Lady McTavish loved parties so lavish,
She planned them the whole winter long.
The gowns and the pearls and the fey dancing girls,
The feathers and hats and wild tiger cats,
Shoes with bright buckles and rings for her knuckles,
Sweet cakes and tarts -- the best pastry arts,
Pheasant and ham, and caviar and clams,
Gilt, silk, and brocade whose gleam couldn't fade,
Lutenists, flautists, and singers galore,
No hostess could ever have done any more.
She puttered and sputtered and bustled around
To ensure that she held the best party in town.
Then, one day, the ball's date did finally arrive.
With music and glitter the manse was alive.
The guests were expected at a quarter to seven,
But minute by minute, it got onto eleven!
Wringing her hands, she fretted and wailed,
Feeling as tho' she had completely failed.
She clapped her hand to her brow in utter dismay,
As the calendar revealed the cause of delay:
...Her party'd been set for the following day.
- Lisette Atiyeh
(Inspired by W.S. Gilbert, William Allen Butler, songs of yesteryear, and the steampunk genre.)
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
What's Cooking?
I don't cook because it's trendy. In fact, I don't do anything because it's trendy. I like what I like, and I do what I like because, well, I like it -- genuinely, from the heart. While there are the "faux foodies" (as I call them in "The Problem With Poseurs") out there, and while people often accept them as the real deal, I don't. I don't accept them because I have no tolerance for artificiality. But also, I don't accept them because they are, in effect, trivializing the art of cookery and its meaning to the cook through their feigned passion for it.
It may reasonably be taken as a given that I cook because I love food, I love to eat. As Luciano Pavarotti and William Wright wrote, "One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating." So, yes, I cook to eat; I learn dishes that intrigue me, or that I love, I cook them, and subsequently, I gleefully gobble them up.
But for me, the glee rests not only in the gobbling, but in the process. As Julia Child put it, "Noncooks think it's silly to invest two hours' work in two minutes' enjoyment; but if cooking is evanescent, so is the ballet." I couldn't agree more because, not only do I consider cooking an art, but also, because I simply love cooking. I love the chopping (yes, even onions, in fact, especially onions); I love the clean crunching sound of a chef's knife slicing through a stalk of celery, and I love the scent released when mincing rosemary, or chiffonading basil. I love the way heavy cream, thick and white, coats the inside of a clear glass. I love the hiss of garlic hitting hot olive oil, and even more, its unmistakable aroma. I love the "chef's samples": not-so-surreptitiously stealing a shaving of Parmigiano Reggiano, or popping a chocolate chip (or two, or three...). I love folding said chocolate chips into the structured silkiness of a meringue batter.
The labor is one of love, and joy. While quick-and-easy recipes are great, I mostly enjoy making involved ones, and, within reason, tend to avoid shortcuts because, aside from striving for authenticity (especially with ethnic dishes), I don't want to cut things short. I love to linger in the kitchen, one of my favorite places in the home, and one of the places where I feel most at home. I love the warmth of the oven on a cold night, especially when the smell of cinnamon or warm chocolate is radiating from it. I love the miraculous effects of the range on a stove top: it boils, it simmers, it sautés, it fries, it melts, and it heats. I love seeing a dough coming together, or a sauce reducing, or a ganache gleaming. All these things are, literally, a feast for the senses. And yet, there is more at work, here.
Many people say it: "Cooking is therapeutic." And it is. I love cooking because, like the act of eating as described by Pavarotti, one must devote time and attention to it. It helps one to focus on something other than stress, work, trifling people/situations, and it clears the mind. The most important thing, when you're in the kitchen, is to keep your mirepoix from burning, or your sauce from sticking (and let's face it, there are other, more cathartic therapeutic merits to punching down risen dough). Everything else is filtered out while you escape into a world filled with sights, sounds, and smells. It is a healthy respite from the wearisome world; some people choose delusion, I choose cooking. This is why the two do not meet -- paper moons and mezzalunas don't mix. Phonies cannot truly love cooking because it isn't enough and it, too, exists within their realm of unreality, defined and colored by delusion. Cookery for cookery's sake is what brings true contentment.
When free of fakery, cooking, with all its hard work and joys, is therapeutic because it is a very real way of creating something, of making something beautiful and beneficial through the healthy expenditure of energy and concentration. And, perhaps, above all else, the most important ingredient -- trite tho' the expression may be -- is love, which, when true, can only be positive: love for food, love for cooking, a healthy love for self, and a love for others. When cooking is steeped in, and based on, love, it creates more love -- love within the cook's heart, love for one's guests, love for life, and by extension, love in the world. And this is precisely why it must come from the heart, and speak to the heart. Indeed, as the French have it, "La cuisine est un révélateur de l'amour."
