Let’s Be Honest: Do I even have an aesthetic?

So this really has nothing to do with aesthetics – or at least aesthetics as I’ve defined it here, but la vie est belle and this will be a shorty study on the beauty of life – of my life, most specifically.

When I initially started this blog, it was really just a way for me to document my feelings regarding the things I love: literature, art, music, food, film, nature – every place where I find beauty. And while I’ve been absolute crap at updating, I want that to change. I need that to change. How often I post, yes, but just as life and people and histories evolve, so too can what this space means to me.

I am planning on moving to Paris for a year next October (or maybe December – gotta get that bonus baguette money!). I’ve been thinking about what that means. I’ve asked myself why and all I’ve come up with is… “Because I want to.” That city has my heart and it feels so natural when I’m there, but it really boils down to – I want to. I have the ability to make a life changing decision for myself with zero input from and very little consideration for anyone else. The autonomy and authority I have in making this decision is delicious and freeing. I told someone earlier that I was moving and their response was typical: Now is the time to go – you’re single, you don’t have any kids or a house to take care of. While that’s true, I know that’s not why I’m going to deliberately make myself uncomfortable for a whole year in a culture I’ve only really experienced through movies and books. Yes, I can move there, but I’m driven to do so only by the desire to be there.

I think about my move every day and I’m working towards my goal of being as Parisian as possible (or as Parisian as an American planning on living there for a short amount of time can be) – I’m teaching myself French nearly every day, I’m following tons of French speakers on Instagram, I’m listening to FranceInfo on my walks to work, and I’m reading books by people (read: Expats) who have done the very same thing I’m going to do (and setting up a reward of reading a book in French – “In Search of Lost Time,” is that you?). It’s so wonderful to have these resources as I prepare. On the days where I get frustrated with my inability to remember the differences between “Je vais manger,” “Je mange,” and “J’ai mangé,” or my ears hurt from listening to the news for twenty minutes and think they’re talking about the student walk-out over gun-violence here in the States, I remind myself that I’m doing this because I want to. I’ve been able to accomplish most anything I’ve put my mind to (running a half-marathon, practicing yoga every day for a year, teaching myself pointed pen calligraphy), and, by God, I will learn French.

I came to understand how much I look for challenges when I was told so by a good friend. I texted Beth after listening to a podcast by an American in Paris. I thought I was having a mild panic attack – what if I was too American to live in Paris? What if I got there and all the French I’ve learned and all the podcasts from expats I’ve listening to and all the books I’ve read are completely wrong? What if I hate living there? What if I can’t stand not having air conditioning and that there are too many stairs and too many tourists asking me questions in terrible broken French? What if, quelle horreur, I develop some fatal allergy to dairy? She, walking into the house fire that was my brain, reminded me of what I’ve done and the fact that I deliberately create new challenges because I’m not afraid of them. She answered, “You look for new things to do, new skills to learn, and new difficulties to conquer all the time.” (And this is why it’s important to have truth tellers who love you – they point out truths about you that you don’t see!) I know that moving to a foreign country where I’m only vaguely knowledgeable about their language and culture without a close support system is challenging and will be the most challenging thing I will probably every do, but having Beth speak words of encouragement to me in a time a doubt, as well as having an amazingly generous mother who dreams right along with me, alleviated the momentary fear of what I’m about to embark on. The panic and doubt that tried to make itself known to me sank back into it’s little hidey hole.

You guys, I’m doing everything I can to not create any expectations surrounding this moving. I’m trying not to romanticize the most romantic city in the world. When I come back to the States, the only thing I’m hoping to come back with is… growth (plus some antique books). After living by myself for the first time ever and traveling to 12 different countries and just as many French cities in a year and eating food I’ve never even heard of, all I want is to grow. I have no idea what that will look like, but I do know that I am going to learn about myself in ways being comfortable could never afford me. You always hear about the need to step outside your comfort zone – so much so that it’s become a gross and trite cliché. But it’s so universally known because stepping out of your comfort zone pushes you into changing, learning, evolving, and growing. Civilization only exists because we’ve done so! We’ve learned to not be afraid of things that challenge us. Sure, I’m taking a “giant” risk moving, but if I stayed in one place (both physically and emotionally), I wouldn’t have the opportunity to discover who I can be. For a girl who’s life goal is to be the best person she can be, I think being uncomfortable should just about do it.

