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| after a while |
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
anti-sart
as much as i am a followed of fashion blogs and outfit-du-jour tumblers, it really upset me when a street photographer tried to take my picture the other day. i figure they were a tourist because they didn't ask my permission beforehand, but her determination to catch my image even as i was getting on my bike and pedaling away was more pronounced than your average visitor to new orleans.
i've been stopped on the street before, but there seems to be a diplomacy between aesthetes that requires a spoken request or at least a nod of assent. sometimes credentials are offered. i've never scowled at anybody. sure, i was leaving work after a rough day, but my ensemble was fun and it's more pleasant to be obliging. it was irksome that the woman kept taking shots, turning her lens to follow me, continuously clicking, even as i threw up my arm to block my face.
part of what anyone wants (or deserves) as a subject, is compassion and courtesy. un-composed or spontaneous shots are wonderful as long as there is a sensitivity to the intent. on several occasions, my roommate's boyfriend has been accosted by camera-weilding pedestrians while he is on a cigarette break -- probably because he has a mohawk, tattoos, gauges, and a handsome profile. although he generally obliges them, it is uncomfortable to be framed as a part of the scenery, an element of the new orleans fauna. i do not necessarily want to be part of a slideshow representing lower garden district culture, either as tribute or detriment. i do not want my bike to be seen as an accessory, even though it is awesome.
i've been stopped on the street before, but there seems to be a diplomacy between aesthetes that requires a spoken request or at least a nod of assent. sometimes credentials are offered. i've never scowled at anybody. sure, i was leaving work after a rough day, but my ensemble was fun and it's more pleasant to be obliging. it was irksome that the woman kept taking shots, turning her lens to follow me, continuously clicking, even as i threw up my arm to block my face.
part of what anyone wants (or deserves) as a subject, is compassion and courtesy. un-composed or spontaneous shots are wonderful as long as there is a sensitivity to the intent. on several occasions, my roommate's boyfriend has been accosted by camera-weilding pedestrians while he is on a cigarette break -- probably because he has a mohawk, tattoos, gauges, and a handsome profile. although he generally obliges them, it is uncomfortable to be framed as a part of the scenery, an element of the new orleans fauna. i do not necessarily want to be part of a slideshow representing lower garden district culture, either as tribute or detriment. i do not want my bike to be seen as an accessory, even though it is awesome.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
strategies
these are things that are not necessarily conscious when they are performed, and they are often not targeted. i tried to be analytical and remember the details of specific interactions.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
heel toe
this event has become one of the most popular nights in the city, especially for a monday. in such a small venue, that means there isn't actually a lot of room to dance. also, the more there are casual spectators in attendance, the smaller the percent of folks paying attention to thematic attire... at least in an over-all sense.
this week i decided to focus on footwear, as kicks are the foundation of any dancer's garb. (unless your style is very modern/primitive, and you eschew shoes.) one nice thing about photographing this sartorial element is that they reveal patterns of wear; how someone treads will scuff or stretch the leather or wear down the heel. the shape of a heel transforms the posture and the gait. footwear is a powerful signifier, conferring class, aspirations, and a sense of humor.
another nice thing about photographing feet is that you don't have to inflict a flashbulb on anyone's eyes. a third upshot is that the subject feels less self-conscious about their lower appendages.
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| rebecca |
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| dj rusty lazer's rosy wingtips |
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| LK's awesome stockings, jimmy's white jazz shoes |
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| this girl has the Flirtiest toes |
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| meschiya wearing shoes by re-mix |
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| re-mixes in a different colorway |
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| aaron |
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| ilana in fabulous purple suede wedges and back-seamed stockings |
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| chance |
the zenith of last night was the birthday jam that happened during the second set. meschiya lake and the little big horns played the traditional song and segued into an uptempo stomper. all the most accomplished male dancers - and one very talented lady - took a turn twirling the birthday girl around the floor. it was great to see, in quick, defined succession, the styles and tricks that are particular to each partner. never have i witnessed a more wonderful birthday tradition. everyone was clapping and hooting and eating it up.
