*not my photo or words. I've just mixed them. naughty i know. forgive me?
Friday, July 16, 2010
thought a beautiful think 2
*not my photo or words. I've just mixed them. naughty i know. forgive me?
thought a beautiful think
*I've just put the words and image together. Neither the words nor picture is mine.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Gelati Festival
(Gelati spoons as art. The ad I stumbled across a few days before it the festival began.)
(CINQUE gelatis at once. That's a solid effort.)I forgot to mention (I've no idea how!) that I was in Firenze for the gelati festival. Of course, given the obsession some of my friends have for ice-cream I bought my 5 tastes ticket. (It is not, happily, a personal foible. Chocolate I'm there everytime. Gelati, hmm, take it or leave it. So this is for you guys- you know who you are!)
Your ticket entitles you to go around ALL the boths across Florence (there are 5 main piazzas all set up for it. So picture 5 Fed Squares in Melbourne with a few marquees, each with about 5 different stalls, each stall with at least 8 different flavours.) Then you hand over one of your vouchers each time. The 'tastes' were generous- Ma and I shared them all.
(Choices four and five, naughty secret aniseed and yummy biscotinni.)We tried dark chocolate, raspberry sorbet on a stick, biscottini, rosewater pistachio (a rogue choice, obscurely labelled as that brand's 'speciality'. So of course we tried it but Ma was AGHAST to taste the rose.) and then it was MY turn to be disgusted by the aniseed flavour hiding among the chocolate chips in our final choice.
(Sorbet on a stick. They looked gorgeous as a collection, such bright colours.)
Friday, June 4, 2010
Come ride with me....
....come ride, let's ride away...
ha ha ahhhhhhh
I feel so invigorated!
I feel like I've spent the day filming an ad. For clothes? Sunnies? Mineral water? Perfume? Italian tourism? Any of it, all of it!!
The sunshine was glorious, and I spent the morning promenading in a '50s style frock. It's mint green with an abstract floral print in pink, lemon, white, charcoal grey and deep purple. Very Dior 'New Look' or January Jones in Mad Men, it swishes like a dream. The sunnies are faux Raybans in a pink&black gingham check.
After lunch, meanwhile, I rode a bicycle around the streets and wall of Lucca. The town's 4.2km wall is just MADE for an afternoon ride in the sunshine. A breeze to keep you cool, trees planted all along to dapple you in shade as you whizz along, dodging the evening walkers. I paused for a moment to pull the bottle of mineral water out of my basket, and as I opened the lid the water fizzed everywhere. It was refreshing after the heat of the ride, and of course there's nothing to do but giggle at the water spray.
By now I was wearing a shortie gingham playsuit with a little white straw hat. Weaving around, laughing, the hat tossed in the basket, the wind rustling my hair, hunting out gelati with my cousins, how could it NOT feel like a moment worth every penny?
-fin-
ha ha ahhhhhhh
I feel so invigorated!
I feel like I've spent the day filming an ad. For clothes? Sunnies? Mineral water? Perfume? Italian tourism? Any of it, all of it!!
The sunshine was glorious, and I spent the morning promenading in a '50s style frock. It's mint green with an abstract floral print in pink, lemon, white, charcoal grey and deep purple. Very Dior 'New Look' or January Jones in Mad Men, it swishes like a dream. The sunnies are faux Raybans in a pink&black gingham check.
After lunch, meanwhile, I rode a bicycle around the streets and wall of Lucca. The town's 4.2km wall is just MADE for an afternoon ride in the sunshine. A breeze to keep you cool, trees planted all along to dapple you in shade as you whizz along, dodging the evening walkers. I paused for a moment to pull the bottle of mineral water out of my basket, and as I opened the lid the water fizzed everywhere. It was refreshing after the heat of the ride, and of course there's nothing to do but giggle at the water spray.
-fin-
Friday, May 28, 2010
Amazing Italian food moments
Millefoglie ciccolato. Even the words look delicious.
My mother is an avid reader of foodie magazines, eg. Gourmet Traveller, Vogue Entertainment, Cuisine, Delicious....
For years (decades is probably more accurate) she has been tearing, ripping and cutting out places to eat, recipes to try and styling to emmulate. The styling and the cooking she can do at her leisure in Melbourne, and has done for as long as anyone remembers. Getting the chance to actually test out some of the amazing foreign locations, however, is a relative novelty.
Finally, she is in Italy, the land of her foodie dreams, and for Florence she has come armed with a 2 page spread from two Sydney gentlemen who run a restaurant together, and frequently return to Florence. The article is EXCLUSIVELY about food and is very specific in what to eat at each place.
There are probably about a dozen places mentioned, and we have so far tried at least 8 of them. Their hit rate is eight for eight. Do you know how rare this is?? I want to travel the WORLD with these dudes, they,ve got some serious flair. The bombolini, chocolate millfoglie, panino bollitos with salsa verde, hole-in-the-wall paninoteca, pasta-free trattorias, gelati and chocolates have all been out-of-this-world delicious. And we are a VERY discerning pair of eaters.