That brings me back to the evolution of this blog. While I have no expectations for my time in Paris, I do expect some things to change here (the one thing I have control over). I’ll still write about beautiful things (which, oh hey, no surprise, will have a strong Francophilic bent), but I’m also going to document the beautiful journey to Paris, the experiences I have while there (living without air conditioning, climbing a ridiculous amount of stairs, dealing with tourists asking me questions in terrible broken French) and what the culture shock I’m sure I’ll experience upon returning back to the US. I’m planning on learning photography before I leave, to capture Parisian life. I plan to share how I go about finding an apartment, procuring a visa, and what it’s like to order une pomme frites for the first time. I’m planning, I’m planning. (Scripture just popped into my head – “Many are a person’s plans, but it’s the Lord’s will that prevails” and I want to quash it)

In the attempt to form habits so that I can actually do all this (consistently sharing my experiences), I’ve decided to memorize a poem every other week. It’s not going so well. This idea popped into my head a month a half ago and, and well, I’ve got two pieces memorized. I digress. I started with a Psalm (the first verse of Psalm 63), but I originally wanted to start with my favorite poem, Ithaka, by the Greek poet CP Cavafy. The first time I read this poem about five years ago, I fell in love with it. My favorite story is the Odyssey and it’s one I see myself in. I love the idea of an epic journey. Memorizing it a couple of weeks ago felt like a gentle reassurance about my trip and I’m sure you’ll see why. I can’t expect anything from Paris, but know that I’ll gain so much more than I could hope for.

As you set out for Ithaka,

Hope the voyage is a long one,

Full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrogynians and Cyclops,

Angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them.

You’ll never encounter things like that

As long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

As long as a rare excitement

Stirs your spirt and your body.

Laistrogynians and Cyclops,

Wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them

Unless you bring them along inside you,

Unless your soul sets them in front of you.

 

Hope the voyage is a long one.

May there be many a summer morning when,

With what pleasure, what joy,

You come into harbors seen for the first time.

May you stop at Phoenician trading stations

To buy fine things:

Mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

Sensual perfume of every kind –

As many sensual perfumes as you can.

And may you visit many Egyptian cities

To gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

 

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you are destined for.

But do not rush the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years!

So you are old by the time you reach the island,

Wealthy will you have gained,

Not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

 

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her, you would not have stepped out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

 

And if you find her poor, Ithaka will not have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

You will have understood by then what these Ithaka’s mean.

My Last Supper

Isn’t it weird how you commit yourself to one thing that seems almost arbitrary (teaching myself calligraphy)  and not commit to another that you swear is important (I spend the time I should be studying French watching Fixer Upper)? I desperately want this to be a place where I share my thoughts on all things beautiful that I get to participate in with, not just my readers (hey, Mom), but with myself. Posterity, anyone? I’m in the midst of writing another long (maybe meaningful, probably pedantic, likely scattered) post about what I hope to achieve with this here bloggy blog in the future, but I really wanted to put something – anything – down, if only for the sake of starting (and please, in the name of all that is holy, maintaining) a habit.

With that being said, I read a beautiful book last year that interviewed fifty of the world’s greatest chefs, asking them a series of questions about their last meal, the meal they would have if the world ended tomorrow. With my constant thinking about food, as well as being in the presence of passion people have when they talk about what they love, I was in heaven, peeking into the minds of people who cook for a living. The thing that struck me was that their last meals wouldn’t necessarily be the most expensive, but the most experienced – full of dishes that reminded them of something, dishes that instantly transported them back to places they had once been – and with the people they cared about the most. I almost wanted to take all of their answers for my own, but that would completely be beside the point: if I’m dying tomorrow, I don’t want to experience something new, I want to spend time with the things and people I know.

Isn’t it weird how food (and writing) tastes so much better when you share it?

***

What would be your last meal on earth?        

A whole slew of things that bring me back to my time as a Navy Brat and my travels: fundraiser lumpia and pancit, manapua, that eggplant dish from Pamela Popo, my uncle’s mashed potatoes, perfectly crispy French fries with a side of Roquefort cheese to dip them in, roadkill chicken, the first lemon risotta I made, and hericot verts with slivered almonds and a squeeze of lemon. I’d finish with Nutella crepes from a Parisian street cart and a handful of pistachio and lavender macarons. And lots of good French bread and butter.

What would be the setting for the meal?       

A big wooden table with chairs whose seats are large enough to sit cross-legged on a veranda at a Tuscan villa, overlooking the countryside on a cool summer evening. The table would be covered by my mother’s tablecloths from Sorrento and her pottery from Vietri. (For someone who loves Paris, I’m definitely homesick for Italy).

What would you drink with your meal?     

The water my friend I had after a long, hot day pattering around Roma, any Sauterne, a couple glasses of Les Deux terroir, and a few bottles of Shipyard Pumpkinhead (I’m gonna get plastered before I die and I’m okay with that)

Would there be music?

Maybe some Dario Marianelli and Birdy, but quietly and in the background.

Who would be your dining companions?     

My family and my friends – people that are great at conversation. I’d definitely have the people that have completely changed my idea’s around food: Beth, Melissa, Michael Pollan, Thomas Keller, and Jesus (that guy knew what a meal could do for and meant to people).

