Spool no. 72

I don’t remember signing up for this shop’s mailing list, but it was quite a nice surprise in my inbox. Among my favorites:

Appaloosa scarf

Periodic bag

Quarter Horse blouse

I’m obviously already looking forward to spring.

If someone were to ask me how I was feeling, I’d refer them to a scene from The Best of Youth, when Matteo (Alessio Boni, photo above) arrives home from a New Year’s Eve gathering with his family. I’m not giving anything away. On one hand, this kind of response exemplifies how much I enjoy this movie (or rather miniseries–it’s a 6-hour fictionalized “romp” through modern Italian history, slated for TV). Answering this way also helps me avoid from divulging too much information. If you know me even in the slightest, then you probably already know what I’m talking about. As Pretty Good Looking Theory Professor sez (I’m so paraphrasing), I’m not depressed; I’m existential.

(Image: Red Hot Chili Project)

Dear Pretty Good Looking Theory Professor

(for whom I’ve tried to push back an insane infatuation precisely because you’re WAY out of my league, intellectually, physically, psychically, epistemologically, hermeneutically):

I’ve heard—and even understand, somewhat—that things work differently here in France. For instance, people greet each other when they enter/leave businesses. Common courtesy, one would say. Sometimes people give their seats to the elderly or parents with small children. Also common courtesy. Totally on the ball with that.

And still some people don’t answer emails right away. This “some” people apparently includes “all” of the professors with whom I have the pleasure of working. Although I come from a culture of instant gratification, I also understand that you educators may have lives outside of the classroom and that you probably don’t spend most of your weekend camped out in front of a flickering screen waiting for clarity to strike. Maybe you were busy spending time with your (in my mind) gorgeous long-term partner who wears silk underwear from Sabbia Rosa. Or—gasp!—maybe you simply don’t have ready access to the Internet. OK; I’ll afford you that.

However, a measly “oui” or “non” clarifying this week’s reading would’ve saved me the stress of incertainty, when G found me in the library poring over what I’ve since assumed was the wrong text. Was I right in tackling Foucault instead of Deleuze (as indicated on the syllabus)? Confirm that a) I’m not deaf, b) that I was paying attention, and c) that my French oral comprehension isn’t completely out of wack—is that so much to ask? I think that it’d be superb.

I’ve fretted over the “wrong” reading so much so that I even dreamed about you being negative towards me and only giving me three drops of tea. We can analyze that later. As for the reading, I guess I’ll find out during tomorrow’s class, when I say nothing either a) out of shyness and my typically laconic “nature” or b) because of personal error. Until then, my brows will continue to be furrowed in frustration.

On top of my class (in its multiple senses) anxieties, H is visiting and my thesis is proposal is due in two weeks.
Here is a dress (APC) and a coat (Comptoir des Cotonniers), respectively, with which I would reward myself if I had the funds and could get my shit together:

As directionless as ever

I’m back from a much too brief break in the Spanish capital, visiting friends and old haunts. Discovered a few new ones, too, to which I’ll only happily return. I suppose a handful of days isn’t ever enough to figure out one’s life calling, although a small part of me was banking on some kind of epiphany as I wandered around Salesas and Malasaña. I was also hoping to see Yo, también, a movie about which I initially heard via Elefant Records, because Guille Milkyway (La Casa Azul) composed many of the songs (if not the entirety of the soundtrack?):

If you’ve heard any LCA/Guille stuff, you know that the soundtrack’s only sort of a departure from his usual J-pop/ELO-informed songs. The title track is nevertheless catchy and perfectly matches the mood of this particular love story, which effectively tugs at the heart strings (ok, dude with Down’s Syndrome falls in love with a “broken” woman…hmmm) and probably made a ton of San Sebastián attendees cry.

As for me, I’ve lately been in such a sentimental mood (um, did you see the last post?¹) that I can’t watch the official trailer without wincing…for fear of lacrimatic downpour. Anyway, I have a special sadsack playlist for that², which includes, among others: Jets to Brazil’s precious “Starry Configurations” (why am I waiting for you…to see I’m alive?), Descendents’ “I’m the One” (it says it all right there), and Red Stars Theory’s haunting “A Sailor’s Warning,” featuring the lovely Lois Maffeo on vocals. Now, if only I’d thought to complete the list with a For Stars track, then I’d be set (I have Camera Obscura’s “Let’s Go Bowling” instead), but that’s too much brooding and crying even for someone as sensitive as me. I’ve got too much to do before the winter break, and being depressed and indecisive isn’t going to cut it, unfortunately.