- Lisette
It may reasonably be taken as a given that I cook because I love food, I love to eat. As Luciano Pavarotti and William Wright wrote, "One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating." So, yes, I cook to eat; I learn dishes that intrigue me, or that I love, I cook them, and subsequently, I gleefully gobble them up.
But for me, the glee rests not only in the gobbling, but in the process. As Julia Child put it, "Noncooks think it's silly to invest two hours' work in two minutes' enjoyment; but if cooking is evanescent, so is the ballet." I couldn't agree more because, not only do I consider cooking an art, but also, because I simply love cooking. I love the chopping (yes, even onions, in fact, especially onions); I love the clean crunching sound of a chef's knife slicing through a stalk of celery, and I love the scent released when mincing rosemary, or chiffonading basil. I love the way heavy cream, thick and white, coats the inside of a clear glass. I love the hiss of garlic hitting hot olive oil, and even more, its unmistakable aroma. I love the "chef's samples": not-so-surreptitiously stealing a shaving of Parmigiano Reggiano, or popping a chocolate chip (or two, or three...). I love folding said chocolate chips into the structured silkiness of a meringue batter.
The labor is one of love, and joy. While quick-and-easy recipes are great, I mostly enjoy making involved ones, and, within reason, tend to avoid shortcuts because, aside from striving for authenticity (especially with ethnic dishes), I don't want to cut things short. I love to linger in the kitchen, one of my favorite places in the home, and one of the places where I feel most at home. I love the warmth of the oven on a cold night, especially when the smell of cinnamon or warm chocolate is radiating from it. I love the miraculous effects of the range on a stove top: it boils, it simmers, it sautés, it fries, it melts, and it heats. I love seeing a dough coming together, or a sauce reducing, or a ganache gleaming. All these things are, literally, a feast for the senses. And yet, there is more at work, here.
Many people say it: "Cooking is therapeutic." And it is. I love cooking because, like the act of eating as described by Pavarotti, one must devote time and attention to it. It helps one to focus on something other than stress, work, trifling people/situations, and it clears the mind. The most important thing, when you're in the kitchen, is to keep your mirepoix from burning, or your sauce from sticking (and let's face it, there are other, more cathartic therapeutic merits to punching down risen dough). Everything else is filtered out while you escape into a world filled with sights, sounds, and smells. It is a healthy respite from the wearisome world; some people choose delusion, I choose cooking. This is why the two do not meet -- paper moons and mezzalunas don't mix. Phonies cannot truly love cooking because it isn't enough and it, too, exists within their realm of unreality, defined and colored by delusion. Cookery for cookery's sake is what brings true contentment.
When free of fakery, cooking, with all its hard work and joys, is therapeutic because it is a very real way of creating something, of making something beautiful and beneficial through the healthy expenditure of energy and concentration. And, perhaps, above all else, the most important ingredient -- trite tho' the expression may be -- is love, which, when true, can only be positive: love for food, love for cooking, a healthy love for self, and a love for others. When cooking is steeped in, and based on, love, it creates more love -- love within the cook's heart, love for one's guests, love for life, and by extension, love in the world. And this is precisely why it must come from the heart, and speak to the heart. Indeed, as the French have it, "La cuisine est un révélateur de l'amour."
- Lisette
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Louboutin Lawsuit: Heart and Sole
Tho' it happened back in August, I am still thinking about Louboutin's red sole lawsuit. We all know what happened: Christian Louboutin sued YSL for copycatting his famous red sole and lost because the judge felt that Louboutin had no right to have a monopoly over one color, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, despite the fact that Louboutin registered the sole as a trademark years ago. Louboutin rightly continues to fight this fight, and I am completely on his side in this matter. Why? Because it's not really about soles. It's about soul.
If people truly understood the mind -- and heart -- of an artist (a true artist, one who is such to the core), they would realize that this issue is not petty, nor is Louboutin being unreasonable. This isn't a matter of monopolizing a color, it is the unique placement of this color that makes it his intellectual property; he first thought of/exectuted it, so it was, simply, his idea, the brainchild born of his own peculiar creativity. The man built a reputation, a look, a style, and indeed, an empire, out of red soles -- quite literally. He had the sole trademarked because it was his trademark; everyone knew a Louboutin by the famous red sole, and everyone wanted one because of it.
