A swan's messy throne.
"Pierre climbed out of bed"
I can't stop listening to Maira Kalman interviews. How does that relate to Pierre, by Elizabeth Peyton? New York? Observing? Maira's mother never asked why, or what, they thought of art. Just look, she said!
Lounging under a willow tree sounds nice to me.
Now and then, I spend time thinking about how to turn more of life into the feeling of a long day reading at the beach. Placid, sun-baked, mind coursing with the syncopation of a perfect sentence, or paragraph, the horizon wobbling against the sea.
Pictured here: another sort of day to imagine, birds and bugs warbling, and frogs belching under lily pads.
photo by Yelena Yemchuk
"ALI MCGRAW IN HER BLACK TIGHTS"
Reading Willa Cather at The Odeon
A few weeks ago, I took some days to prowl around the spas and cafes of Manhattan alone, with a book in hand, and on phone. I sat in The Odeon reading Willa Cather, amongst the newly marrieds who seem to plentifully lunch there after a civil ceremony at City Hall, and drank half a glass of white wine and thought about the last piece that Truman Capote wrote as a birthday gift to his best friend Joanne Carson, on a chance encounter with Willa Cather outside the New York Society Library, and the walk that the boy from the south and the writer from the plains took together, in the great swirling city hushed by snow.
Willa Cather by Nicolai Fechin
Two sorts of twists, doing the twist together. This combination is tall, shining, and chic, I love it so!
top: Vettore Ring by ILA at Catbird
bottom: Endless Ring by ILA at Catbird
On the eve of our move to the our new HQ (!), a celebration of that "I'm still not totally unpacked from my move...a few years ago" aesthetic as created by Holly Golightly, and perfected by Autumn Hruby of Hesperios. Chuck out the clutter, stack high the boxes, play records in the kitchen!
Bless this Mess
More than a small thing
This weekend, I gave my stepmother who grew up in the Bronx, a Louis Sherry Jewel Box Chocolate Tin. She got a warm look in her eyes, and exclaimed, "Louis Sherry!" and for a minute, was back to a summer days on City Island, her trim mother, off to work in pumps and stockings, a world that is no more.
From the art department
In this week's Art Department inspiration meeting we spoke about black velvet ribbon, plastic subway seats, age-inclusivity, and the following excerpt from Tar Baby by Toni Morrison, brought to our attention by Girls at Library:
At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don't need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens -that letting go - you let go because you can. The world will always be there - while you sleep it will be there - when you wake it will be there as well. So you can sleep and there is reason to wake. A dead hydrangea is as intricate and lovely as one in bloom. Bleak sky is as seductive as sunshine, miniature orange trees without blossom or fruit are not defective; they are that. So the windows of the greenhouse can be opened and the weather let in. The latch on the door can be left unhooked, the muslin removed, for the soldier ants are beautiful too and whatever they do will be part of it.
photo: Leila Goldoni in Shadows