(Image: Adam Sprackling)

¹I even bought a bilingual German/Spanish copy of “The Book of Images” while I was in town!
²’sadsack’ really is the title!

A love(ly) poem for you

(Image: From Wikimedia Commons, “Portrait of Rainer-Maria Rilke,” Paula Modersohn-Becker, 1906)

Rilke? I’ve heard of him. He was this German dude who wrote to letters to another dude; he also inspired the name of an indie rock trio from Wisconsin. Other than, I know zilch because apart from memorizing “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” in elementary school, I’d never been super into poetry. On the other hand, I do love learning languages…and one of these said languages—you ought to know by now—is German. Added to the fact that I also enjoy reading aloud (alone), what we end up with is a description of how I spend most nights.

Kidding aside, the obvious problem—again, if you know me—with my reading German poetry is the fact that I don’t yet (linguistically) understand it very well. I suppose that the somewhat rigorous, fauxllectual in me would like to be able to flex those analytical muscles and explore the science of the poem, but my lack of critical comprehension (or obsession with “mastery”) has made me shy away from poetry as a whole. In other words, I’m uncomfortable with sentimentality (though I do cry at the darndest things) because it implies lack of discipline, control. At a very superficial level, however, what would be the point of art if not to evoke emotion, to engage its audience?

I picked the following Rilke poem because it caught me off guard. More precisely, it was Peter Kempkes’ recitation that drew me in.¹ I was hypnotized by other thoughts, yet at some point was made to stop and re-examine the poem with an intensity that I usually only bestow on my favorite songs:²

Zum Einschlafen zu sagen

Ich möchte jemanden einsingen,
bei jemandem sitzen und sein.
Ich möchte dich wiegen und kleinsingen
und begleiten schlafaus und schlafein.
Ich möchte der Einzige sein im Haus,
der wüsste: die Nacht war kalt.
Und möchte horchen herein und hinaus
in dich, in die Welt, in den Wald.

Die Uhren rufen sich schlagend an,
und man sieht der Zeit auf den Grund.
Und unten geht noch ein fremder Mann
und stört einen fremden Hund.
Dahinter wird Stille.

Ich habe groß
die Augen auf dich gelegt;
und sie halten dich sanft und lassen dich los,
wenn ein Ding sich im Dunkel bewegt.

Whether you read the poem in VO or in English, you’ll get an idea of the kind of mood in which I’ve lately been³ and about which, I’ve been told, I shouldn’t be embarrassed. People are allowed to be dreamy and romantic and after all, it’s autumn in Paris we don’t exist in fragments. Nevertheless, I have such a hard time reconciling—nay, dismantling—the spirit/intellect disconnect (read: guilt) that makes me question how I can even take part in any purely aesthetic experience, as though there’s always something to be revealed that lies beyond my scope.

¹After listening to other Rilke poems read aloud (or Barbara Morgenstern’s albums), I defy non-German-language-enthusiasts to continue about their ways!
² Also: Yeats’ homage to Ronsard, “When You are Old.”
³ I’m lying! I’m dreamy all of the time!

Because being up at 2AM doesn’t do me any good.

After complaining to my friend about my sleeping problems, said friend argued that sleep deprivation may be a mark of genius—or at the very least, enhanced productivity. He proceeded to tell me about some “well-known people” who used their extra waking hours to read more books, write more compositions (in the musical and the literay senses), for example.

I’m obviously neither that productive, let alone a genius. This is why, at this time of the night/morning, I’m sharing goodies I’ve come across on that wonderful DIY emporium otherwise known as etsy:

01.

I first saw Joanna Mendicino’s bird planters via Oh Joy!. Enamoured, I decided to check out her other work and decided that even though real squirrels are a bit scary, these ceramic ones are quite lovely.

02.

One of my favorite searches is the very vague triumvirate of “vintage” + “dress” + “pattern.” Of course, such imprecision yields more than a few results, sometimes painful to wade through. There are only a handful of patterned/printed etsy dresses that have caught my eye and (despite the price tag) warranted “favorite-ing”; this one, sold by Denver-based (!) Thrush, is at the top of the list. (By the by, I just imagined Tracyanne Campbell and Victoria Bergsman in similar get-ups.)

03.

Also recently featured on Oh Joy!, Darling Clementine specializes in retro-inspired stationery, in the vein of Shinzi Katoh, Jun Ichihara, and Raymond Savignac. The playfulness of this particular ‘Paris’ set makes me think, once again, of Catherine Demongeot as Zazie. In the metro, bien sûr. Or Brigitte Bardot’s ‘Moi je joue.’ Or, even better, Stereo Total’s ‘C’est la mort,’ which is compiled of the most common French sayings known to the particular Berliners interviewed in a bar.