For an artist to see his unique vision knocked off -- yes, I said it, knocked off -- by a competitor, is not only aggravating because of the obvious commercial issue involved; it is aggravating because Louboutin's red sole represents his persona, his vision, his soul, as it were, as an artist. An artist's art, whatever the medium, is an extension of his being and personality, what he stands for, his aesthetic, and his world view. To imitate that is disrespectful and often, unnerving. To adapt someone else's creation for one's own use, benefit, edification, or what have you, is indelicate and tantamout to identity theft. As someone who despises self-profiting copycatting, I would go so far as to argue that such blatant imitation is, artistically speaking, dangerously close to soul stealing. It is unjust, it is ugly, it is twisted, it is hurtful, and it can be frightening.
Because of this, I applaud Louboutin for continuing to fight and defend his work, and I applaud Tiffany & Co. for standing by his side. Obviously, I believe Louboutin should win the case, and not really because he did, legally, copyright the red sole in 2008 (which should, in theory, make this a non-issue). I believe he should win because it's in poor taste to imitate another artist's calling card. As we are emotional, creative human beings, and not unfeeling robots or functional cogs in a machine, the only humane thing to do would be to recognize Louboutin's right to practice his art in his own unique way and award him the suit.
Indeed, art is born of emotion and sentiment. To reduce an artist's claim to a nuts-and-bolts understanding of commerce and the color wheel is not objective and just; it is nearsighted and inhumane. Without quirks, details, and uniqueness, there is no art. If one were to deny Louboutin his right to reestablish the red sole as his alone, one might as well do away with art altogether. Without unique thinkers like Louboutin, art cannot thrive, so the implications of this case reach further than one might think, at the outset. A win for Louboutin would mean a win for art and artists, and as art is both the expression of a society's soul, and the means by which it is nurtured, such a triumph would actually resonate across all human lives, whether they realized it, or not.
- Lisette
If people truly understood the mind -- and heart -- of an artist (a true artist, one who is such to the core), they would realize that this issue is not petty, nor is Louboutin being unreasonable. This isn't a matter of monopolizing a color, it is the unique placement of this color that makes it his intellectual property; he first thought of/exectuted it, so it was, simply, his idea, the brainchild born of his own peculiar creativity. The man built a reputation, a look, a style, and indeed, an empire, out of red soles -- quite literally. He had the sole trademarked because it was his trademark; everyone knew a Louboutin by the famous red sole, and everyone wanted one because of it.
For an artist to see his unique vision knocked off -- yes, I said it, knocked off -- by a competitor, is not only aggravating because of the obvious commercial issue involved; it is aggravating because Louboutin's red sole represents his persona, his vision, his soul, as it were, as an artist. An artist's art, whatever the medium, is an extension of his being and personality, what he stands for, his aesthetic, and his world view. To imitate that is disrespectful and often, unnerving. To adapt someone else's creation for one's own use, benefit, edification, or what have you, is indelicate and tantamout to identity theft. As someone who despises self-profiting copycatting, I would go so far as to argue that such blatant imitation is, artistically speaking, dangerously close to soul stealing. It is unjust, it is ugly, it is twisted, it is hurtful, and it can be frightening.
Because of this, I applaud Louboutin for continuing to fight and defend his work, and I applaud Tiffany & Co. for standing by his side. Obviously, I believe Louboutin should win the case, and not really because he did, legally, copyright the red sole in 2008 (which should, in theory, make this a non-issue). I believe he should win because it's in poor taste to imitate another artist's calling card. As we are emotional, creative human beings, and not unfeeling robots or functional cogs in a machine, the only humane thing to do would be to recognize Louboutin's right to practice his art in his own unique way and award him the suit.
Indeed, art is born of emotion and sentiment. To reduce an artist's claim to a nuts-and-bolts understanding of commerce and the color wheel is not objective and just; it is nearsighted and inhumane. Without quirks, details, and uniqueness, there is no art. If one were to deny Louboutin his right to reestablish the red sole as his alone, one might as well do away with art altogether. Without unique thinkers like Louboutin, art cannot thrive, so the implications of this case reach further than one might think, at the outset. A win for Louboutin would mean a win for art and artists, and as art is both the expression of a society's soul, and the means by which it is nurtured, such a triumph would actually resonate across all human lives, whether they realized it, or not.
- Lisette
Friday, February 3, 2012
One Woman's "Pretty" is Another Woman's "What-Was-She-Thinking-and-Who-Let-Her-Leave-the-House-Looking-Like-That?"
Where do we draw the line between subjectivity/preference, and complete and utter lack of taste? People often have a reluctance to judge what is sloppily referred to as "taste" because it is supposedly, and sometimes, truly, subjective, personal, a matter of opinion. While differing tastes/preferences do exist, and are valid, as such, I believe there is an objective side to this issue -- the same objectivity that enables Project Runway judges Michael Kors, Nina Garcia, and Heidi Klum to unanimously agree on a given designer's taste level. I believe the key is consistency, or lack thereof.
