idle moments

With a little Grant Green on the hi-fi, the holidays almost seem manageable. I wrote up greeting cards in the lounge of Hotel Vancouver over a four-hour pot of tea and then returned home, more festive in my relief, and took the above photo of my one seasonal concession - a thrifted flower pot filled with bells.





Bonus: Snippets from a nosy ramble around my friend's holly-jolly home, which she's grounded with a bound copy of Toothpaste for Dinner. Cheers!

material instinct #3

All tied up and everywhere to go! I wish I had fundraised for these heels by Valentino before launching into the holiday party circuit on stocking feet. Anyone, spare a dime?

unstacked for the holidays

I admire a writer who creates maximum impact using minimal, unadorned language, and Amy Hempel is a great example. This volume of collected stories will accompany me throughout my vacay and will be followed, for balance, by something more rambling in its astuteness, most likely essays on love and/or architecture and/or work by Alain de Botton.

And for this time of year, if I may be so bold, nothing beats Holidays on Ice by subversive hot toddy David Sedaris. It kills, and I do believe everyone needs a Christmas whore named Dinah.

A few posts ago, I stated outright that all I wanted this season was Sedaris' readings on vinyl, and that was a lie. I also want everything I asked for last year and didn't receive - the glassybaby, the Polli mobile (an amplifed need since viewing those by Alexander Calder in Seattle), whiskey. And for toppers, throw in a pair of Sandra Juto's wrist worms, an original Cy Twombly painting (any that were part of a display at Chicago's Art Institute this summer will do), and something that will make me look like Anouk Aimee, in Lola, for at least 12 hours.

(unstacked - a glimpse at whatever book I'm reading mid month)

crushing

The winter wait-and-watch continues unabated - yesterday's Vancouver Blizzard dusted the streets with approximately one centimetre of snow. The overall sentiment seems to be this: Let's hope it gets worse.

I'm still not on board with endless will-it-won't-it weather discussions, and this morning fell into familiar patterns at my day job by seeking out those who lead far dreamier lives, if only superficially. A post at the Vanity Fair blog on Mats Gustafson did the trick, outlining his move from fashion illustration to minimal, non-Charles Harper-esque swans and blurred landscapes.

I've noticed that, for me, reading the VF blog always reminds me of that time on the Simpsons when a sushi chef is carving up fugu for Homer: "Poison. . . poison. . . tasty fish." It's hit and miss, in other words.

anticipatory

The hush isn't audible, but nearly everyone's mind seems to be perching tense and cat-like, waiting for the snow. Attitudes range from "Welcome, friend" to "Let's hurry up and get this bullsh*t over with."

My take? Time is best spent activating other brain parts. I'm attempting to do so with a cuppa Carolina Honey tea from Argo in Chicago, a dash of Tori Amos-brand sparkle powder, and a range of vintage New York photos by Saul Leiter (above), who once claimed, "I go out to take a walk. I see something. I take a picture." My kinda guy.

well lived

While culling a century's worth of files at work this week, I stumbled across a thank-you letter written nine years ago by an elderly president of a rail company. He'd been thrilled to receive a compilation cd of Richard Strauss from someone who'd toiled in the office long before me. Turns out he'd known Strauss personally and had occasionally played Bridge with him and his daughter-in-law, Alice.

As if this wasn't enough to make my otherwise dreary morning worth while, the letter continued by mentioning how Strauss's grandson had been tasked with carrying the schleppe, or train, of the ornate gown worn by the rail president's wife on their wedding day.

Other snippets of extraordinary (and perhaps more sordid) lives excavated during the same week: Anita Loos and Caroline Otero ("feasts, princes, champagne") via Lux Lotus, and Marchesa Luisa Casati at Just My Cup of Tea (the book cover of Casati, above, resembles another demented flapper, no?).

confections

This summer meant baking Madeleines with friends, and even earlier, in the spring, Ladurée-style macaroons (finicky things worth the effort, but without always refreshing that memory, I may never make them again - best just trot to Paris or maybe, for convenience, the New York outpost).

In that spirit, I recommend this short film by Susan Hochbaum that explains how most of Paris resembles some form of pastry. It's best viewed when eager but not ravenous.

(For similar armchair travel, Lola is Beauty offers this post of a perfect day.)