For years (decades is probably more accurate) she has been tearing, ripping and cutting out places to eat, recipes to try and styling to emmulate. The styling and the cooking she can do at her leisure in Melbourne, and has done for as long as anyone remembers. Getting the chance to actually test out some of the amazing foreign locations, however, is a relative novelty.
Finally, she is in Italy, the land of her foodie dreams, and for Florence she has come armed with a 2 page spread from two Sydney gentlemen who run a restaurant together, and frequently return to Florence. The article is EXCLUSIVELY about food and is very specific in what to eat at each place.
There are probably about a dozen places mentioned, and we have so far tried at least 8 of them. Their hit rate is eight for eight. Do you know how rare this is?? I want to travel the WORLD with these dudes, they,ve got some serious flair. The bombolini, chocolate millfoglie, panino bollitos with salsa verde, hole-in-the-wall paninoteca, pasta-free trattorias, gelati and chocolates have all been out-of-this-world delicious. And we are a VERY discerning pair of eaters.
Eggplant Parmagiana. Rich but not too rich, cheesey, hot and fresh. So tasty all propriety went out the window and I ate it fast a golden retreiver. VOMPFF! Gone. I was lucky it was a civilised portion size, cos I would have cleared the plate no matter how big it was.
At the Market Centrale, the Florence food markets rather like Queen Vic or Camberwell Markets. Fresh produced and preserved meats strung high, it looked like Christmas in there. Nerponte (? dont have my notes on my to check atm, sorry) was recommended for their bollito rolls. Ma and I were prepared to order a bollito roll based exactly as we were told, even asking for the recommended swipe of salsa verde not know what "bollito" meant. Boiled, it turns out, is what it means. Boiled beef and they pour the cooking juices into your roll, stack in some boiled beef and if you know what you're doing you ask for some salsa (it's like pesto, but better. This we already knew.) While hanging out at the counter Ma saw a large, steaming tray come out filled with a stew-like meal that smelt and looked amazing. On a whim, she added that to the order with the karafe of vino casa and we looked like locals. Although a little early (11am, haha. How to beat the lunch crowds: eat before lunch!) Anyway, turns out that meal in the bowl, that looks a little like pasta is in fact tripe. Sheep's stomach lining. Which, when uncooked looks like a bizarre kind of fleece.
I was OK with the fact I LOVED boiled beef roll. I was DISTURBED by what a celestial experience the tripe was. From Aus I had promised Mum I'd sample tripe because it was the regional speciality, but it was a WORLD away from what I expected. Do it.
Mixed Crostini. These are actually in Venice. The half-eaten one was the best, just incredible. radicchio, some kind of mayonaise, herbs, white anchovies (I normally detest anchovies). Num num num num. There are very few Italians in Venice, so it can be hard to judge where might be good to eat, but I noticed when paying that some of the gondola crewmen were hanging out there. Good sign. Their macchiato was also the best I've had to date in Italy (good cappucinos are much easier to find.)
This is the home of the chocolate millfoglie, custard bombolini, mini fruit tart, torta della nonna, delicious cappucino/macchiato.....
Given that I've only had 4 days in Florence, the fact that I've returned 4 times should tell you all you need to know.
Things you never want to hear your mother say
"Some friends of mine said that David was disappointingly small, but he looks big to me."
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Nicola's Starling memory
I feel it’s a strange string of coincidence, or a bizarre strain of irony, that the novel I’m reading is set among the famous monuments in Florence, and features characters eating strange things they’ve never tried before. On the face of it, this may not be so, but if I explain….
I picked up a novel at Melbourne airport, wanting to have some disposable English reading with me. I wasn’t sure if I’d read the book before, (I read voraciously, but forget frequently, making this a chronic problem of mine) so I opened it at random to sample a few pages. Nope, that sounds unfamiliar.
I settle in for some reading, and most UNFORTUNATELY, the bells of my memory start chiming. Hmmm…it is after all a sequel, perhaps that explains the familiarity? A few more pages and nope, I have DEFINITELY read it already. But, in that happy chain of coincidences, my sieve-like memory has retained only the starch of the story. The details once again appall and shock me.
And I ‘discover’ what I’d forgotten: the book is in part a caper about Florence and the protagonist eats the finer things in life such as sweetbreads, truffles, and has a particular penchant for liver.
But I really do need to work on my memory- I mean, who forgets that they’ve read Hannibal? And forgets enough of the plotline to enjoy reading it again???
*And for the record, tripe is delicious
** Clarice Starling is the lead female character
I picked up a novel at Melbourne airport, wanting to have some disposable English reading with me. I wasn’t sure if I’d read the book before, (I read voraciously, but forget frequently, making this a chronic problem of mine) so I opened it at random to sample a few pages. Nope, that sounds unfamiliar.