Consistency is, in turn, related to style, which, of course, touches on matters of taste. It is this that makes us say, "She/he has no taste in clothes," or, perhaps, "She/he has no sense of style." This declaration is often met with a nod of agreement, an eyeroll, and an "mmm-hm" from our fashionable interlocutor, the one whose eyesight has been equally offended by the jumble of faux pas that were bundled together into what the offending wearer dubbed an "outfit."
Yet, this same offender may, once in the bluest of moons, inexplicably don an ensemble that is, to our very great surprise, passable, and in fact, even fetching! After the shock has worn off a little (tho' not entirely, as such a rare occurrence would, understandably, catch us unawares and throw off our equilibrium), our brains get to work: "I don't understand. Miss UglyDuds is wearing a cute outfit. How did she manage that? I thought it was impossible! Maybe a friend helped her. Maybe she got some tips from the personal shoppers at Saks. Maybe..." Gobsmacked, we try to think of explanations for this moment of fashion brilliance. Of course, the moment doesn't last long, as the next time we see Miss UglyDuds, she is back to her usual "bag lady chic" aesthetic. This dichotomy is, in a word, inconsistency. Someone who doesn't have a definite style, or good/refined taste, or an eye, is bound to make inconsistent choices, sometimes yielding good results by sheer chance -- tho', most often, failing -- because there is no real unifying vision, merely a desire to "look good" and an unreciprocated "love" for fashion (or what he/she hazily perceives fashion to be). In fact, due to their lack of vision, the more such ones insist on having a particular style aesthetic, the further away they get from their verbal claim, in actual execution.
Inconsistency is both symptomatic of, and a cause for, the lack of a defined -- and definable -- aesthetic, without which there can be no sense of style or taste. This type of shot-in-the-dark floundering is not to be mistaken for eclecticism or artsiness, tho' it frequently is, both by the offender as well as some misguided onlookers. Eclecticism is a celebration of variety, not confusion, and artsiness relates to creativity, not disunity. (This misinterpretation/misrepresentation is, of course, an affront to eclectics, whose tastes are sundry, but not random, and to the artistic community, whose pursuit of beauty bears little resemblance to Miss UglyDuds's gallimaufry of garments.) In other words, inconsistency is, simply put, "not good." Born of mindless copycatting, aesthetic deficiency, brainless trend following, or what have you, it is uninspired and ultimately impersonal, and can therefore yield no good lasting results. Thus, inconsistency is the means by which we may judge, objectively, someone's clothing choices and conclude that they "don't dress well."
In the face of such discussions, many would shrug and toss out the old, familiar phrase, "There is no accounting for taste." But, clearly, in this particular case, I believe there is, at least to a degree. And I might argue that there ought to be accountability for it, as well, such as does not allow for unprovoked visual assault, especially when excused by misapplied adjectives and the egregious misuse of English vocabulary.
- Lisette
Consistency is, in turn, related to style, which, of course, touches on matters of taste. It is this that makes us say, "She/he has no taste in clothes," or, perhaps, "She/he has no sense of style." This declaration is often met with a nod of agreement, an eyeroll, and an "mmm-hm" from our fashionable interlocutor, the one whose eyesight has been equally offended by the jumble of faux pas that were bundled together into what the offending wearer dubbed an "outfit."
Yet, this same offender may, once in the bluest of moons, inexplicably don an ensemble that is, to our very great surprise, passable, and in fact, even fetching! After the shock has worn off a little (tho' not entirely, as such a rare occurrence would, understandably, catch us unawares and throw off our equilibrium), our brains get to work: "I don't understand. Miss UglyDuds is wearing a cute outfit. How did she manage that? I thought it was impossible! Maybe a friend helped her. Maybe she got some tips from the personal shoppers at Saks. Maybe..." Gobsmacked, we try to think of explanations for this moment of fashion brilliance. Of course, the moment doesn't last long, as the next time we see Miss UglyDuds, she is back to her usual "bag lady chic" aesthetic. This dichotomy is, in a word, inconsistency. Someone who doesn't have a definite style, or good/refined taste, or an eye, is bound to make inconsistent choices, sometimes yielding good results by sheer chance -- tho', most often, failing -- because there is no real unifying vision, merely a desire to "look good" and an unreciprocated "love" for fashion (or what he/she hazily perceives fashion to be). In fact, due to their lack of vision, the more such ones insist on having a particular style aesthetic, the further away they get from their verbal claim, in actual execution.