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| andy and the birthday girl |
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| rebecca, ilana, and the full moon |
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| ilana and me. i'm rapping about dolce and gabbana. |
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
fashion month digest (late, late, yeah i know)
i admit that i was really, really bored by all the fashion weeks this year. even though it should be exciting that every collection is now posted online within the hour of the live presentation, very few runways merited a worldwide audience. if i was asked to name a particular designer whose line i coveted come autumn availability, i would be hard-pressed. (you lie! chris benz and dries van noten!) past seasons have been so much richer; even spring, which usually i find dull and saccharine. still, here are some looks that stood out:
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| ann demeulemeester |
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| antonio berardi |
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| antonio marras |
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| brood |
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| burberry prorsum |
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| chris benz |
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| chris benz |
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| clements ribiero |
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| dolce & gabbana |
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| dries van noten |
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| dries van noten |
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| givenchy |
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| julien macdonald |
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| marchesa |
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| proenza schouler |
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| rodarte |
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| thimister |
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| yohji yamamoto to be a little more balanced, a little less cheeky, these are all runways of exceptional quality and rarified beauty. i watched only a few videos, and therefore saw very little in motion. i did not attend a studio presentation, where editors are allowed to examine the dresses with their fingertips. runway is hardly ever what is available to magazines, A-list actresses, or retailers. these shows are about concept, stagecraft, and (more often than not) cookie-cutter european models. pret-a-porter has been tweaked for mass accessibility and crystalized towards accessory sales... not to mention trotted through blogs and magazines, made more familiar by saturation. also, some of the looks that i chose to include here were the least representational of their collections. that dolce & gabbana dress was simpler than anything else they produced this season. burberry prorsum was mad mod, but the only dress i liked was this one. (and for the same reasons as the D&G frock -- slim sleeves to the wrist! and blue besides.) my plan was to draw and paint the outfits that i liked most, but i got lazy...and i lost my conviction. i would wear any and all of these pieces if they showed up in my store, and i'd mix the opulent jackets with skinny cords and wear my most pilly cardigan with the lace skirts. the thimister cloud formation (you wanna call it a sweater?) with denim shorts and gray thigh-highs. i pretty much would want the chris benz outfits as they were shown -- and this was a presentation rife with implausible drama. as a hypothetical buyer, i guess you could say i was looking at legs for fall. i'm feeling good about my own. being in the south means i get to wear shorts or sheer skirts with tights. i'm looking at skimmed waits, but nothing body-con. long sleeves when applicable. handmade elements whenever available. an easy white pantsuit. draping (as ever). more than a little eccentricity and romance, always. |
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
sings and stings
today i went down to city park to pull spanish moss and find the singing tree. last year i spent so much time biking under the live oaks and feeding the dinosaur ducks. living in the lower garden district, it's ordinarily too much of a trek just to wander the acres by my lonesome; however, my friend davitt had recently mentioned a "singing tree" that warranted a special visit.
behind the museum, the moss was plentiful, draping gray from near every branch. sometimes i had to jump for a grip, and sometimes it trailed within easy reach. meandering from tree to tree, sometimes climbing up a low arm i stuffed a grocery bag.
before my last tree, i felt a sharp, throbbing pain in my right elbow and next to the pinkie finger of my left hand. i was drawn up as sharply as a small child stung by a wasp, but i didn't make a sound. there had been no visible or audible insects, and i wondered if the continuous stinging could be an allergic reaction to the epiphytes. it also crossed my mind that fire ants could have been nesting in the trees, and might be crawling around inside the plastic bag.
i sucked on my reddish, swelling hand but couldn't do anything for my elbow, which was mottled magenta. walking by the lake, back towards the museum, i passed ducks nestling in the shade. there were no drinking fountains for rinsing my skin, so all there was to do was keep calm. davitt had said that the singing tree was near NOMA, and that he'd laid under it for an hour, but i'd never seen or heard it.