I settle in for some reading, and most UNFORTUNATELY, the bells of my memory start chiming. Hmmm…it is after all a sequel, perhaps that explains the familiarity? A few more pages and nope, I have DEFINITELY read it already. But, in that happy chain of coincidences, my sieve-like memory has retained only the starch of the story. The details once again appall and shock me.
And I ‘discover’ what I’d forgotten: the book is in part a caper about Florence and the protagonist eats the finer things in life such as sweetbreads, truffles, and has a particular penchant for liver.
But I really do need to work on my memory- I mean, who forgets that they’ve read Hannibal? And forgets enough of the plotline to enjoy reading it again???
*And for the record, tripe is delicious
** Clarice Starling is the lead female character
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Cosi cosi
SAN MARCO
The Doge’s Palace was not something that had made it onto my little historical radar (key word being ‘little’.) It was, as any edifice carved in white marble with gilt-framed paintings at every turn will be, impressive. Sheer scale and age will do that. So will a lack of expectations.
Palazzo San Marco, however, and the Basilica San Marco, was entirely underwhelming and overrated. It is dark and gloomy despite the gold mosaics proliferating on every horizontal service. One can neither sit nor walk in the main body of the church. While I understand WHY this is so, given its significance as a tourist attraction and the troubles in upkeep, it made it difficult to get a sense of it as a place of worship. Much more to my taste were some of the white, airy, simpler churches we stumbled across at every second or third campo.
Once again, while I understand the role of ‘awe’ in the history of religion, and the role played by the intense pictorial representations that abound in Europe’s ‘grandest’ churches, I find them stifling. For me, with my more fluid and spiritual ‘beliefs’, I look upon churches as a place of reflection, to listen, not worship. To open up my mind and let it float and bob along the vaulted marble ceilings. To let the light fill my vision, the quiet fill my ears, the votives tickle my nose…it’s just me and my tranquil soul. No queue required.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Boo-yah!
Sometimes, I leave my brain behind (see previous post.) And at other times I feel so on point I could do a happy dance.
The book....
Wandering around the bookstore of the Museum of Modern Art, very little took my fancy or looked like a book I hadn’t seen at the airport. Until a little, square, brown cardboard cover caught my eye. Bound with black linen tape, and with a simple charcoal-esque drawing of a spoon standing up on its mermaid tail. ‘Venetian Cuisine’. The introduction goes through market shopping tips on choosing your fresh seafood, a Venetian specialty. The recipes are clear, straightforward, accompanied by wine recommendations and more charcoal sketches. The book feels lovely underhand, light enough to hold with just one and quite a stand out in the glossy, luridly colourful world of the modern cookbook. But it gets better. After purchasing the book, we discover they’re the coveted recipes of Al’Trieste, a Michelin Guided restaurant on the island of San Marco. Determined to dine there, we ask our penzione hostess, Maria, to call them for us. She in turn recognizes the publishing house; the owner lives in the same building, just floors above us. The response from Al Trieste (about our Saturday night impromtu plans) is that they are fully booked, but if we call back at 7pm, they may have something available for us.
The eyes...
Not wanting to take any chances, baffled by the possibility of explaining what we wanted in Italian, and fully aware from my restaurant-hostessing days of the power of showing up early with pitiful faces, we rocked up in person. Shining puppy-dog eyes in place, we pinch ourselves at having found the restaurant. Mum whispers to me as we’re standing in the doorway, “Tell them we have the cookbook, tell them we came here especially because we bought it today. Tell them it’s just two of us.” I turned to Mum, who’d obviously gotten used to me speaking French with our Italian hostess, and reminded her that I don’t ACTUALLY speak Italian, thus she was just as capable of saying that as I was!
Regardless, puppy-eyes won out and the waiter, in his IMPECCABLE English (and infinite wisdom) found us a table in the tiny space (just 20 people can be seated at any one time.) His product knowledge was incredibly, and he laughed when we said we only wanted to eat items from the cookbook: “Ahhh. You already know all of our secrets!!” To his immense credit, he eyeballed the menu (printed out fresh every day, based around the catches of the day) and took us through everything that was in the book.
The restaurant...
We watched people show up and get turned away, even some who had bookings, but had failed to confirm them. One American lady on her own tried valiantly to bully her way in, based of course on American customer-service principles. More fool her, she was swatted away and was NOT invited to come back in a few hours. The couple seated next to us had booked months in advance, and duly confirmed IN PERSON two days earlier.
The food...
My entrée was Pilgrims Scallops with peppermint and lemon (gorgeous tiny scallops, 15 of them!) Mum had mussels and razor calms with a fresh ginger broth. Her wine was white and fruity, mine was a refreshing rose. Main course was pumpkin puree ravioli with scampi sauce and baby shrimps. Mum’s was a simple grilled sole. The vegetables of the day, to my surprise and minor dismay, were served in quite a French style. Not a fresh, crisp, glossy salad of riddicio, artichoke heart, eggplant….nope. All buttery and well-cooked. Well, you win you win you win and then you lose some.
The dessert...