Apart from a brief statement on how these images (production/use of) are predicated on the notion of an essential Parisian insouciance—OK, joie de vivre—incomprehensible and hence, “unlivable”, by the non-French, I’m in no shape to discuss what, for me, remains unsettling, uneasy about these cards. Maybe you can, though?

That said, good night (morning), and hope for a more thoughtful post soon.

(Images: etsy)

Me, you, and every record we’ve ever heard

(Image: 88.9 WSND FM, Notre Dame)

“I have a podcast you will adore!,” a friend recently tweeted. “It’s called Snobcast—it’s filled with music I KNOW you listen to!” Amused by the mix of erudition and self-deprecation inherent in the name, I couldn’t help but check out the site. How does my friend know me, or at least my musical inclinations, for Snobcast (much like other sites of its ilk) references bands I’ve heard of or soon will. That’s to say that while the interwebs may seem ever expanding, the community of people who obsess about download codes or are curious about new sonic horizons, I mean, remains small.

So, I wasn’t at all surprised to discover that Snobcast is based out of Denver, and that its primary author is affiliated with yet another acquaintance from “the Scene.” That relation itself leaves a bad taste in my mouth, not to mention the fact that although I do enjoy “new” (to me) music and have been known to foist my taste on other people’s, I’m reluctant to follow on suggestions. It’s not so much that I feel musically superior to the recommending party, but more the fact that I’m used to “discovering” the music by “happenstance” through the press or even catching a tune while out about town.

I recognize the contradiction in what I’ve just written. There’s no actual discovery taking place, because I’m never the first person to hear (about) it. Just as I can confess that, thanks to the same CDs distributed at chain clothing shops, I was hypnotized by Jack Johnson’s ‘Banana Pancakes’ a few years back, I can tell you about Iris DeMent because Carl Wilson wrote about her. In other words, my taste IS in fact shaped by the very recommendations from which I want to recoil.

But, back to Snobcast and why I avoid subscribing to similar programs: on one hand, it goes back to feelings of paternalism and condescension experienced during my previous attempts at being involved in the scene. On the other (probably more important) hand, my passion and subsequent fear of discussing it is tied to information overload, further developed as two major anxieties:

1) Being somewhat of a completist, I simply can’t keep up. When I enjoy a work, I quite enjoy it, and I’d like to say that I am going beyond a passive listening. This in turn leads me to find out more about the artist, related works, accompanying musicians, those who’ve influenced them, their productions…you can imagine.
2) Being insecure, I don’t feel that I have the ability to intelligently (“critically”) discuss music, compare genres, performances, recordings, etc. Or rather, I lack the focus and motivation—indeed, the education—for argumentation, for cohesiveness. And when I say music, it’s not just music that I personally enjoy and can sort of talk about (btw, I really, really enjoy the new Taken by Trees!), but also things I know nothing about: MBP, Mahler, what have you.

For me, it always seems as though I have to justify my relationship with music. Sentimentality is never enough (and certainly not blog posts about it, either), especially when you realize that music is one out of the multitude of “hobbies” available for adoption. (Do gardeners have this problem?) While I’ve been continually questioning/reconfiguring said relationship (how do I , as it were, re-activate, move from avid listener to ______?), I’ve at the same time been interiorizing it, paradoxically stunting my musical and critical growth. I mean, what good is love if you can’t share it, what good is it if it can’t make room?

Long sleeves

My doppelgänger Julie shared an article, a while back, about restructuring your habits of conspicuous consumption…by reducing your email. It made too much sense. Why, indeed, was I subscribed to lists distributed by the likes of Bergdorf Goodman and smaller, high-end boutiques when all it resulted in was an intensification of my desire not necessarily of the advertised products, but to change my socioeconomic position? In attempt to purge class anxieties, I happily clicked on each ‘unsubscribe’ link found, of course, in miniscule typeface at the end of each directive. However, I wasn’t as merciless as I should’ve been because lo and behold, an email from Comptoir des Cotonniers appeared in my inbox just yesterday Thursday, celebrating the beginning of the mid-autumn sales.

CdC is considered “mid-range” here. If you look at the target demographic, you’ll see why: it’s the modern woman on-the-go, who demands bang for her buck (or euro, as it were). She sees the value in longevity, physically and sartorially. The CdC customer is anyone with the right combination of romantic and intellectual pretensions. She doesn’t care that much about her looks, but she cares somewhat. Her fashion choices are a mark of maturity and discretion with sly hint at playfulness.

