’s happening on and off the runway.

Photo credit: Neiman Marcus

7. Chloé Eau de Parfum and Tom Ford Champaca Absolute

My grandmother on my mother’s side was a rigid disciplinarian who sold fish on the streets of Manila to provide for her family—far from being a fashion or beauty maven in the traditional sense. I only know her through stories my mother has told me, one of the more memorable anecdotes being that she was never without designer perfume. How the woman, who was partial to Nina Ricci and Chanel No. 5, managed to get her hands on high-end fragrances in the face of dire financial straits is equally confusing and impressive.

She passed her love of perfume down to my mom, who in turn cultivated the same appreciation in me. Growing up, I remember my mother smelling of Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium, Coco Chanel, and Jaipur, and my own taste tends toward forward florals and spicy aromas. At the moment, Chloé is getting the most play in my scent wardrobe (because I do indeed have a wardrobe, including Jo Malone’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey for bedtime), but Tom Ford’s Champaca Absolute is at the top of my wish list. Did I mention it’s my birthday today?

Photo credit: Neil Leifer

8. The Annenberg Space for Photography

Located on the same hallowed grounds as the CAA fortress building in Century City, the Annenberg Space for Photography is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon in Los Angeles. I typically like to come here alone (more meditative), and I’ve seen every exhibit since it first opened last year. My favorite of the three rotating collections was themed around L.A. photographers/photojournalism, the work of Julius Shulman and Carolyn Cole being standouts for me. Best of all, visiting Annenberg is free; you’ll only have to pay a meager $1 parking fee post-validation. I visited the space today to see the Ioose/Leifer exhibit and left with a newfound appreciation for sports photography.

Mmm. Caramel icing.

9. Lark Cake Shop, Silverlake

As this is being written post-birthday celebration, I can include Lark on my list. My friend Frances, having heard me endlessly prattle on about wanting to sample the Caramel Cake from this adorable bake shop in Silverlake, surprised me by bringing it to dinner at Café Stella. It was as fantastic and moist as I imagined it, the sprinkle of Kosher salt in between layers of white cake and caramel icing subtly balancing out its sweetness.

Photo credit: The Louvre

10. Lists

My obsessive-compulsive love of organization was recently reinforced by a segment that aired on NPR. Famed Parisian museum the Louvre has unveiled an exhibit about “The Infinity of Lists,” curated in part by Italian writer Umberto Eco. Eco believes lists, even those as mundane as the phone book, can be “poetic” provided the correct intent is present. And that’s where this particular list ends.

From my favorite "Vogue" shoot of all time; Natalia Vodianova as "Alice," shot by Annie Leibovitz, December 2003

When NPR put out a call for its Facebook fans and Twitter followers to sum up 2009 in one word, the response was immediate, the theme, obvious. Last I checked on tha ‘Book, over 3,000 users submitted responses mainly lamenting the shit-tastic year that was. NPR’s Andy Carvin used Wordle, a fantastically entertaining visual language “toy,” to create a collage out of the results, revealing feedback along the lines of “ugh,” “crappy,” “bittersweet,” and “fubar” (”fucked up beyond all recognition”).

But there, lying smack dab in the middle of the colorful tag cloud was a beacon of hope: “change.” This was indeed the theme of 2009. While I agree with fellow Facebook users that the last year was “sucky” on many fronts, I also remind myself that change is inherently painful. It requires that we are jolted from all that is safe and comfortable, that we consider a wildly different existence—one that may make us “fitter, happier, more productive,” yet doesn’t promise a permanently blissful future.

2009 bequeathed me a layoff, romantic trysts gone awry, the unexpected conclusion of a friendship, and general malaise— inheritances which range from mild disappointments to wrenching stabs. At least, they have been edifying, and I write this today with a persistent, dopey sense of hope that things can and will get better.

I revel in the possibility that a new year, new decade, and in just over a week’s time, my birthday, superficially mark on calendars. When I started this blog, I ended my inaugural post as I readied to leave my apartment and hike Runyon Canyon, “hoping for a momentary break in the cloud coverage” as a symbolic cue that all would be okay. Now, in the early morning hours of January 1st, I’m throwing on my running shoes in pursuit of the catharsis that a few laps around Silverlake Reservoir offers. It’s clear outside.

Photo credit: Style Rookie

You’ve no doubt heard of Tavi, the 13-year-old wunderkind who belongs to a new garde of fashion writers: teen bloggers. She is as ubiquitous a front row staple as Anna Wintour; she counts the Mulleavy sisters as friends; she is a Pop magazine cover model. She’s a girl, not yet a woman, and let’s not forget that.

A self-professed “Style Rookie,” Tavi maintains a blog of the same name, but if we’re to believe her acutely fashion-literate entries, she’s nothing of the sort. That is, unless the Tavi phenomenon is an elaborate ruse in the same vein as J.T. Leroy. My impressions of Tavi are scattered, but I will cop to occasionally reading her blog and being curious about who this boffo, Rei Kawakubo-loving young lady is.

My issue is less with the wide-eyed aesthete herself than the world that has shepherded her transformation from anon to internet superstar. I wonder under what circumstances, for what purpose such a budding icon is constructed, and by many, revered. What is Tavi’s writing—which seesaws between hyper-mature and rambling tween-speak—teaching us? Have we accepted her as a legitimate expert (Bazaar has), or an avatar of the kind of 13-year-old us adult fashion lovers wish we were at her age—hell, even now?

I am both fascinated and unnerved by the rising Cult of Tavi. The fashion industry routinely turns out star designers, models and false gods, then carelessly discards of them when they are deemed unnecessary. How true Heidi Klum’s tagline rings. It’s admittedly youth and image obsessed (I’ll save the curious sexualization of teen models for another time), and Tavi-idolatry exaggerates these qualities. What this means for a young woman undergoing puberty alongside peers like Aggy and Hamish Bowles is concerning.

Just ask Tim Blanks, whose furrowed brow in Part One of Loic Prigent’s Habillees (several minutes in) says it all:

Wave to the future.