As for dessert, the only match up between availability and the book was Tiramisu (“pick me up”, as in “cheer me up”). Ah life’s hard when you HAVE to eat Tiramisu. I’ve come to it a little bit late in life, but the lusciousness of marsala soaked sponge, marscapone, chocolate sauce and dustings of cocoa is addictive. And this one was, officially, the best I’ve ever eaten. SOMEHOW the chocolate sauce was still liquid. And it came served with what they call sauce spoons, ie. Spatula-like spoons with angular edges so you can get them nice and close to the plate, scooping up every last sauce drizzle, sponge morsel and cocoa speck.
Perhaps the best I can hope for in the balance of life is that I have one of these on point moments for every few ‘betise’ I make. I think Ma may have even forgiven me for forgetting the guide book….
The book....
Wandering around the bookstore of the Museum of Modern Art, very little took my fancy or looked like a book I hadn’t seen at the airport. Until a little, square, brown cardboard cover caught my eye. Bound with black linen tape, and with a simple charcoal-esque drawing of a spoon standing up on its mermaid tail. ‘Venetian Cuisine’. The introduction goes through market shopping tips on choosing your fresh seafood, a Venetian specialty. The recipes are clear, straightforward, accompanied by wine recommendations and more charcoal sketches. The book feels lovely underhand, light enough to hold with just one and quite a stand out in the glossy, luridly colourful world of the modern cookbook. But it gets better. After purchasing the book, we discover they’re the coveted recipes of Al’Trieste, a Michelin Guided restaurant on the island of San Marco. Determined to dine there, we ask our penzione hostess, Maria, to call them for us. She in turn recognizes the publishing house; the owner lives in the same building, just floors above us. The response from Al Trieste (about our Saturday night impromtu plans) is that they are fully booked, but if we call back at 7pm, they may have something available for us.
The eyes...
Not wanting to take any chances, baffled by the possibility of explaining what we wanted in Italian, and fully aware from my restaurant-hostessing days of the power of showing up early with pitiful faces, we rocked up in person. Shining puppy-dog eyes in place, we pinch ourselves at having found the restaurant. Mum whispers to me as we’re standing in the doorway, “Tell them we have the cookbook, tell them we came here especially because we bought it today. Tell them it’s just two of us.” I turned to Mum, who’d obviously gotten used to me speaking French with our Italian hostess, and reminded her that I don’t ACTUALLY speak Italian, thus she was just as capable of saying that as I was!
Regardless, puppy-eyes won out and the waiter, in his IMPECCABLE English (and infinite wisdom) found us a table in the tiny space (just 20 people can be seated at any one time.) His product knowledge was incredibly, and he laughed when we said we only wanted to eat items from the cookbook: “Ahhh. You already know all of our secrets!!” To his immense credit, he eyeballed the menu (printed out fresh every day, based around the catches of the day) and took us through everything that was in the book.
The restaurant...
We watched people show up and get turned away, even some who had bookings, but had failed to confirm them. One American lady on her own tried valiantly to bully her way in, based of course on American customer-service principles. More fool her, she was swatted away and was NOT invited to come back in a few hours. The couple seated next to us had booked months in advance, and duly confirmed IN PERSON two days earlier.
The food...
My entrée was Pilgrims Scallops with peppermint and lemon (gorgeous tiny scallops, 15 of them!) Mum had mussels and razor calms with a fresh ginger broth. Her wine was white and fruity, mine was a refreshing rose. Main course was pumpkin puree ravioli with scampi sauce and baby shrimps. Mum’s was a simple grilled sole. The vegetables of the day, to my surprise and minor dismay, were served in quite a French style. Not a fresh, crisp, glossy salad of riddicio, artichoke heart, eggplant….nope. All buttery and well-cooked. Well, you win you win you win and then you lose some.
The dessert...
As for dessert, the only match up between availability and the book was Tiramisu (“pick me up”, as in “cheer me up”). Ah life’s hard when you HAVE to eat Tiramisu. I’ve come to it a little bit late in life, but the lusciousness of marsala soaked sponge, marscapone, chocolate sauce and dustings of cocoa is addictive. And this one was, officially, the best I’ve ever eaten. SOMEHOW the chocolate sauce was still liquid. And it came served with what they call sauce spoons, ie. Spatula-like spoons with angular edges so you can get them nice and close to the plate, scooping up every last sauce drizzle, sponge morsel and cocoa speck.
Perhaps the best I can hope for in the balance of life is that I have one of these on point moments for every few ‘betise’ I make. I think Ma may have even forgiven me for forgetting the guide book….
Sunday, May 23, 2010
left, left, left my brain in New Orleans with 45 cents and a can of beans
What a ceremonious start to three weeks in Italy. I leave it until the last minute to pack my bags (literally. I went out the night before, not getting home until about 5am...by 6.30 it was barely worth going to sleep but i try anyway.) My packing philosophy was to put everything I wanted to take with me onto the bed, quick eyeball, and then if it all fitted into the case dammit it was all coming. Including the latest h&m wardrobe additions. I tried so hard to do the maths on what time I needed to be at the airport, thus what time i needed to leave home, but it was actually impossible: my little gin-addled tete couldn't figure it out. Erring on the side of caution, then, I arrived rather early, especially for a flight that was delayed by an hour.
