Head in the clouds

In my dreams...

...the summer looks and feels like this- and it goes on and on and on, without ever getting too hot or too humid or too anything.
"Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming. Maybe I would visit with you for the weekend and then suddenly, because I am fickle like that, I would visit with the man from the corner shop instead-- but you would not be sad because you would be eating a cinnamon bun, or drinking a cold coca-cola from the can, and you would never think of me again. We would be happy, like lovers who met on holiday and forgot each other's names."

Why the long face?

I Heart Bill Cunningham

Fine. I'll admit it. I watch the audio slide show "On the Street with Bill Cunningham" first thing every Sunday morning. I've been timid about sharing this bit of information because I've been afraid that in doing so I might inadvertently reveal a great secret of mine; one that only a few in my inner circle know. You see, on Sundays, when I open the New York Times (be it in print or online) I skip right over World News and Arts and read: the Style section..... First.
And one of the many reasons I do this is because I have grown to just plain love Bill Cunningham. I adore him as if he were my super fashion-savvy, Reebok-wearing, couture-loving grandfather. Not only do I admire the way he zips through the city streets on what seems to be a super sleek Dutch bicycle (not pictured here), or the way he always has his camera on hand, ready to capture people in their most stylish (or interesting/awful) get-ups. There's more to it than that. What makes me a true fan of Mr. Cunningham is the sincere enthusiasm (bordering on childlike wonder) that he has for his most simple observations. When he notices a whole slew of upper east side women starting to wear coats in November (because it's cold), or that ice and slush are forming puddles and snowbanks curbside in January (because they do) and that this is causing pedestrians to have to (gasp!) step over them, he reports these facts as though they were the most cutting-edge, thought provoking perceptions one could make. In today's piece he reported on skirts with "swooshy flair" for a full three minutes, and then ended by encouraging his viewers to indulge in a skirt that's "a bit sassy, sagacious, and that will maybe cause a little comment", while laughing sweetly all the while. From the sound of him, Mr. Cunningham seems to see the world through new eyes, with a playfulness that makes even the most obvious, the most dull, or the most obsolete trend seem like a delight to observe and ponder. And despite being highly regarded by the highest in high fashion, I have read that he is very down to earth. He seems to enjoy fashion without getting too caught-up in it or taking it too seriously. He just peddles his bicycle around town, happily capturing his wonderment snap shots. This all adds up to him coming across as someone who truly, and lightheartedly, loves what he does. With his sincerity and instinctual whimsicality, my coffee cup and I just keep coming back for more each Sunday morning. First thing.

Little Bee

"In a few breaths' time I will speak some sad words to you. But you must hear them the same way we have agreed to see scars now. Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive. The next thing you know, something fine will happen to her, something marvelous, and then she will turn around and smile."

-C. Cleave, Little Bee

Photograph for today

Les Chansons D'Amour

Take a drizzly Parisian background, a young, quintessentially beautiful french couple (Louis Garrel and Ludivine Sagnier), create a love triangle that manages to be both steamy and blase all at once, throw in a dialogue expressed almost entirely in song, and there you have it: either the worst movie you will ever see, or you new super-favorite. I loved it of course, but I'm hopeless when it comes to blue love stories, bizarre plot twists, beautiful art direction, and so on. And, of course, anything in the tradition of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Jaques Demy; 1968) is guaranteed to win over a certain breed of film lover. Me? Hopeless, I tell you. Absolutely hopeless. But I encourage you to have a look for yourself and then tell me, or sing me, what you think.