Who would prepare the meal?     

Not me, but I’d be in the kitchen, talking with whomever it was.

Also…someone feed me all the recipes from this book.

The Lady in the Painting

So it won’t come as a surprise to anyone, but the one week I spent in Paris was the best week of my life. And as someone who loves beautiful things, I was in heaven. I mean, it’s Paris and the Parisians know beautiful things. Have you seen their clothes? Listened to their music (the Little Sparrow was playing not too long ago in the coffee shop I’m holed up in today)? Walked along their bridges? Tasted their food? I swear, there is nothing like standing a foot and a half away from an Impressionist painting. They know and excel at beautiful things. My senses have never been so alive and so deliciously pleased as when I was in the City of Lights. And the epitome of all that I experienced that week found itself accumulated in a small corner on a wall in an old train station.

I love Impressionism; it’s my favorite period in art. Something about the softness of the light, the blending of the colors, the tangibility of the brush strokes. I’ve never really cared for portraits. I feel bad for the subjects who have to stand or sit for hours as an artist dabbled little blots of paint to canvas. But when my eyes fell on a portrait of Madame Barbe de Rimsky-Korsakov, painted by Franz Xavier Winterhalter in 1864, at the Musee d’Orsay, I felt something strange. I’ve never wanted to be anyone other than myself, but when I looked at her, I wanted to be her. To this day, eight years later, I remember thinking, “I want to be her.”

She was delicate, but not weak. Poised, but not rigid. Her warm, brown eyes were kind, patient, intelligent. She had a round face; it made her look young. Even though her soft lips looked more predisposed to frowning, it looked as though a smile came easily to those full cheeks. The artist captured so accurately a deep well of emotion that she, the subject, was so good at covering up. She was obviously posing and her expression conveys the obligation she felt to sit still, but she still looks so effortlessly beautiful. She was aware of her space and where her body was; what the exposure of her shoulder would do; what that glimpse of her wrist would stir. She was effortlessly sexy, if that was something to be prized back then, and undeniably beautiful in an elegant and timeless way.

So, she’s basically everything I want to be. So completely feminine and, what’s more, she was the subject of a painting. She was deemed important enough to be captured, to have someone spend hours working to portray who this woman was. She had value, she had worth. Right now, I’m struggling to balance my worth to one being (to me, the most important – God) and my worth to one person (he of the ‘Walter Mitty’ post). Which is to say, despite the glorious gifts of life, creativity, art, inspiration, and the experience of all those wonderful things by the One who thinks I’m worth the life of an innocent, I still feel worthless. I am not a subject (the subject) of this boy’s art. I dream of being the subject of a book, a painting, a deliberate photograph, a poem, a song. His book, his painting, his photograph, his poem, his song. I want to be the reason some one spends hours working to capture me perfectly as I am. I want to be the subject of someone’s art.

That’s pretty heavy, I know. And probably really sad (confession: I’ve got tears in my eyes thinking about my worth), but what I love about this painting is that I can become her. What gives me that hope is something ridiculous: her hair. I give you permission to laugh and think me superficial. But her hair is where I see myself most. Even though I have the same deep-set hooded eyes, the same slightly snobbish upturn of the nose, the same slight downturn of curved lips, as she does, her hair is what stands out in the portrait; it’s what she’s holding, as if its what she prizes most about herself. She doesn’t bother with styling it, of making it fashionable. It’s loose and flowing. If you were to ask me what I love most about my physical self, I would declare: I love my hair. I love its deep rich color, how warm and comfortable it is with its amber and gold and red undertones. My hair has a beautiful shine to it that catches the light. I prefer to wear it down where the waves and gentle curls are on display best. It’s soft and long so you can run your fingers through it. I call it ‘girlfriend hair,’ (You know when you’re walking down the street and you see a beautiful guy in a beautiful sweater with a beautiful dog and his girlfriend comes up and she’s got the effortless, perfect, beautiful head of hair and you’re instantaneously envious of everything about her? Yeah, that kind of hair). And, excepting the length, it is the same hair of the beautiful woman in Winterhalter’s painting.

And because we have the same hair, as superficial and shallow as that may be, I have some hope that I will become her; a woman with grace, dignity, a woman worth of sitting motionless for hours as an artist dabs little blots of paint to canvas.

*Caveat: I wrote this a couple of months before I’ve eventually posted it and I’ve learned that no guy can ascribe worth to me. I do that myself. I don’t need no man to make me feel valuable.

Peace! I (won’t) stop your mouth!

“With this lah-ern…”

“What?”

“With this lah-ern…You guys, this is my lah-ern.”

Ah Shakespeare and a Boston accent. Until you’ve experienced seeing a part of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” performed by a handful of townie-looking middle-aged men in Red Sox jerseys dropping Rs with that winter-toughened swagger, I don’t think you’ve actually experienced Shakespeare.