Unfortunately, the last minute rush meant I forgot a couple of things. Like one of my guide books. And my italian-english phrase book. Dammit. All the more embarassing because I'm not holidaying alone, I'm gallavanting with my mother for 3 weeks. Upon arrival at venice airport the meet-mum back up plan kicked into action. Despite having 3 simcards at my disposal, it seemed i couldn't get the correct combination of credit/network reception/general functionability. So as planned, I waited at the tourist desk. For half an hour. Given mum arrived well before me, and i was running late, this concerned me a little. Apparently, after doodling around trying to problem solve, the water taxi dsk is not also the tourist desk. The tourist desk, just a few booths away is. And sure enough, there was mumma, waiting patiently. We rolled off to our waiting water taxi and our Venice escape began.
Unfortunately, the last minute rush meant I forgot a couple of things. Like one of my guide books. And my italian-english phrase book. Dammit. All the more embarassing because I'm not holidaying alone, I'm gallavanting with my mother for 3 weeks. Upon arrival at venice airport the meet-mum back up plan kicked into action. Despite having 3 simcards at my disposal, it seemed i couldn't get the correct combination of credit/network reception/general functionability. So as planned, I waited at the tourist desk. For half an hour. Given mum arrived well before me, and i was running late, this concerned me a little. Apparently, after doodling around trying to problem solve, the water taxi dsk is not also the tourist desk. The tourist desk, just a few booths away is. And sure enough, there was mumma, waiting patiently. We rolled off to our waiting water taxi and our Venice escape began.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
La Nourriture
Given my love of all things edible, I feel it's time to share some of my favourite foodie pics. I have a mountain to choose from, thanks to my predeliction for snapping everything I'm about to eat, and many more generally drool-worthy morsels.
And, instead of wishing you were here with me in person to share the deliciousness, be glad, be very glad that you are far, FAR away from the buttery, calorific minefield that is Paris. Sometimes vicarious is better....
Bon appetit!
I enjoy the general prettiness of the experience. The high-quality, silky-soft china, the quaintness of pouring tea. This is made on WILD strawberries. Outrageous.
Everything in this store is tiny. Tiny tarts, tiny cupcakes, tiny tables, tiny stools, tiny karafs of water. Such a glorious selection of tinies, it's tough to know where to start. Luckily at this particularly tiny pit stop I had two of my Aussie ladies with me, so we could trade mouthfuls.
Meet Kevin. He joined my sister and I for our romp together around Paris in February. Here we are at a serendipitous find. We were actually tracking a resto found in a magazine, but it didn't look any better than anything in Melbourne. But wouldn't you know it, this lovely modern-but-traditional boulangerie was on the corner. The drinks came with dense, fruity friands (little cakes often made on nut-flour instead of wheat flour) and the berries are always so fresh!
At some point home cooking really should be done. This is a jar of organic supermarket cassoulet, with sausage, beans and stewed meat. Sure it might not sound great to you as you chow down a fresh sushi roll, but over here cassoulet with lightly steamed asparagous is a light, healthy dinner.
I'm so tickled by the packaging in Europe, whether it's the paper bread bags, the sardine tins, the vegie papers (eg. asparagus feature above) or the fruit wrappers. This dude's gone to the trouble of tesselating his oranges. Awww. I bought some of the glossy blood oranges for their papers, but was warned to wash them well. Why? Because they papers (with too-cute drawings of a lady on them) are infused with insecticide. Who knew??
And, instead of wishing you were here with me in person to share the deliciousness, be glad, be very glad that you are far, FAR away from the buttery, calorific minefield that is Paris. Sometimes vicarious is better....
Bon appetit!
I enjoy the general prettiness of the experience. The high-quality, silky-soft china, the quaintness of pouring tea. This is made on WILD strawberries. Outrageous.
Everything in this store is tiny. Tiny tarts, tiny cupcakes, tiny tables, tiny stools, tiny karafs of water. Such a glorious selection of tinies, it's tough to know where to start. Luckily at this particularly tiny pit stop I had two of my Aussie ladies with me, so we could trade mouthfuls.
Meet Kevin. He joined my sister and I for our romp together around Paris in February. Here we are at a serendipitous find. We were actually tracking a resto found in a magazine, but it didn't look any better than anything in Melbourne. But wouldn't you know it, this lovely modern-but-traditional boulangerie was on the corner. The drinks came with dense, fruity friands (little cakes often made on nut-flour instead of wheat flour) and the berries are always so fresh!
At some point home cooking really should be done. This is a jar of organic supermarket cassoulet, with sausage, beans and stewed meat. Sure it might not sound great to you as you chow down a fresh sushi roll, but over here cassoulet with lightly steamed asparagous is a light, healthy dinner.