reason said that the tree must be fairly large, and isolated enough that wind could sidle against the chimes. every few yards i stopped and listened hard for anything that resembled a bell, any fluty murmur. i might have looked distracted as joggers pounded past. i thought about how seldom anyone has to listen for something they can't see, has to sort over the buzz of traffic and under the chatter of pedestrians. probably a lot -- actually, in any city, -- but this sought sound was mysterious to me, something even to distinguish from the shrill ache in my arm.
for a long time i stood looking at pond scum and, and then for a while by reeds, gazing at the fountain at the center of the lake. perhaps if i had asked a passerby... but then it was there, like imagining a fork tapped once against a wine glass. unlike my cat, whose ears turn towards the direction of a whisper, the mew of a friend beyond the window, i scanned the distance for massive trunks. a few steps in any direction then pause, willing the breeze to push towards me a similar vibration.
there was no silvery glimmer between branches, to attract a far away eye, but like a stray bubble, the pitch popped before me. with increasing confidence, i sleepwalked towards the source, octaves of shimmer on alternating gusts. it's amazing that though sound has no physical bulk, it can be pulled and stretched, or ripped away. there it was, across the field, with a cluster of people sitting on the grass.
the third bite came at the same moment, and i screamed as the knuckle of my thumb lit up. i threw my bag down -- a caterpillar as long as my finger, and as wide around crawled along its strap. it was densely girded with super-pronged red and black antlers. this was the first time i had seen the varmint, and i trod on him and hurried away.
last spring, a postal carrier mentioned that he was afraid of the caterpillars that fell out of the trees this time of year. he had cautioned me to keep an eye out, lest one fall down the back of my collar. none revealed themselves to me, but i stayed wary when sitting in the garden or biking uptown. i could not have guessed how much it would hurt just to have one graze against your skin. if it had happened while pedaling, i would most likely have flipped myself into traffic.
as it was, i strode over to the tree and knelt down, the glissando already washing over me. the circumference of the trunk was wide enough that from any vantage you could see three three or four clusters of chimes. hung high, dark metal pipes circled a disk; long and fat tubular bells gave off a gentle gong, thin and short ones produced a shiver. with the curls of wind through the leaves, they rang in unpredictable turns, but in harmonious accord. the chimes were tuned to one another, so there was a harmony on the verge of melody. sitting there, when not sucking on my burning thumb and spitting into the grass, i hummed. someone with skill could have formed a song between the warm drone and the meandering twinkle.
other visitors came and went. a lady and her daughter spread a blanket. two boys sat down at the opposite side. another mother cycled up, lifted her little girl out of the baby seat, and proceeded to walk in slow circles around the tree. i wanted to draw or write to the music, but could articulate no thoughts. i tried to make a field recording, but my phone couldn't catch the range of chimes.
heading back to my ride, and wishing for ice, i checked the ground where i had stepped on the caterpillar. it was still writhing around. unlike a tick, that drops from above when it senses the warm body of a food source, this poisonous bug fell only as a dumb thing. though it looks like a spiny devil, and their infestation is actually troublesome for the trees, it does mature into the striking buck moth.
if you'd like to know more about the singing oak: thermo nuclear studios
behind the museum, the moss was plentiful, draping gray from near every branch. sometimes i had to jump for a grip, and sometimes it trailed within easy reach. meandering from tree to tree, sometimes climbing up a low arm i stuffed a grocery bag.
before my last tree, i felt a sharp, throbbing pain in my right elbow and next to the pinkie finger of my left hand. i was drawn up as sharply as a small child stung by a wasp, but i didn't make a sound. there had been no visible or audible insects, and i wondered if the continuous stinging could be an allergic reaction to the epiphytes. it also crossed my mind that fire ants could have been nesting in the trees, and might be crawling around inside the plastic bag.