I have this habit where I have to read the written version of anything before I see it performed. I like to judge artistic license, and compare one artist’s version of a work with what I’ve imagined. So, knowing how I do things, I mapped what pieces of Shakespeare I would be watching and plowed through those works sitting on the couch with my mother’s heavy red collection of Shakespeare’s manuscripts. I have nearly overdosed on dear William this year, proudly power-reading through seven tragedies, comedies, and histories before seeing two different productions of Coriolanus, volunteering at six outdoor performances of “Twelfth Night, ” shoving the BBC’s “Hollow Crown” series into my DVD player more than twice, starting both Joss Whedon’s and Kenneth Branaugh’s versions of “Much Ado About Nothing” before giving up and finally seeing students perform it at Emerson, and tacking up the St. Crispin’s Day speech from “Henry V” in my office cubicle. It’s safe to say that I’m nearly on the verge of being Shakespeare-d out. Reading and watching, reading and listening, reading and interacting. Shakespeare has come so alive for me this past year. But it begs the question; is the Bard better written or spoken?

I remember the first Shakespearean work (if you could call it that) I set my hands on. It was an abridged version of “Romeo and Juliet” with some medieval-looking painting of a young girl and a young boy on a maroon hardcover. In hindsight, this was probably a huge disservice to Shakespeare and myself by being introduced to his work through someone’s opinion of what was important in his play and what wasn’t. Cracking the spine and seeing Shakespeare written out, I understood nothing. What was with the lines? Was I reading poetry? I was expecting written conversation, not this iambic pentameter foreign stuff with the funky non-existent rhyming scheme. What in the ever-lovin’ does “Wherefore” mean and why doesn’t it mean “where are you”? There’s no ‘u’ in honor. The way the play actually looked on paper hurt my head, and for an eight-year-old that wanted to read as much as she could as quickly as she could, I moved on, thinking adults were crazy for deeming something so ridiculously not-pretty a classic.

Even now, I find it takes quite a bit of effort to focus and understand what I’m reading when I sit with his work in my lap. I read a whole lot of everything, but its hard reading his words. The lines! The language! The funny stage directions! It takes twice as long to read a normal play because I have to stop and translate, reading one line then the liner notes then mentally translating what I’ve read both by the author and in the liner notes and rereading the original line over again…it makes my head spin. After decades of reading what I call “proper” writing (you know, where they obey the rules of grammar, syntax, and format; frankly, all the boring stuff I love as a wanna-be editor), it frustrates me to no end to see the disjointed lines, random apostrophes, and too many commas (how am I supposed to know what’s really a pause and what isn’t?).

Six years after picking up that awful abridged version, I was sitting in eighth-grade English and wouldn’t you know, we had moved on from F Scott Fitzgerald to “Romeo & Juliet.” We read it out loud as a class. I naturally volunteered because I fancy myself a good public speaker and I love hearing myself talk. And I remember the words flowing off my tongue like water. Spoken aloud, I suddenly understood. And hearing my classmates read these lines, I was in love.

Gone were the disjointed lines, the random apostrophes, and too many commas. Here was real poetry; the words flowed smoothly, everything was beautifully and effortlessly calculated, and the pauses left me time to analyze and experience this tragic story about two melodramatic teenagers. Grammar, syntax, and format all disappeared and I was left with this profound sense of being so close to something so…classic it that transcended structure. Hearing Shakespeare, I got it. I got why his work was legendary and timeless. There was something so lyrically simple while at the same time, so rhythmically complicated about hearing it spoken. It came alive. You can look at a skeleton all you want, understand the scaffolding that holds a body up, and even dig into the nuances of the science behind bone, but until a body has life in it- that which goes beyond tangible fact- it’s just material. And Shakespeare spoken aloud is life. So complicated and yet so simple when you think about it; hard to wrap you head around but so easy to sit down and soak it all in; structured by unforeseeable and bendable rules yet completely free of mandated preconceptions. Like…how does someone (anyone) have the wherewithal to create something that complex and that clean? I mean, that’s all certainly present when you flip through his manuscript, but it’s just that much more apparent when you don’t have to scan a page. It’s just like reading the sheet music to Mozart’s “Magic Flute” and hearing the aria by the Queen of the Night.