I'm so tickled by the packaging in Europe, whether it's the paper bread bags, the sardine tins, the vegie papers (eg. asparagus feature above) or the fruit wrappers. This dude's gone to the trouble of tesselating his oranges. Awww. I bought some of the glossy blood oranges for their papers, but was warned to wash them well. Why? Because they papers (with too-cute drawings of a lady on them) are infused with insecticide. Who knew??
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The unblemished perfection of youth
A burn, the size of a bankcard but the shape of Russia, now marks my inner wrist. The satin-smooth, milky-white skin is no more. Replaced with a scar. A sign of fallibility. A mark of life. These marks start becoming permanent. It’s not dirt, it won’t wash off. It’s not a scratch, it won’t heal over. It’s not a tan, it won’t fade away. Like the first hints of wrinkles that take longer to uncrease in the morning; from here on in the unblemished perfection of youth is no more.
Vanity is a strange beast. I shouldn’t be concerning myself with such a frivolity. Especially not as it happened in Paris. It’s a permanent reminder of the life I had, and loved, in the luminous city. Like a tattoo, but more original than the tricolour flag and more cryptic than the Eiffel Tower. I also consider it to be my brand of stupidity. I should have known better than to burn myself with hot oil while cooking. According to my brand, however, my very own scarlet letter, I did not. Yet if that is the only mark I carry, the only burden I bear upon leaving my Parisienne life behind, then I have gotten off lightly. For my heart, my heart remains unscathed. The city of love captured my attention, she even attracted my affection. Mais mon coeur, il est encore mein.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Printemps-Ete 2010 Part 1
So I know that the shows happened in September but I've been a little busy with my life in Paris to sit down and really take stock of the collections. But perhaps January, staring down the barrel of European Spring (and willing it to arrive with all my might!), is in fact a pertinent time to reflect on what's coming.
Printemps-ete 2010
La Petite Nicola's take on the collections shown at Paris.
Part One
Dior
Love the silk knicker-shorts, the defined and high waist, the dashes of purple, the corsetry and the lingerie-esque nature of pieces.
Chanel
Def a Lily Allen fan, well played. Like the palette, it's refined without being boring or prematurely aging the models. Again, loving the sheer. Especially like the sheer white dress/jacket that comes to mid-thigh with puff sleeves and baby ruffles to finish (Natalie Portman wears it on the latest cover of.....Elle?). Shoes are moche (ug-lee).
YSL
Leather halter neck dress? Ew. Even the models look terrible in their over-sized collars, excess fabric and strange lines. (As for those errant strawberries!) One or two outfits really work, but they're more classic in their look (long pencil skirts with high waists, refined shape and the pleating work kept to a minimum.) According to the show notes, Pilati sought "...an aesthetic paradigm of new minimalism." Riiiiiight.....
Louis Vuitton
Moche, moche, moche, moche, moche. Those afros, those hideous shoes (they look like the escaped from a Doctor Zeuss book), the apallingly liberal use of lime green. And those shorts that ended an inch above the knee- all the models needed were bicycles and they could have ridden back twenty years onto the film set of "My Girl." I often split fashion into one of two groups- aspirational and inspirational. Aspirational is a look we try and mimic, we wish we looked like that. Inspirational is for the zanier stuff that needs diffusing before seeing the harsh light of day; fashion concentrate. But Marc is making me think I need a third cateogry: tragic. As in, a tragic waste of time, energy and money.
Balenciago par Nicholas Ghesquiere
Strange. Strange in the way the original mod-con looks of the 60's must have been strange. And with a similar feel, in fact. Splashes of fluro green, orange and pink on a collection largely in gunmetal grey and shades of indigoblack. The slashed leather miniskirt look isn't for everyone. Not are the slashed tops, for that matter. But to be honest I'm just relieved not to be looking at Marc's carwreck anymore.
Lanvin
Clever lighting made for a dramatic show. It's like Elbaz succeeds at what YSL wanted to do. Swathes of fabric draped, pulled, tucked and pinned into dresses. Oversized, wavy ruffles used to accentuate the hips or shoulders and everywhere I look I see nipped in waists. Heaven. Even the sequin-encrusted jump suits have a lifespan beyond the catwalk. And definitely the most successful use of lime green yet. (Perhaps the secret lies in only using the colour ONCE!)
Valentino
The shoes! O the celestial confection that is their SHOES. The poofs of tulle, wisps of lace, whorls of silk. Despite their whimsy, the stilletos seem to ground the outfits- I think this is the solidness of their black contrasted with the beige palette. This is broken only by shades of grey, including a lilac-grey (that could, in all honesty, probably have been left at home that day) and of course black. I'm enjoying the attention to detail, like the lace used to make the inner pants pockets of a sheer organza jumpsuit. Their break from red is marked: it is an anti-crimson collection. There would certainly not have been any tacking some on at the end.
Miu Miu
I'm just not so sure about the cut outs. Or the lines. The patterns are cute, but I'd expect to see them in a Liberty collection, used in a more classic manner. The collection looks confused, and not in a cheeky, contrasts kind of way.
