William Hazlitt’s “On the Pleasure of Painting,” part of Table-Talk.

Soil switches on antibiotic genes in bacteria.

Sungsoo Kim’s works in glass (via Craft Magazine).

Christien Meindertsma. Pigs and wooly things.

Hella Jongerius chicle latex objects. The shape research thingamajings!

“Daddy warned me about men and alcohol but he never warned me about women and cocaine.” Really I just think Tallulah Bankhead had great hair. I recently discovered Photo Detective, and have been poring over the portraits and the minutiae of their hairstyles and accessories. It got me started looking at other old portraits, and instead of reading lately when I wake up in the middle of the night, I study these faces the way I do people on the train. I wonder about the choices they made in their appearance and what they might have meant. Fashion is a language and anyone who wears clothing is speaking it. There is no such thing as neutral or meaningless choices in appearance. When I was on vacation, I read a book V had on his phone. It was by William Gibson, but I don’t recall the title. It was a few years old and not very good. For one thing, the author kept describing people, clothing, fashion, art, etc, as neutral or intentionally devoid of meaning. No. There is no such thing. It was really distracting. (Also the protagonist constantly referred to herself by name in her internal monologues. Who does that?) And the more fluent the speaker is in the language of fashion, the more meaning there is in every choice she makes. Even disdain for fashion has to be expressed through fashion, right? I mean, if you speak the language poorly, people won’t understand what you’re trying to communicate, even if it’s disdain. If you speak it well, people will understand, even if they disagree or want to punch you. For people who are interested in fashion as language, the challenge is, of course,  to say something interesting in an intelligible way.

For C: And speaking of fashion, I still think Etsy’s great, but there’s no real way of knowing how reliable a seller is. The review system is binary and, in dealing with an individual, most buyers are reluctant to hurt the sellers feelings or to be the first person to leave negative feedback. As a result, I have gotten a lot of overpriced, poorly made, but flatteringly photographed crap, for which I have declined to give feedback. I actually tried to return a sweater once, but the seller was so horrified that I backed down and kept it. I satisfied myself by taking it apart and using it as a pattern to make a much higher quality version of the same thing, with soft organic wool, fussily finished French seams, and more elegant proportions (read: sleeves that didn’t stop an inch above my wrist.) I would say my experiences are about 50-50 at this point. I’ve gotten some lovely and unique stuff, but just as much knit fabric sewn inside out; ungenerously proportioned clothing (everyone can tell when you’re skimping on fabric); wavy, unfinished seams with clots of wrong colored thread; custom dresses a good six inches shorter than ordered; and “woodwork” that includes toothpastey globs of putty. A good photograph is the absolute minimum for anything I’d consider buying, but a knowledgeable description of the craft and finishes, along with clear detail pictures, is a lot better.

~

In which I move back down in the world: First, I freudfully forgot to mention that I got jacked by two twelve year olds on a beach in paradise. They sprinted up and stole my bag under my very outraged gaze. I roared out of the ocean and sprinted off in pursuit cursing them at the top of my lungs for a good ways before I remembered things like pit vipers and my bare feet and that the back of my bikini was really slipping down. The only real outrage in the situation was that the bag had the keys to the borrowed Mercedes. Much tedium and nighttime mosquitoes ensued in getting the car towed back to the cabin from the lonely parking place at the end of the world, where presumably the fiendish twelve year olds were waiting to drive it away under cover of night. In the hullaballoo I left my fancy twist-tied vaseline filter sunglasses in the car of a good Samaritan. Bam! Mercedesless and sunglass bereft in a single afternoon. I felt like Job, cursed by God. I’m trying to stay humbled because I don’t want anything to happen to my Metrocard and cheap replacement glasses.

By way of a further tropical punishment, a Caribeño-ish Salsa, which turned out rather well after a couple of tries. The ingredients are: jalapenos (although proper recipes call for orange habaneros, jalapenos are all we’ve got in the ‘hood this time of year), onion, garlic, turmeric root, mustard, banana vinegar (apple cider vinegar will do), curry leaves, cumin, paprika, and black pepper. Food process away! Titrate the ingredients to taste, but go easy on the cumin and mustard, which will otherwise overwhelm everything else by the next day. I accidentally-on-purpose smuggled an armload of live turmeric into the country. I knew I’d packed it and knew you aren’t supposed to bring in produce, but somehow all that knowing didn’t add up to any sort of awareness and so I cheerily waltzed through customs feeling innocent as a babe in arms. Rather different than last year on the way back from Peru, when I hardly dared meet the eye of the customs official. Every boot, sock, and t-shirt was stuffed with esoteric varieties of beans and corn and dried huacatay.

~

Finally, a new Aure stage involving lots of grotesque stories and histrionic disapproval, usually of V and me. He’s as gentle and wildly affectionate as always, but when we disagree, instead of full blown tantrums, I get meandering stories of revenge told with furious emphasis. For example, during an admittedly coercive diaper change: Gonna pop Mami’s head off and throw it out a window! Gonna dash this diaper down and splash it to a shark! I’m gonna do it! A pause as he appears to visualize this with some satisfaction, then, pensively: This diaper is a balaclava for my sweet butt.