There’s been a debate over which Shakespeare sounds better: American or British. I think this takes into account cadence and pronunciation while (it seems to me) disregarding what’s called “original pronunciation” (what it would’ve sounded like when the play was actually written). The traditionalist in me loves hearing it spoken by the Brits because… well, I find British accents very attractive. But also because it feels like I’m listening to Shakespeare in his native language, how I imagine it would’ve been spoken to the rich and poor of late 1500’s London (despite knowing that it was not). It makes his work more palatable and treasured because his genius is so rare and being in America, a good British accent is scarce. To go back to my pal Wolfy, it would be like hearing the Magic Flute performed in its original German as opposed to English. However, hearing Shakespeare spoken by Americans makes it more relevant. Almost as if it doesn’t matter how rare his genius is, Shakespeare himself was a pretty common guy. Without getting too much into the philosophy of accents and their parallels to Shakespeare’s work, I think what it really comes down to whether or not you understand what’s being said. The great thing about Master Shakespeare is that it doesn’t matter what accent you hear it in; what does matter is that you hear it, that you experience the performance of it. I’ve seen the same works performed with both accents and both sound amazing because of what was written, those actual words on paper. The fruit of the struggle of reading his words is thoroughly enjoyed when hearing those same words aloud. It wasn’t until I heard a handful of townie-looking middle-aged men in Red Sox jerseys dropping Rs that I realized that.

Aside: Shakespeare was a hired player so he knew the value of a script and how important spoken word was. I think he just added the iambic pentameter in there to fuck with us.

Confection Perfection

I remember the first time I tried a macaron. I was delivering chocolates to the sommelier at L’Espalier here in Boston and there was a little silver dish full of these small cookie-like sandwiches by the maitre d’s. I had never seen one before and was unaware of what one was, but I knew it was special. I took one to discover on the walk back to my shop.

Outside in the sunshine, I could fully “be” with this confection. Feeling it in my hands, I thought: It’s so light. How could there possibly be any richness, any discernible flavor, any density? I didn’t want something marshmallow-y, sticky, or crumbly. Despite my hesitation, I knew I had to try it. It was completely perfect looking with it’s smooth, domed biscuits, off-white with little flecks of green; it’s ruffly midsection that looked like a scrunched tutu; and the glossy ganache center. The lightness of the macaron soon translated into an airy delicateness and an excitement in wanting to overcome my ignorance. In my haste to experience this dainty treat, I ignored any training I had when it comes to truly tasting food. I simply looked at it and popped half in my mouth. I didn’t wait to examine the minute bubbles in the biscuit, so small they were unperceivable when held at arm’s length; I didn’t listen to how flaky it sounded when I broke it apart; I didn’t take a deep whiff, allowing my mouth to water and anticipate. By rushing, I cheated myself out of a completely whole experience. Isn’t it ironic that in our desire to reach a certain point, we miss everything that’s essential leading to it?

But I will never forget tasting that first bite. The most overwhelming thing I noticed was the texture. it felt like the meringue gave way, letting my sink into it, and then asserting its presence by firming up, deliciously filling the gaps in my teeth. It wasn’t dry, but quite moist and the texture seemed to fill my entire mouth, starting at the middle of my tongue and moving out to my cheeks. Most surprisingly, it wasn’t sweet. It was savory. Instead of the traditional almond, coconut, or rose flavors I’ve discovered are used in macarons, the pastry chef used safe. It tasted earthy, but it wasn’t overwhelmingly dirt-y. It was warm and rustic. Next came the ganache: blissfully whipped with a denser concentrated sage-ness that didn’t weight down the hedonistic lightness I felt And the two textures of meringue with the ganache were harmoniously married into one beautiful tasting experience.

The most marvelous part, however, was that I was no longer standing on the sunny dry Boston street, but strolling down the Siene on an overcast and slightly muggy afternoon. Comfortable, nostalgic, and tangibly perfect. with one bite, I was transported back to my first love; the romantic and glorious Paris, despite never having enjoyed a macaron. There is something so decidedly French about this small morsel. It’s gorgeous, to begin with. It’s completely underestimated, complex and still so simple. In my head, it was the best pastry I have ever or will ever have. To me, the French do everything that is beautiful (art, architecture, fashion, food, faces, loving) the best, and the macaron is a perfect embodiment of that.

I can count the number of times on one hand that I’ve had a macaron since that day. In itself, this is strange because I am always eating and I always tend to eat sweets. One would think that I would indulge in these creations at least once a day. There are a few reasons why I don’t: they’re hard to find, they’re more expensive than chocolate or cupcakes, American’s cant seem to do anything as well as the Europeans (especially when it comes to food). But the prevailing reason, I think, is because rushed my first experience. Forcing myself to truly savor and take my time with each macaron is my own act of penance for disrespecting the pastry chef and the art of macaron-making. Forcing myself to go without and suffer from an agonizingly spectacular anticipation just makes each taste of this confection that much more alive. I suppose, in a way, it could be construed as some sort of gastronomical masochism ,but really, I deprive myself, no as a punishment, but more as way to make myself really relish and cherish each individual flavor, texture, color, sound, and smell that comes from eating the most delectable confection. Eat a macaron and see Paris press in on you in a most tasteful fashion.