Givenchy
Sharp, graphic, stripes, ruffles and zigzags. I see some wearability peeking through the OTTness. But what on EARTH was Tisci THINKING with those pencil hats? The girls look like Derwents. That or the KKK stripped bare.
Balmain
Black, khaki, bronzes (both in fabrics and detailing), leather. The texture of Decarnin's collection is distictively different to the tulled-softness of most others. HIs is shiney, hard, tough. Sleek women with 'tude. And boots, lots of laced up tall ankle boots.
Alexander McQueen
What the avatars of Cameron's film would have been wearing if it weren't computer generated. Surreal, etheral in an under-the-sea way. Strong shoulders, little waists and tall, TALL platforms.
Chloe
Relaxed, slouchy, white/beige palette. Pay a fortune, look like a bag lady. Except for the thick-strapped sandals. They're channeling Jesus.
Comme des Garcons
They're wearing fairyfloss on their head. Which might not have been such a bad thing, if it were all traditional pink-flavour. But no, there is lime, violet and a particularly brassy mango shade. I'll be generous and place her collection in the "inspirational" category. Although Kawakubo's particular brand of fashion concentrate probably needs distilling a few times over before it BEGINS to make sense.
Celine
Frankly Philo should have stayed at Chloe- I'm not sure her move was worth the loss. Strange high-waisted a line mini skirts (in leather?) and bizarre leather tee-shirts. Here, the exclusive use of beige, black and white and the clunky shoes are bor-RING.
Junya Watanabe
Black and white. Graphic, mostly of the squared variety. The large square patterned blazers looks like the girls stole them from the Circus Oz costume rack, and possibly the checked brogues too. Apparently his theme was menswear for women. Sure, if by men you mean Bozo.
John Galliano
What a show! Blahnik once describe Galliano as a "funky little fashion troll" and looking at the colleciton (and at him afterwards) is seems apt. Colour, lace, feathers, clashing lines. At the same time as exhibiting a somewhat nutty collaboration of effects, Galliano never seems to forget that it is actual WOMEN (albeit of the model variety) who wear his clothes. We see their waists, or their chests, or their arms or legs shozn to their advantage. Fashion concentrate of the best kind.
Hermes
Classic with a sports twist. Cream and navy, contrast piping, tennis-style skirt pleats, bathing suits, forehead bands, socks.
Jean Paul Gaultier
It looks as though Gaultier spent too much time on the Hermes collection and had to pull together something at the last minute for his own. Which could explain why it looks like something the cat dragged in. Then ate. Then threw up. It's all about reusing his iconic lingerie in different ways but it just looks....regurgitated, rather than reinterpreted.
Stella McCartney
Electric blue, dark beige, grey, traditional denim, lace, corn yellow, turquoise blue and white. Sound mismatched? It looks mismatched. Vogue describes fashion as "the magic of simply slipping into an outfit and not having to think about it for the rest of the day." If you slipped on a piece of Stella not thinking about it for the rest of the day is exactly what you'd have to do, in order to avoid ripping it off and swapping your outfit with the homeless guy on the corner. Or at the very least having a strange "Did I trip and fall back to 1994?" moment.
Still to come: Kenzo, Karl Lagerfeld, Sonia Rykiel, Vivienne Westwood, Rick Owens, Dries Van Noten, Cacharel and more........
Printemps-ete 2010
La Petite Nicola's take on the collections shown at Paris.
Part One
Dior
Love the silk knicker-shorts, the defined and high waist, the dashes of purple, the corsetry and the lingerie-esque nature of pieces.
Chanel
Def a Lily Allen fan, well played. Like the palette, it's refined without being boring or prematurely aging the models. Again, loving the sheer. Especially like the sheer white dress/jacket that comes to mid-thigh with puff sleeves and baby ruffles to finish (Natalie Portman wears it on the latest cover of.....Elle?). Shoes are moche (ug-lee).
YSL
Leather halter neck dress? Ew. Even the models look terrible in their over-sized collars, excess fabric and strange lines. (As for those errant strawberries!) One or two outfits really work, but they're more classic in their look (long pencil skirts with high waists, refined shape and the pleating work kept to a minimum.) According to the show notes, Pilati sought "...an aesthetic paradigm of new minimalism." Riiiiiight.....
Louis Vuitton
Moche, moche, moche, moche, moche. Those afros, those hideous shoes (they look like the escaped from a Doctor Zeuss book), the apallingly liberal use of lime green. And those shorts that ended an inch above the knee- all the models needed were bicycles and they could have ridden back twenty years onto the film set of "My Girl." I often split fashion into one of two groups- aspirational and inspirational. Aspirational is a look we try and mimic, we wish we looked like that. Inspirational is for the zanier stuff that needs diffusing before seeing the harsh light of day; fashion concentrate. But Marc is making me think I need a third cateogry: tragic. As in, a tragic waste of time, energy and money.