Inconsistency is both symptomatic of, and a cause for, the lack of a defined -- and definable -- aesthetic, without which there can be no sense of style or taste. This type of shot-in-the-dark floundering is not to be mistaken for eclecticism or artsiness, tho' it frequently is, both by the offender as well as some misguided onlookers. Eclecticism is a celebration of variety, not confusion, and artsiness relates to creativity, not disunity. (This misinterpretation/misrepresentation is, of course, an affront to eclectics, whose tastes are sundry, but not random, and to the artistic community, whose pursuit of beauty bears little resemblance to Miss UglyDuds's gallimaufry of garments.) In other words, inconsistency is, simply put, "not good." Born of mindless copycatting, aesthetic deficiency, brainless trend following, or what have you, it is uninspired and ultimately impersonal, and can therefore yield no good lasting results. Thus, inconsistency is the means by which we may judge, objectively, someone's clothing choices and conclude that they "don't dress well."
In the face of such discussions, many would shrug and toss out the old, familiar phrase, "There is no accounting for taste." But, clearly, in this particular case, I believe there is, at least to a degree. And I might argue that there ought to be accountability for it, as well, such as does not allow for unprovoked visual assault, especially when excused by misapplied adjectives and the egregious misuse of English vocabulary.
- Lisette
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Problem with Poseurs
What is it about poseurs that bugs us so much? Is it their inauthenticity/dishonesty? The idea that they seem to think we don't see through them, that they've put one over on us? Or, is it the fact that they do seem to fool so many people? Or, is it because they seem to travel in packs, all of them browning each other's Pinocchioesque noses? All of the above, most likely. At least, that would be my answer.
In the Land of Poseurs, citizens come in all forms, all of whom are annoying, tho' to differing degrees, to different people. In the interest of time, let us consider two examples, one that particularly irks me being the faux foodie. Said poseur is one who has come late to the gastronomical game, and without any skills, tho' professing many. This type of imposter has a tendency to follow trends, taking them up with such vigor that they appear to be deep-seated passions, both to observers and to the poseur himself. This is the part where genuine foodies get really, really irritated because they truly love food; it is both art and therapy to them, and may, in fact, be tantamount to a lifeline. They watch silently while the faux foodie dazzles people with empty shows of culinary knowledge and prowess, knowing that it's really all smoke and mirrors -- from snuffed candles and shattered looking glasses. They don't buy it, they certainly don't want to eat it, and they can't see why anyone else would. But they do. And they often gleefully follow suit... like lunkheaded lemmings. Those of us who refuse to follow anything -- be it a trend or an order -- that does not sit well with who we are and what we represent, get fighting mad over such displays because they seem to mock our vehement individualism. Where we choose to live honestly, authentically, as staunch individuals, poseurs do not; rather, they choose to live as copycats cloaked in the (knock-off) cat's pajamas. Naturally, this spuriousness is bound to, well, get our backs up.
The artificial Artiste, "with a capital 'A,'" to paraphrase Karnock in A Stolen Life, is another such thorn in the side. This type of wannabe makes it his business to display so-called artistic interests and capabilities, be they in music, painting, dance, fashion, or what have you. He is likely to be found sharing photos of his atrocious watercolors, his favorite being the one of a tumbleweed-tailed bunny in a field, nibbling -- with saber teeth -- on a carrot twice its size. The lack of talent is, however, evident only to a handful, and this, naturally enough, is irksome. Or, you might spot him showcasing his limping Latin dance skills; nobody can do the "syncopated" salsa like he! He basks in the accolades of the undiscerning while the rest of us hold our heads in our hands and pray for the ballroom butchery to end. We hope that withholding positive reinforcement might stop the horror, but it doesn't because it simply isn't needed; this type of poseur gets all the positive reinforcement he needs from his own deluded self, which is, sadly, a never-ending font of encouragement, and one of legendary proportions.
It would appear that there is, really, nothing we can do about it. Against the poseur’s ego, there is no weapon great enough. None, perhaps, except time (tho' this is not at all a certain remedy). So let the poseur paint. Let the clodhopper (lindy) hop. Let the faux foodie dabble in cookery; all it may take is time... and enough kitchen twine to "hang himself with."