i sucked on my reddish, swelling hand but couldn't do anything for my elbow, which was mottled magenta. walking by the lake, back towards the museum, i passed ducks nestling in the shade. there were no drinking fountains for rinsing my skin, so all there was to do was keep calm. davitt had said that the singing tree was near NOMA, and that he'd laid under it for an hour, but i'd never seen or heard it.
reason said that the tree must be fairly large, and isolated enough that wind could sidle against the chimes. every few yards i stopped and listened hard for anything that resembled a bell, any fluty murmur. i might have looked distracted as joggers pounded past. i thought about how seldom anyone has to listen for something they can't see, has to sort over the buzz of traffic and under the chatter of pedestrians. probably a lot -- actually, in any city, -- but this sought sound was mysterious to me, something even to distinguish from the shrill ache in my arm.
for a long time i stood looking at pond scum and, and then for a while by reeds, gazing at the fountain at the center of the lake. perhaps if i had asked a passerby... but then it was there, like imagining a fork tapped once against a wine glass. unlike my cat, whose ears turn towards the direction of a whisper, the mew of a friend beyond the window, i scanned the distance for massive trunks. a few steps in any direction then pause, willing the breeze to push towards me a similar vibration.
there was no silvery glimmer between branches, to attract a far away eye, but like a stray bubble, the pitch popped before me. with increasing confidence, i sleepwalked towards the source, octaves of shimmer on alternating gusts. it's amazing that though sound has no physical bulk, it can be pulled and stretched, or ripped away. there it was, across the field, with a cluster of people sitting on the grass.
the third bite came at the same moment, and i screamed as the knuckle of my thumb lit up. i threw my bag down -- a caterpillar as long as my finger, and as wide around crawled along its strap. it was densely girded with super-pronged red and black antlers. this was the first time i had seen the varmint, and i trod on him and hurried away.
last spring, a postal carrier mentioned that he was afraid of the caterpillars that fell out of the trees this time of year. he had cautioned me to keep an eye out, lest one fall down the back of my collar. none revealed themselves to me, but i stayed wary when sitting in the garden or biking uptown. i could not have guessed how much it would hurt just to have one graze against your skin. if it had happened while pedaling, i would most likely have flipped myself into traffic.
as it was, i strode over to the tree and knelt down, the glissando already washing over me. the circumference of the trunk was wide enough that from any vantage you could see three three or four clusters of chimes. hung high, dark metal pipes circled a disk; long and fat tubular bells gave off a gentle gong, thin and short ones produced a shiver. with the curls of wind through the leaves, they rang in unpredictable turns, but in harmonious accord. the chimes were tuned to one another, so there was a harmony on the verge of melody. sitting there, when not sucking on my burning thumb and spitting into the grass, i hummed. someone with skill could have formed a song between the warm drone and the meandering twinkle.
other visitors came and went. a lady and her daughter spread a blanket. two boys sat down at the opposite side. another mother cycled up, lifted her little girl out of the baby seat, and proceeded to walk in slow circles around the tree. i wanted to draw or write to the music, but could articulate no thoughts. i tried to make a field recording, but my phone couldn't catch the range of chimes.
(thanks latonolawordpress and youtube!)
heading back to my ride, and wishing for ice, i checked the ground where i had stepped on the caterpillar. it was still writhing around. unlike a tick, that drops from above when it senses the warm body of a food source, this poisonous bug fell only as a dumb thing. though it looks like a spiny devil, and their infestation is actually troublesome for the trees, it does mature into the striking buck moth.
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| thanks google image search! |
if you'd like to know more about the singing oak: thermo nuclear studios
kyra & az ♥ david's marat
kyra just sent me this shot we took during a post-festivities bubble bath.
even though we are not on team robespierre, we both love the painting The Death of Marat.
the light in the painting is very soft and very clean, illuminating the simple accoutrements of the Jacobin orator. his beatific expression contrasts with the violence of his murder. charlotte corday (the brave and cunning assassin) was sent to mme. guillotine and marat got to live on in art history in the guise of a martyr.
the power of propaganda -- 220 years later!
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