Have a very Schiaparelli day!

Fabulous custom card from my former student,Samuel Ciccione

Featuring his couture kitty,Huffington

.........

Framed by my Schiaparelli necklace

Bought at a street sale for 50 cents.

Broken by my son when he was a baby

Guess I got my money's worth

Every picture tells a story/every story has a picture

for my mother

Tomorrow is my mother's 75th.birthday.She taught me (among other things)the importance of recording visual memories,sharing oral histories and sporting a good hairdo... 

my mother and father Ocean City NJ

It always started with the snapshots.
You may know the kind-
Old black and white glossies with white borders.

My mother had a story for each photo.
“I weighed 90 pounds when I married your father.I graduated in June and we got married in October.”
And there she was,in the lacy gown with fitted bodice,
Peeking out from under her veil and shoulder length pin curled hair.
A full foot taller, the groom with the shiny  pompadour
Smiled.
They made a lovely wedding cake topper couple.
“Every night I would dry set my hair in pin curls.”

Always that pin curled hair.                                                 
In snapshots
On the beach.
At holidays.
Even in snapshots
From the Depression.

Aunt Carol would pull out the home movie screen and projector
Set up the reels
Of grainy black and white memories.

First,the baby years.
My mother with her meticulously pin curled hair
In sweater,loafers,long woolen skirt and apron.
I was propped up in the chair.
The scratchy,mohair chair.
“Your Grandmother made that dress for you.It was lavender organdy.I had to starch it and all of those petticoats. And I always had an extra pair of shoelaces for your baby shoes.Every night I would change your laces and scrub the pair that you had worn.Then I would polish your shoes.”

My mother scrubbed,bleached,washed and starched my entire childhood.
And my sister’s.
And my brother’s.

my first Christmas

Years ticked by,
The black and white memories                           Became color collages
Of life.

My mother went to work.
Hot rollers in the early morning
Replaced the night time pin curl ritual.
Polyester and the clothes dryer
Replaced my mother’s need to starch and press.

My mother encouraged my creativity
At her prompting,
I went to design school in New York.
She and my father would drive to Brooklyn
 To visit me and Manhattan.
Every trip over the Verrazano-Narrows bridge
My mother said, “This is the bridge from the opening scene of "Welcome back, Kotter".

With permed hair,giant bug-eyed glasses
Polariod slung over her shoulder,
My mother recorded
the Twin Towers,
the Statute of Liberty
And my friend,Greer.
Greer was my first friend at school .
Pre-op transsexual son of a minister.
When I told my mother that I thought Greer used to be a boy, her response was ,"That’s nice.I’m glad you’re making friends."

Years flew past
My father died
My siblings and I left home.
My mother decided to move South.

The day I went to help her load up the moving van
And say farewell to our house,
My mother handed me an Easy Spirit shoebox.
“Here,I thought you might want these.I have some for your brother and sister,too.”

Inside the shoebox were
Black and white snapshots,
Colorful Polariods
And Instamatic memories.

Inside the shoebox were our stories.

me and my mother

my son and my mother Oaxaca Mexico

                                                                                             

      

Snow Ghosts from my window:

Polar Vortex Snow Storm

aka

DANTE'S TENTH CIRCLE OF HELL

   

Pranayama yo' Mama

Leigh Bowery,London 1990.Photograph by Steve Pyke

*pranayama;
Sanskrit
 harnessing the “life force” (breath)


Yoga is
A never ending journey.
Over the years I have had the privilege of working with many wonderful, patient teachers and apprentices.
(except maybe that teacher in Oaxaca who knocked me over while adjusting me in a standing forward fold which resulted in my unnatural fear of standing forward folds.)

Although I am a teacher myself(fashion,not yoga)
I am kind of a challenging student
Not on purpose.
But I can be a dope.