- Lisette
In the Land of Poseurs, citizens come in all forms, all of whom are annoying, tho' to differing degrees, to different people. In the interest of time, let us consider two examples, one that particularly irks me being the faux foodie. Said poseur is one who has come late to the gastronomical game, and without any skills, tho' professing many. This type of imposter has a tendency to follow trends, taking them up with such vigor that they appear to be deep-seated passions, both to observers and to the poseur himself. This is the part where genuine foodies get really, really irritated because they truly love food; it is both art and therapy to them, and may, in fact, be tantamount to a lifeline. They watch silently while the faux foodie dazzles people with empty shows of culinary knowledge and prowess, knowing that it's really all smoke and mirrors -- from snuffed candles and shattered looking glasses. They don't buy it, they certainly don't want to eat it, and they can't see why anyone else would. But they do. And they often gleefully follow suit... like lunkheaded lemmings. Those of us who refuse to follow anything -- be it a trend or an order -- that does not sit well with who we are and what we represent, get fighting mad over such displays because they seem to mock our vehement individualism. Where we choose to live honestly, authentically, as staunch individuals, poseurs do not; rather, they choose to live as copycats cloaked in the (knock-off) cat's pajamas. Naturally, this spuriousness is bound to, well, get our backs up.
The artificial Artiste, "with a capital 'A,'" to paraphrase Karnock in A Stolen Life, is another such thorn in the side. This type of wannabe makes it his business to display so-called artistic interests and capabilities, be they in music, painting, dance, fashion, or what have you. He is likely to be found sharing photos of his atrocious watercolors, his favorite being the one of a tumbleweed-tailed bunny in a field, nibbling -- with saber teeth -- on a carrot twice its size. The lack of talent is, however, evident only to a handful, and this, naturally enough, is irksome. Or, you might spot him showcasing his limping Latin dance skills; nobody can do the "syncopated" salsa like he! He basks in the accolades of the undiscerning while the rest of us hold our heads in our hands and pray for the ballroom butchery to end. We hope that withholding positive reinforcement might stop the horror, but it doesn't because it simply isn't needed; this type of poseur gets all the positive reinforcement he needs from his own deluded self, which is, sadly, a never-ending font of encouragement, and one of legendary proportions.
It would appear that there is, really, nothing we can do about it. Against the poseur’s ego, there is no weapon great enough. None, perhaps, except time (tho' this is not at all a certain remedy). So let the poseur paint. Let the clodhopper (lindy) hop. Let the faux foodie dabble in cookery; all it may take is time... and enough kitchen twine to "hang himself with."
- Lisette
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Defining "Chic"
"I mean French is really very easy, for instance the French use the word 'sheik' for everything, while we only seem to use it for gentlemen when they seem to resemble Rudolph Valentino." - Lorelei Lee (from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos)
Aside from the misuse of the word "curvy," I resent the reckless abandon with which the word "chic" is flung about in pop culture these days. The reason for my couturial crankiness is twofold: both the wordsmith and the fashion lover in me are offended.
The perverse ease with which people use certain words (the meanings of which they often do not fully grasp) is disconcerting because it cheapens those words. Talk may be cheap, but language isn't. The word "chic" is frequently plastered, like a universal label, on anything deemed aesthetically pleasing in the fashion/design world. I would argue that just because something is pretty, or creative, or whatever, does not make it "chic," as such. We all know that the word basically refers to something that is stylish, smart, and/or sophisticated, especially in that particular, peculiar, indefinable way that puts the "je ne sais quoi" into a certain look. Similarly, many acknowledge Audrey Hepburn as one of the most famous poster girls for the word, recognizing something in her that bespeaks "chic." However, its flexibility, elusiveness, and our common understanding of the word do not warrant its abuse, nor its overuse. Elie Saab's work is chic (it is painfully beautiful, simultaneously innovative and classic, dramatic yet refined, thoughtful, well-realized, unbelievably tasteful, and "tiré à quatre épingles"), while another designer's [insert your choice here] may not be; it may be equally beautiful, but not "chic," per se. For such a small word, "chic" has such great meaning, and while it may mean different things to different people, its integrity should still be maintained, within personal parameters, if nothing else.
I believe that the key to understanding the essence of chic lies in the fundamental difference between that which is retro/vintage, and that which is dated. Or, it can also be exemplified through the difference between that which is eternally modern, and that which will easily and quickly become dated. Chicness cannot be achieved simply by acquiring a certain skill set. I suspect it is innate and, in this way, akin to talent (it's either there, or it isn't). It is, I believe, a byproduct of one's vision, or fashion philosophy, and, to a large extent, taste level. This is why one cannot don what essentially amounts to a glorified nightgown (perhaps surreptitiously -- and misguidedly -- procured from Grandma's attic o' atrocities) and expect discerning fashionistas to hail it as a masterpiece of vintage clothing craftsmanship,... because it wasn't even chic then! Ergo, it never will be.