Balenciago par Nicholas Ghesquiere
Strange. Strange in the way the original mod-con looks of the 60's must have been strange. And with a similar feel, in fact. Splashes of fluro green, orange and pink on a collection largely in gunmetal grey and shades of indigoblack. The slashed leather miniskirt look isn't for everyone. Not are the slashed tops, for that matter. But to be honest I'm just relieved not to be looking at Marc's carwreck anymore.
Lanvin
Clever lighting made for a dramatic show. It's like Elbaz succeeds at what YSL wanted to do. Swathes of fabric draped, pulled, tucked and pinned into dresses. Oversized, wavy ruffles used to accentuate the hips or shoulders and everywhere I look I see nipped in waists. Heaven. Even the sequin-encrusted jump suits have a lifespan beyond the catwalk. And definitely the most successful use of lime green yet. (Perhaps the secret lies in only using the colour ONCE!)
Valentino
The shoes! O the celestial confection that is their SHOES. The poofs of tulle, wisps of lace, whorls of silk. Despite their whimsy, the stilletos seem to ground the outfits- I think this is the solidness of their black contrasted with the beige palette. This is broken only by shades of grey, including a lilac-grey (that could, in all honesty, probably have been left at home that day) and of course black. I'm enjoying the attention to detail, like the lace used to make the inner pants pockets of a sheer organza jumpsuit. Their break from red is marked: it is an anti-crimson collection. There would certainly not have been any tacking some on at the end.
Miu Miu
I'm just not so sure about the cut outs. Or the lines. The patterns are cute, but I'd expect to see them in a Liberty collection, used in a more classic manner. The collection looks confused, and not in a cheeky, contrasts kind of way.
Givenchy
Sharp, graphic, stripes, ruffles and zigzags. I see some wearability peeking through the OTTness. But what on EARTH was Tisci THINKING with those pencil hats? The girls look like Derwents. That or the KKK stripped bare.
Balmain
Black, khaki, bronzes (both in fabrics and detailing), leather. The texture of Decarnin's collection is distictively different to the tulled-softness of most others. HIs is shiney, hard, tough. Sleek women with 'tude. And boots, lots of laced up tall ankle boots.
Alexander McQueen
What the avatars of Cameron's film would have been wearing if it weren't computer generated. Surreal, etheral in an under-the-sea way. Strong shoulders, little waists and tall, TALL platforms.
Chloe
Relaxed, slouchy, white/beige palette. Pay a fortune, look like a bag lady. Except for the thick-strapped sandals. They're channeling Jesus.
Comme des Garcons
They're wearing fairyfloss on their head. Which might not have been such a bad thing, if it were all traditional pink-flavour. But no, there is lime, violet and a particularly brassy mango shade. I'll be generous and place her collection in the "inspirational" category. Although Kawakubo's particular brand of fashion concentrate probably needs distilling a few times over before it BEGINS to make sense.
Celine
Frankly Philo should have stayed at Chloe- I'm not sure her move was worth the loss. Strange high-waisted a line mini skirts (in leather?) and bizarre leather tee-shirts. Here, the exclusive use of beige, black and white and the clunky shoes are bor-RING.
Junya Watanabe
Black and white. Graphic, mostly of the squared variety. The large square patterned blazers looks like the girls stole them from the Circus Oz costume rack, and possibly the checked brogues too. Apparently his theme was menswear for women. Sure, if by men you mean Bozo.
John Galliano
What a show! Blahnik once describe Galliano as a "funky little fashion troll" and looking at the colleciton (and at him afterwards) is seems apt. Colour, lace, feathers, clashing lines. At the same time as exhibiting a somewhat nutty collaboration of effects, Galliano never seems to forget that it is actual WOMEN (albeit of the model variety) who wear his clothes. We see their waists, or their chests, or their arms or legs shozn to their advantage. Fashion concentrate of the best kind.
Hermes
Classic with a sports twist. Cream and navy, contrast piping, tennis-style skirt pleats, bathing suits, forehead bands, socks.
Jean Paul Gaultier
It looks as though Gaultier spent too much time on the Hermes collection and had to pull together something at the last minute for his own. Which could explain why it looks like something the cat dragged in. Then ate. Then threw up. It's all about reusing his iconic lingerie in different ways but it just looks....regurgitated, rather than reinterpreted.
Stella McCartney
Electric blue, dark beige, grey, traditional denim, lace, corn yellow, turquoise blue and white. Sound mismatched? It looks mismatched. Vogue describes fashion as "the magic of simply slipping into an outfit and not having to think about it for the rest of the day." If you slipped on a piece of Stella not thinking about it for the rest of the day is exactly what you'd have to do, in order to avoid ripping it off and swapping your outfit with the homeless guy on the corner. Or at the very least having a strange "Did I trip and fall back to 1994?" moment.
Still to come: Kenzo, Karl Lagerfeld, Sonia Rykiel, Vivienne Westwood, Rick Owens, Dries Van Noten, Cacharel and more........
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