I listen but don’t always really hear.
(Though not on purpose.)
I have chronic vertigo.
Knee issues
The only “muscle memory” my body possesses
Is that of it’s bad habits.
My “monkey mind” is a little too chatty.
My excuses are sometimes rational (to me)
And often irrational (even to me)
“Oh,there’s a chip in my toenail polish..”
etc etc.
Life gets in the way...
(or at least,that's what I allow)

So
In the new year,
After my teacher, *David Garrigues’ Bhakti Bash
Working with asana
And the *harnessing of breath
I have been amazed at the power
Of a little extra effort
Pranayama practice.

(David Garrigues, who has been my teacher for quite sometime now,probably feels like banging his head against the wall reading over these words.He’s been talking pranayama for,like,forever. )


What I did yesterday
I may not be able to do today
And tomorrow
May be another totally different story.
Impermanence rules.

The only sure thing is
Breath
It propels
It transforms
It focuses.
And when that stops
Everything stops.

Not to send you (or me) down any marigold path.
What I’m experiencing is
a hairline crack
of a glimmer
of this self induced power.

But,I’m starting to get it now.
Better late than not at all.

*Check out David Garrigues talking about the practice and pranayama

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sb4ZWabCNHE

photograph by Joanna Darlington

ONE IN A MILLION...

This past year I lost a very dear friend and mentor

In this crazy circus of a life,
As I tried to juggle and balance on the high wire
He was my safety net.

This is for him:

For more than two decades,my friend,Bill organized charity sales.
Palm Sunday and Labor Day.
Always the same flier:
“Annual Sidewalk Sale
Antiques,Books,Paintings,Jewelry,Glass and,of course,Junk.”
This was “Bill’s Sale”.
Where you could still find a treasure.
For a quarter.
Dealers,buyers and browsers came from near and far.
It was a buying,selling and social event.
A sidewalk circus.

As promised,donations ranged from the exquisite to the mundane.
Every penny went to charity.
The Cancer Home.
Then AIDS foundations.
Breast cancer.
The list went on.

In his starched white shirt,
Bill’s greeting was always the same,”Hey,whatdya know?”
World War II veteran,he studied law.
Until his mother was stricken with cancer.
Bill left school to take care of her.
Worked at The Bulletin newspaper .
Later opened an antiques shop.

Bill’s shop was dark and mysterious.
Saints cavorted with demons.
Amongst the Czech glass.
This is where we met.

“One in a million.”
Not a cliche.
When it came to Bill.
He practiced kindness.
Every day.
So quietly.
That only you and he would know.

 

photograph : Bob Bell

 

ICE SKATING WITH A STAR

-a birthday story

(for my son) 

The winter that my son transitioned from eight to nine years old,
 He discovered ice skating.
No.
Sebastian discovered an incredible burning passion for ice skating.

At the time we lived close to the Frank Rizzo Ice Rink.
Neighborhood place

Tucked away under a highway overpass in South Philly.
Home of “The Rizzo Rats.”

Week nights Sebastian would “train” and “play” with a pee wee hockey team.
With inherent physical abilities 
(not inherited from me), he was a quick study.

In no time he was doing crossovers,
Skating backwards
Stopping on a dime.
Little and light, he whipped around the rink 
Waltzing the puck.

Saturdays we would skate there together.
Rather,he would zip circles around me as I slowly moved forward.
I used the sidewalls to stop.
On occasion I chanced a crossover.
Or two.

Sundays we took lessons at The River Rink.
 Located on the beautiful Delaware River.
Off a major highway.
Adults at one end.
Kids at the other.
I learned to slowly skate backwards.
I learned to stop properly (and without running into a wall)
I  learned to “moon walk”.
On skates.

Fantastic party trick. 

It was our winter of frenzied skating madness.

Sonja Henie

One Sunday the ice skating teachers asked everyone to stay after class.

It happened to be Sebastian's ninth birthday.
A special guest was coming to The Rink.
Along with the local news.

Melitta Brunner was a championship figure skater- single and couples. 

She had been a friend of Sonja Henie’s.
She had lost the Gold to Sonja in the 1928 Paris Olympics .
Melitta Brunner was coming to The River Rink.