While the word, "chic" is often associated with modishness, I think it is more elemental and timeless than that. It is the common thread, as it were, that allows us to declare a Victorian dandy chic while simultaneously praising our fashion-forward next-door neighbor for her chicness. The times and trends may change, but in my opinion, that quality which we call "chic" transcends all boundaries. Ironically, it is this very pervasiveness and omnipresence that makes it both so specific and indefinable, rendering it a very special quality and a very special word, and therefore, meriting very special care. Giving the word "chic" such care and thought in usage and application is only appropriate, really; after all, careful thoughtfulness is one of the earmarks of all that is "chic."
- Lisette Atiyeh
Aside from the misuse of the word "curvy," I resent the reckless abandon with which the word "chic" is flung about in pop culture these days. The reason for my couturial crankiness is twofold: both the wordsmith and the fashion lover in me are offended.
The perverse ease with which people use certain words (the meanings of which they often do not fully grasp) is disconcerting because it cheapens those words. Talk may be cheap, but language isn't. The word "chic" is frequently plastered, like a universal label, on anything deemed aesthetically pleasing in the fashion/design world. I would argue that just because something is pretty, or creative, or whatever, does not make it "chic," as such. We all know that the word basically refers to something that is stylish, smart, and/or sophisticated, especially in that particular, peculiar, indefinable way that puts the "je ne sais quoi" into a certain look. Similarly, many acknowledge Audrey Hepburn as one of the most famous poster girls for the word, recognizing something in her that bespeaks "chic." However, its flexibility, elusiveness, and our common understanding of the word do not warrant its abuse, nor its overuse. Elie Saab's work is chic (it is painfully beautiful, simultaneously innovative and classic, dramatic yet refined, thoughtful, well-realized, unbelievably tasteful, and "tiré à quatre épingles"), while another designer's [insert your choice here] may not be; it may be equally beautiful, but not "chic," per se. For such a small word, "chic" has such great meaning, and while it may mean different things to different people, its integrity should still be maintained, within personal parameters, if nothing else.
I believe that the key to understanding the essence of chic lies in the fundamental difference between that which is retro/vintage, and that which is dated. Or, it can also be exemplified through the difference between that which is eternally modern, and that which will easily and quickly become dated. Chicness cannot be achieved simply by acquiring a certain skill set. I suspect it is innate and, in this way, akin to talent (it's either there, or it isn't). It is, I believe, a byproduct of one's vision, or fashion philosophy, and, to a large extent, taste level. This is why one cannot don what essentially amounts to a glorified nightgown (perhaps surreptitiously -- and misguidedly -- procured from Grandma's attic o' atrocities) and expect discerning fashionistas to hail it as a masterpiece of vintage clothing craftsmanship,... because it wasn't even chic then! Ergo, it never will be.
While the word, "chic" is often associated with modishness, I think it is more elemental and timeless than that. It is the common thread, as it were, that allows us to declare a Victorian dandy chic while simultaneously praising our fashion-forward next-door neighbor for her chicness. The times and trends may change, but in my opinion, that quality which we call "chic" transcends all boundaries. Ironically, it is this very pervasiveness and omnipresence that makes it both so specific and indefinable, rendering it a very special quality and a very special word, and therefore, meriting very special care. Giving the word "chic" such care and thought in usage and application is only appropriate, really; after all, careful thoughtfulness is one of the earmarks of all that is "chic."
- Lisette Atiyeh
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The (Dis) Illusionist: Sylvain Chomet’s L’Illusionniste
It’s “curtains” for Sylvain Chomet’s Oscar-nominated film, L’illusionniste (The Illusionist) -- or so it would appear. In a cheeky poke at the rickety, magical, make-believe world of entertainment, Chomet’s beautiful animated movie opens with a French-accented, disembodied voice’s presentation of “Ze Illusionist,” while an unseen figure struggles to draw the stubborn stage curtains. Thus, with cinematic sleight of hand, the French director deftly sets the tone for his adaptation of writer-mime Jacques Tati’s semi-autobiographical tale of illusions and disillusions. Against this backdrop, Chomet, creator of The Triplets of Belleville, spins Tati’s father-to-daughter love letter into a plaintive ode to the fantastical, fragile worlds of art and parenthood.
The action begins in France, in 1959, with a French musical score to boot. At the Music Hall of Paris, we are introduced to the besieged, passé magician, Tatischeff, whose plight is extensively illustrated, literally, through the bites and attempted escapes of his renegade rabbit. In what amounts to a poignant commentary on the lack of understanding of artists and their art, a theater worker finds the rabbit and returns it, after which he, seeing no difference between the animals, tries to hand Tatischeff a rat.