(Images: Comptoir des Cotonniers)

The main allure of this effortlessly chic package is, indeed, the use of “real” women in each campaign. Season after season, we see teams of mothers and daughters selected from a general concours grace the catwalk and the catalogs in somber shades of blues, grays, and blacks, with sporadic use of color. I am meant to think that if Evelyne, aged x years old, and her fac-attending offspring can rock the CdC style, I can too. By providing “affordable” clothing and displaying them on human(ized) bodies, CdC’s tactics take a stab at economic and corporeal democracy.

An easy conclusion: equitable access is an untenable position precisely because fashion is already an exclusive enterprise. I can of course walk into the shop along Leclerc Avenue, fondle some fabrics, perhaps some pieces and then go (not so) merrily on my way. Nothing will prevent me from taking a step into that particular space, except my own “baggage” or as I would rather have it, my own critical (cynical?) reflection. I’m a CdC girl insofar as I appreciate the designs. However, I’m not the one wanted in there.

Then again, the fact that I don’t feel like I conform (fully, I might say) to the CdC aesthetic is what keeps me coming back. That is, the chance for appropriation of “easy-going”, “stress-free” fashion. (It just occurred to me that CdC is pretty much an upscale French GAP or quite similar to Anthropologie.) In other words, it helps me pass. Although I’m not necessarily either (rarely!), France is all about integration, where we learn that difference is only appreciated within certain limits…

*

I do apologize for the disjointed nature of this and pretty much the majority of my posts. I wanted this blog to be a forum, among other things, for a critical articulation of my personal fashion anxieties. Is it working as well as it could be? Don’t answer that. If one of the functions of writing is to better express—and indeed evolve—one’s thoughts, then I hope I’m somewhat on the way.

(Image:Yanous)

You’re looking at the Salle de Richelieu of the Comédie Française (CF), one of the nation’s most prestigious institutions and certainly, of the performing arts. It’s been around since the time of Louis XIV and has seen the works of Racine, Corneille, and Molière grace its stages. As such, the programming has been traditionally associated with the masterpieces of classical French theater; the openness for which the repertoire strives today did not, under appearances, become a central goal until the 20th century, with a nod towards Beckett, Brecht, and Césaire, among others. Since the opening of two additional spaces in the mid-1990s, the CF continues to expand this notion of openness and experimentation, while at the same time honoring the illustrious tradition from which it sprang.

I mention the CF primarily because I had the privilege of attending a performance, last night, of none other than Molière’s L’Avare (The Miser). At this juncture, I can admit a few things:

1. I don’t know anything about theater, nor am I particularly fond of it.
2. I don’t know anything about Molière, except that
   a. he’s the playwright best associated with the CF and
   b. he died on stage. (Or, ok, he was dying on stage; he actually expired at home.)
3. I equated CF = importance¹, as most francophiles (play-lovers or not) will.

For me, this last point is the most salient one. I know neither the theater or the playwright integrally, but I go because I recognize the positive value bestowed upon it by others. I go because it’s good for my cultural/intellectual development. Or as our man Bourdieu might say, I’m paralyzed by a “cultural docility…often combined with a sense of unworthiness…commensurate with the respect that is accorded.”² Despite the many guffaws produced by Molière’s wit—and did I guffaw, indeed!—I remained slightly uneasy during the show, too aware that au fond, it’s not really my “place.”³

In the end, the democratization of culture so cherished in France has to go beyond questions of economic and physical access and involve more discussions about different(ial) processes of socialization and education. By no means am I aiming to set up a mutually exclusive division between the high and the low; the boundaries on the cultural map, in my opinion, are much too blurry to entail such a work. However, I do want to examine the ways in which cultural capital is instrumental to legitimized practices.

Does (somewhat) critical reflection detract from the joy of simply “being in the moment,” of enjoying the plush crimson velvet, the emotion on the actors’ faces, of understanding the moral of Molière’s story? You’re always arriving at any “moment” from somewhere else. Put in another way, you’re always speaking from a certain subjectivity. On the contrary, then: I should hope that reflection contributes to a greater appreciation of the experience and combats the idea of a completely submissive reception.

¹ Indication that I, too, am embroiled in the French Myth.
² Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: a social critique of the judgment of taste. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984. 321.
³Speaking of places, I was actually sitting on a strapontin, a folding seat, which I had trouble maneuvering despite the hostess’ clear instructions. And because you want to know where the actual seat is located, it is: in the dress circle on the left, just above the orchestra, in the first row, the last seat closest to the stage. From where I could see the sweat glisten on the actors’ brows.