I spotted her walking across the parking lot.
She had taken the bus.
A tall slight silhouette in white faux fur.
Knitted cap at a stylish angle.
Red ski pants with an uneven gait
Aided by a metal cane
After a recent hip replacement.
The Bronze medal glistened
From the ribbon around her neck.

There was a regal air about Melitta Brunner.

We gathered around her as she was putting her skates on.
“I make all of my skate covers.”, Melitta said.
She slipped the silver sequined covers over her pristine white skates.
“Vy is he vearing those skates?” she said.“Those are no good.”
Her thick Austrian accent was sharp.
Sebastian was wearing hockey skates.
I apologized for my error.

It was a glorious blue sky day.

The sun bounced off the ice.
We all held our breath
 Watching Melitta walk a little unsteadily to the ice.
Kids and news camera trailing after.

She stepped onto the ice
And like magic
Melitta glided
Regally
A slightly faded but graceful swan

The sun caught her hundreds of silver sequins
And her Bronze medal.
She radiated light.

We all caught her spirit.
The kids laughed
And skated with her
Back and forth
Across the rink

Melitta Brunner was a force of Nature.

 

Sebastian and Melitta Brunner

January 13, 2003

My (yoga) Life

National Gallery of Art

Looking no seeing

Listening yet no hearing.

-High wire balance act

"Yoga:The Art of Transformation"

Sackler Gallery

 

 Overheard at "Yoga:The Art of Transformation"

Sackler Gallery gift shop:

"Consumerism is not a Zen virtue..."

  

James Turrell

"Meeting"

PS1 LIC,NY

WHAT A DISH!

DALTON,GEORGIA 

1987

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

MR.BOWIE

from "The Year of the Diamond Dogs"

1974

 

In 1974 I bought these ruby slippers special for my first David Bowie concert.

A dream come true.
It seemed forever until the July concert arrived.

My friend, Gia and I arrived at the show and were told our assigned seats were already occupied.

By the sound equipment.

Our tickets were upgraded:

fourth row orchestra seats.
With squeals of delight, we bounced to our seats.

The show defied definition.

Halfway through a rare encore- Chuck Berry’s “Around and Around” - Gia grabbed my arm and pulled me up the aisle.
“Hey.What are you doing?Where are we going?” , I asked.
“To the stage door.Follow me”, she said.

We raced out of the theater and around the corner.The small alley was blocked with yellow police barricades.
“Now what?” I said.
“Let’s go.” Gia gave me a push  and we jumped over the barricades.

Perfect timing.
Bowie’s black limo was slowly sliding down the alley.
Much to my surprise- and everyone else’s- Gia jumped and landed splat on the front of the  limo.
A grinning,waving teenage hood ornament.

Ava Cherry was in the backseat looking somewhat startled and amused.
I was frantically waving from the sidelines.
Bowie gave a grimace and royal wave as he slowly sank into the backseat.
The driver kept going.
Picking up a little speed.

Gia rolled off the hood.
“You think he coulda stopped”,she said.

No matter to me.

It was a dream come true.

"THE KING'S" CASTLE-

GRACELAND 

     It was the summer of 1987.
Ten years after the death of “The King”.
My boyfriend at the time wanted to visit his friends in Dalton,Georgia.
“Dalton,Georgia?”, I said.”What the hell is in Dalton,Georgia?”
“Dalton,Georgia”, he said is “the carpet capital of the world.”
Oh.
“If you are dragging me off to god forsaken- carpet country U.S.A.,I’d like to take geographic advantage of this tour and go to Memphis.To Graceland”, I said.
It was not a request.

I was raised as an Elvis fan
My mother covered my snowsuit with “I LOVE ELVIS” buttons
She took me to Elvis movies
At my core, I am an Elvis fan

I started to plan my Memphis wardrobe:
big straw hat with veil
alligator bag
vintage Italian silk printed dresses
red and white bandana top and  fringed denim skirt.
pink plastic cat eye sunglasses.
My version of a Southern belle.

Suitcases packed.
Off we went.

Do you know what you do for fun on Friday night in Dalton,Georgia?
You go out dancing in Chattanooga Tennessee.
It was the longest weekend of my life.