Having been fired, the magician heads for England, a setting that gives Chomet the opportunity to present us with a stunning, impressionistic view of a rain-soaked London. This imagery draws, so to speak, a self-conscious connection between the art world, and the film, as both an animated piece, and a movie about artists. It is in this environment that Tatischeff faces further disappointment, being upstaged by the “Britoons,” a flashy, youthful rock band for whom the curtain always rises -- again and again, by way of encores.
Upon the recommendation of a kilt-clad, perennially soused, but lovable Scotsman, Tatischeff next takes a job in Scotland, this voyage also providing the audience with breathtaking animated cinematography. Here, we are introduced to Alice, who becomes Tatischeff’s unofficially adopted daughter. She and Tatischeff, speaking different languages (Scots Gaelic and French, respectively), communicate through gestures of kindness and humanity. His gifts, along with circumstantial coincidences, lead her to believe that he is magical. The young girl decides to follow him to his next destination, indicating, once she is aboard, that he should magically provide her with a ticket, which he does, or so it seems.
Throughout much of the film, Tatischeff finds himself “pulling rabbits out of hats,” as an artist-father -- succeeding, failing, and taking on sundry jobs to provide Alice, who is coming of age, with those little material things that set a young lady’s heart aflutter. He attempts to disillusion her by saying that he is “pas magique,” not magical. This line is a cleverly pithy encapsulation of a father’s desire to correct a child’s mistaken view of his superhero status, a line that intrinsically undercuts itself, punning on "Pa Magique," magic father. Indeed, Alice is not ready to hear Tatischeff's intended meaning, choosing to remain in the realm of illusion, or perhaps, delusion. Indeed, the visual, which she associates with the tangible, exerts a stronger influence on her. Who cares about words when a father can seemingly produce, “out of thin air,” and at her will, the high heels she has had her eye on for some time?
As the ending credits roll, Chomet’s wonderfully bittersweet, yet comical waltz is sung by various quirky-voiced “characters.” Thus, in a move that is poignant, tongue-in-cheek, and thoroughly French, the animator-composer sustains the magic of art and make-believe, even as he reveals the very people who made this whole “illusion” possible.
- Lisette Atiyeh
The action begins in France, in 1959, with a French musical score to boot. At the Music Hall of Paris, we are introduced to the besieged, passé magician, Tatischeff, whose plight is extensively illustrated, literally, through the bites and attempted escapes of his renegade rabbit. In what amounts to a poignant commentary on the lack of understanding of artists and their art, a theater worker finds the rabbit and returns it, after which he, seeing no difference between the animals, tries to hand Tatischeff a rat.
Having been fired, the magician heads for England, a setting that gives Chomet the opportunity to present us with a stunning, impressionistic view of a rain-soaked London. This imagery draws, so to speak, a self-conscious connection between the art world, and the film, as both an animated piece, and a movie about artists. It is in this environment that Tatischeff faces further disappointment, being upstaged by the “Britoons,” a flashy, youthful rock band for whom the curtain always rises -- again and again, by way of encores.
Upon the recommendation of a kilt-clad, perennially soused, but lovable Scotsman, Tatischeff next takes a job in Scotland, this voyage also providing the audience with breathtaking animated cinematography. Here, we are introduced to Alice, who becomes Tatischeff’s unofficially adopted daughter. She and Tatischeff, speaking different languages (Scots Gaelic and French, respectively), communicate through gestures of kindness and humanity. His gifts, along with circumstantial coincidences, lead her to believe that he is magical. The young girl decides to follow him to his next destination, indicating, once she is aboard, that he should magically provide her with a ticket, which he does, or so it seems.
Throughout much of the film, Tatischeff finds himself “pulling rabbits out of hats,” as an artist-father -- succeeding, failing, and taking on sundry jobs to provide Alice, who is coming of age, with those little material things that set a young lady’s heart aflutter. He attempts to disillusion her by saying that he is “pas magique,” not magical. This line is a cleverly pithy encapsulation of a father’s desire to correct a child’s mistaken view of his superhero status, a line that intrinsically undercuts itself, punning on "Pa Magique," magic father. Indeed, Alice is not ready to hear Tatischeff's intended meaning, choosing to remain in the realm of illusion, or perhaps, delusion. Indeed, the visual, which she associates with the tangible, exerts a stronger influence on her. Who cares about words when a father can seemingly produce, “out of thin air,” and at her will, the high heels she has had her eye on for some time?
As the ending credits roll, Chomet’s wonderfully bittersweet, yet comical waltz is sung by various quirky-voiced “characters.” Thus, in a move that is poignant, tongue-in-cheek, and thoroughly French, the animator-composer sustains the magic of art and make-believe, even as he reveals the very people who made this whole “illusion” possible.
- Lisette Atiyeh
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