The Escape Artist

For the first time in all the years I’ve spent watching movies, I finally saw a film that served as the impetus behind my taking a risk and utterly failing. It was the first time I was not only moved, but moved to act. I’m not talking about being in a film (for, as anyone who really knows me, really knows that no movie has called me to be an actress). No, I’m talking about that other type of acting: the verb of doing something.

The movie I’m talking about, of course, is “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” I’m not going to sit here and wax poetic about how marvelous a movie it is (which, in all honesty, is more than marvelous and needs to be seen), but I will try to convey the inspiration and indelible impression it has left on me and how it profoundly urged me to make a change. In this film, the main character is constantly daydreaming, so much so to the point that when something truly unbelievable happens, he can’t believe that it’s reality. He zones out and imagines a separate and magically romantic life as his real one plays out in front of his unseeing eyes. Walter longs for a life that’s full of adventure and isn’t defined by the parameters of the situation he has let himself get stuck in. The painful realization that I was essentially watching my life story unfold before me in the dark movie theater completely struck me. I’ve spent every day of the last 26 years fantasizing about an alternate reality. And like Walter’s daydreams, mine are vividly captivating and deeply ingrained in my memory. I remember being eight or nine and being in the bathtub, imagining I was a mermaid and my father was Poseidon. When I was twenty, I was leaning on a counter at the store I was working in and I imagined that the really cute Italian security guard rode in on his sleek and sexy motorcycle, pulled me onto the back of it, and rescued me from the monotony of selling cheap jewelry. Every Sunday, I imagine I just watched the Patriots game at Gillette Stadium and I get to go down to the field and hang out with the biggest and most protective guys out there, my own personal friends being one of the best quarterbacks in the history of the game, his receivers, and the line backers standing twenty feet taller than me. Just yesterday, I fantasized that the man who has enraptured me somehow got my address, appeared on my doorstep, and passionately declared that all he wanted for Christmas was me. I’m by no means saying that my life is so horrible that I have to escape to make it through the day, a la Precious. I have a good life and I’ve certainly had the rare experiences where I couldn’t believe that this was actually my life (e.g., the entire time I lived in Italy or when the most gorgeous actor on the planet who’s work I’ve been following for a few years actually smiled at me). But, like Walter, my life has been somewhat lacking in adventure and my daydreams serves as a distraction from all that I’m not doing or achieving .

Seeing myself in Walter and the change he goes through was so poignantly inspiring. If this man, who is basically the celluloid me, can escape from his daydreams and go on an adventure, why can’t I? He made a conscious decision to risk all the comforts he had become accustomed to in order to search for an elusive photo negative. Instead of playing a reel in his head, he went out and let life run the reel. The courage Walter musters is somewhere inside me. To me, this story didn’t have the typical “Be the Dream” message or even that “Be in the Moment” sentimentality. It was more along the lines of “Adventure is out there; Go and get it” with a hint of needing to be brave. And it was this resounding message that led me to decide to embark on my own adventure. It wasn’t one where I saw the world but more of what I saw of myself. I escaped from my daydreams and pursued an adventure full of risk that called for a healthy dose of courage. I had the potential to lose a remarkable friendship or an opportunity that could bear the fruits of a most intimate relationship. Because Walter had been able to leap free of the limitless constraints of his imagination and grab hold of reality and live the life he had been thrust into, I knew that the realm of the real world was one I could shape by my own actions. So I took a deep breath and with firing nerves and an eloquence that is still somewhat unbelievable to me, I confessed something that had been speaking on my heart for some time. I was embarking on my own adventure and I had hoped this person wanted to go on this adventure with me.

I don’t need to reveal the particulars of the outcome, suffice to say that it didn’t turn out how I had wanted. But that doesn’t necessarily matter. Just like Walter didn’t need to know what the photo he was searching for was, all I needed to know was that I had done something so extraordinary by leaving everything comfortable behind and exploring a side of myself and reality that I hadn’t really experienced before. Yes, afterwards, I had the too oft-occuring meltdown consisting of berating myself for being a dreamer and wishing that the romantic part of me would die because it’s difficult being so idealistic in such a bitter reality, but the timely consequence of my actions has been that I am proud of myself for jumping in, heart first.

The sole reason I want to be on film is because I’m an escape artist. It is my job to allow my audience to escape for two-ish hours from their lives, be they mundane or exciting, routine or variable. The story doesn’t have to be real, but if I do my job right, I can convince them I believe it’s real. Reality is a hard pill to swallow, day in and day out. But film takes you on a wild alternate ride that’s day-dreaming made tangible. Film proves that despite the harsh reality, there is a way to marry imagination and wonder with the truth. Every piece of work is an exploration of the senses. Let’s go on an adventure.