Finally.
Off we went.
 To Memphis-
Home to Beale Street and Lansky’s where Elvis bought his clothes.
Home to Sun Records where Elvis made his first recordings.
Home to Graceland where Elvis lived.

We arrived on time for our tour.
Greeted by the famous musical note gates
The manicured driveway wound it’s way up
To “The King’s” Castle
Graceland
The great white washed and gilded cage
Of the myth of the American Dream
That had housed a King
And all of his men.

One week after his death day
The driveway was lined with floral shaped   
guitars
teddy bears
music notes
and devotion

Inside the dining room table was set
table linens
crystal
silverware
the “good” china

Everywhere was
velvet
fringe
mirrors
family portraits

A small chill ran down my spine.
I suspected that the A/C was turned up just a notch higher in that room.

“Now we will go down into the Jungle Room”, said our young tour guide.”It is said that Elvis decorated this room himself .He chose everything from a store in downtown Memphis.It took him half an hour.”
It was the height of faux leopard Tiki Room chic.
“Could this get any better”,I thought
As if she read my mind,the tour guide said,“There used to be a waterfall right there on that wall.But it was leaking so we don’t run it anymore.Now,will those in front please move to the back so that those in the back can get a better look.”
At that moment I thought, "I have found my dream job-  tour guide at Graceland."


It was everything I had hoped for
And more.
Gold records
Headless mannequins in “The King’s” clothes
 Finned Cadillacs
The pink jeep from “Blue Hawaii”
The Meditation Gardens
Elvis’ grave
Where I stopped
And reverently shed a tear.

"If you don't wear lipstick I can't talk to you"
Isabella Blow

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/14/arts/international/taking-the-surreal-to-its-very-limit.html?smid=fb-share

LIFE

a balancing act...

RETURN OF "THE THIN WHITE DUKE"-

a snow story

David Bowie photograph by Metra 1976 AMI Productions

Phila.PA

It was an unusually warm February night.

Everyone had shed their woolen winter skins .
Yes,it was that warm.

My teenage friends and I were delighted. We had plans to drive into the city at 3am and line up to buy David Bowie tickets.
An urban teenage form of “camping out”.

In the middle of the night,the weather abruptly changed.
And it started to snow.And snow.And snow.
A white out blizzard.

To this day,I’m not quite sure how we convinced my mother to let us go through with our plan.Especially as my friend’s car had a rear door that was tied shut.

We were determined.
Off we went at 3 am.
A gaggle of giggling teenage girls.

I remember the silence of the road.
Cushioned with snow.
I remember the cold of the car.
Heated only by our chatter.

The ticket office’s street was littered with empty frozen sleeping bags. The former occupants now snuggled inside their cars.

The grey of the early sky cracked.
The pink of the morning sun slowly crept through.
Bundled bodies gathered to reclaim their sleeping bags.
Markers of their place in line.

A restaurant’s early morning bread delivery was “borrowed”.
Distributed.
Up and down the ticket line.
Like the loaves and fishes.
Feeding everyone.

Squeals of delight echoed when the ticket office opened.
Elation replaced exhaustion.

(Though one of our friends suffered frostbite,we did not take her for treatment until after we got our tickets.By chance there was a hospital across the street from the ticket office.

The ER staff kindly treated “one of those crazy kids from that ticket line.”)

“The Return of The Thin White Duke.”
How those hot tickets warmed our hands.
And our souls.

ON THIS DAY...1994

Living in an ex-convent
Oaxaca,Mexico
January 1-NAFTA signing
January 1- Zapatista uprising

The Revolution was not being televised.
It was live.

At 9 months pregnant,I was a bit unnerved and asked my friends,”Do you think I should be concerned about this Revolution?”
“No”, they said,”Why?”
Pointing to my belly , I said, "I am nine months pregnant."
“Oh”,they said, "It’s just a little Revolution."

It was a new beginning.
A new journey.
A new life.

20 YEARS AGO TODAY...

VIVA EZLN