Popstars Look Like Porn

Like most every one, I listen to music pretty much all day long.  Correction, I listen to the radio pretty much all day long. And because I’m a fan of pretty much anything, the radio is normally tuned to a top 40 station. However, upon rediscovering the poetry that is U2, John Mayer, and newly discovering the words of the Civil Wars, Ray LaMontagne, and Lana Del Rey, I am physically yearning for well-produced (that is to say, not overly-produced), relevant and meaningful music. And I get that pop music is an accumulation of what is popular, but when I hear what is being put out on the airwaves, what “America” thinks is good music, I balk. It’s as if my inner ear shuts down. I hear the music like I hear the traffic outside the door. But I can’t allow myself to listen to it. This isn’t to say that all music put out today is horrendous. There is the occasional song by a pop artist that has meaning and vocalizes tragedies and joys of the human condition. But, on the whole, I feel these exceptions don’t outweigh the drivel. What’s more, I feel the majority of these young artists create music that they have no real, concrete experience in. Their creation is a false maturity or a veil of honesty. There is no truth in the writing. But it is put out there to pander the masses. Par example: “Come and Get It” by Selena Gomez:

When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

When you’re ready
When you’re ready
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

You ain’t gotta worry, it’s an open invitation
I’ll be sittin’ right here, real patient
All day, all night, I’ll be waitin’ standby
Can’t stop because I love it, hate the way I love you
All day all night, maybe I’m addicted for life, no lie.

I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets.
I love you much, too much to hide you, this love ain’t finished yet.
This love ain’t finished yet…
So baby whenever you’re ready…

When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

When you’re ready
When you’re ready
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

You got the kind of love that I want, let me get that.
And baby once I get it, I’m yours no take backs.
I’m gon’ love you for life, I ain’t leaving your side
Even if you knock it, ain’t no way to stop it
Forever you’re mine, baby I’m addicted, no lie, no lie.

I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets.
So baby whenever you’re ready…

 
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

When you’re ready
When you’re ready
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na

This love will be the death of me
But I know I’ll die happily
I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
Because you love me so… yeah!

 
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na 

When you’re ready
When you’re ready
When you’re ready come and get it
Na na na na  

It took three writers, Ester Dean, Mikkel S. Eriksen, and Tor E. Hermansen, to come up with an insipid approach to a girl wanting what she shouldn’t have while trying to appear coquettish. I constantly have this song stuck in my head, not because I like it, but because it’s one of those songs that has been deemed by the public as something to constantly listen to. I remember watching some award show where the singer performed this song and I made the comment that she looks like a little girl trying to fill her mother’s shoes. My mother has this saying: If you have to say you’re mature, you’re probably not. And that was exactly what my feelings towards this performance, this artist and this song were. Selena Gomez is young, and yes, this apparently is the time to be reckless and a tease, but what has happened to modesty? All of these young artists are putting it all out there. Has the obsession with youth and, it’s parallel, sex, gotten so out of hand that the younger one is, the older one has to appear? “I’m here so I have to make people want me. Let me show my skin because that will make you pay attention. Let me swivel my hips because that will make you want me.” Why has this desire to be desirable surpassed the need to be the best version of one’s self? I want to be accepted as much as the next girl, but not at a cost of my self-worth. And that’s what these pop-stars are sacrificing; they’d rather be a commodity than an act of substance. They are smart in catering to the superficial standard of “I can give it to you now” and that is how they make a name for themselves. They have agreed to sacrifice the betterment of not only themselves, but those who look up to them, in order to be seen as shockingly different. To me, this pervasive need to shock and awe actually diminishes any difference. It’s become ubiquitous. The ones that do set themselves apart are refreshingly honest and put their talent up front, not their body. They don’t put it all out there. They have themselves – their thoughts, their writing, their abilities – to recommend them. They act their age, but more than that, they relay their honest experiences and hold themselves accountable for those experiences and seem to be more concerned about the art they’re making than the buck they’re making. I’ll hold off on the pop-porn. Please pass the good taste.

Affirmation

Every once in a while, a film comes along that actually reaffirms your initial misgivings, apprehensions, judgements, preconceived ideas and beliefs. See, with movies, there’s always that anticipation that comes with the whole movie-going adventure and a longing for, if not a profound and life-changing experience, at least a sustained sense of entertainment and escape from reality. But there are films that defy the escape. It’s not the actors, the director, the sets, costumes, music, lighting, or even the story. No, it’s none of that. It’s the characters. And that’s not to say that the script is poorly written. It’s the characters that come in contact with our being. The three films (yes; in the scores of movies I’ve seen, only three) that I so desperately wanted to change my view were My Week With Marilyn, Anna Karenina, and The Great Gatsby.

My Week With Marilyn

I’m one of the few that is not a fan of Marilyn Monroe. I understand that she was not just a sex symbol, but a symbol of desire and that she is one of a select breed that can harness that external desire and have others conform to her wants. I have studied pictures of her and a couple of her films, but honestly feel she was an over-sexed and wholly synthetic woman that didn’t have much to recommend her but her looks. Her success, in my eyes, was seeing that the world  saw beauty in the false. She was, I won’t deny, other-worldly and certainly not normal. I can certainly understand why she was a magnet for attention; wanted and unwanted, male and female, on-screen and off. However, I could not reconcile all the oft-scribled quotes and Halloween costumes to a woman who, despite coming from a hard and disastrous childhood, refused to break out of being a bombshell, the bombshell. And after seeing My Week With Marilyn, I still can’t. Right before seeing the film, I thought, “Please, let this change my mind. Let me see what every one else sees.” I wanted to fall in love with this siren. The acting was magnificent. Michelle Williams captured the essence of Marilyn Monroe and was her in both body and spirit. And yet, with every move and sentence that were quintessentially Marilyn, I thought, “There. That, right there, is why I don’t like this woman.” She was a weepy little girl who could turn men on with a simple look but couldn’t turn any one on with self-worth. Instead of establishing who she was as a person, she sunk deeper and deeper into a weird starvation for others’ honest approval of who she actually was. And this is by no means a harsh criticism of the fantastic work done by Ms. Williams; she sincerely conveyed the humanness and insecurities that every one, including those in the limelight, shares. But there was nothing in the story of who Marilyn Monroe was that showed me that she was some one that should be praised other than for her supposed beauty.

Anna Karenina

Upon finishing the novel by Tolstoy, I felt a bit of anger. Here was this woman who, in all selfishness, could not satisfy herself with the marital love of her husband, nor the pure love of Count Vronsky or the unadulterated love of her son. She, who had so severely damaged the lives of others felt sorry for herself. The text was well-written, it is a fantastic story. But this woman, hailed the world over as a tragic heroine, was unfathomably narcissistic and I could not align her actions with logic, common sense, or even being human. I knew, going into the movie, that I would like it. With Joe Wright behind the camera, Keira Knightly in front of it, and the words of Tolstoy translated by the talented Tom Stoppard, I was so excited for how deliciously cinematic it would be. Right before seeing the film, I thought, “Please, let this change my mind. Let me see what every one else sees.” Let me fall in love with this tragic woman. Once again, my mind went unchanged. The film was beautiful (of course it was, it’s Joe Wright). And while I was envious of the passionate and pure love shared between Anna and Vronsky (please don’t assume that just because I felt a twinge of envy, I actually approve of adultery), I still rolled my eyes when the train came rolled through and thought, “What a little bitch.” Harsh and quite un-lady-like, sure, but a visceral and all too familiar reaction to witnessing a lack of sense. My apparent inability to comprehend how the tragedy in being selfish is something to be recognized as great remains constant and I undoubtedly continue to have an extreme dislike for this tortured protagonist.

The Great Gatsby

Now, by no means am I an F. Scott Fitzgerald expert. But I am an avid reader of his works and have read beyond the high-school prerequisite of his most famous novel. And personally, The Great Gatsby is not my favorite (I leave that to Tender is the Night). The tale of decadence and foolishness just never settled well with me and I much prefer the honesty of his other novels. That’s not to say that it isn’t a fantastic and extremely well-executed story. To me, the optimism and idealism of Jay Gatsby juxtaposed with the cynicism and self-absorbed nature of the Buchanans has never registered as truthful, but I understand that it’s a hyperbole of the human condition and the American Dream. However, I have never fully understood why every one praises The Great Gatsby over his other novels. Right before seeing the film, I thought, “Please, let this change my mind. Let me see what every one else sees.” And this film, unlike the other two, didn’t necessarily reaffirm my original feelings but, more than that, actually originated my dislike for all the characters, save Gatsby. It must be the preconceived notion I have that protagonists, while faulty, have something inherently good in them that makes them likable. The film spoke the truth of Nick Carraway’s narrative and I believe the film was true to the essence of the novel and Baz Lurhman has once again created a fun, whimsical and dreamy portrayal of another time that remains relevant. However, I couldn’t get on board with a story that ends in cowardice and the destruction of idealism.

Of course, all this commentary is colored by my personal desires and views of how the world ought to be, how it is, and how it should be portrayed in the escapist art of cinema and literature. I absolutely loved these three films. At the core of all of them, they are the best adaptations of these stories and are a credit to the world of imagination, artistic license, and the truth of these accounts, both fiction and not. They are accurate to my perceptions.  It’s the stories that are indeed accurate that make us ask questions of our perceptions. And I sincerely wish that my perceptions would allow me to experience being on the side of the majority of the lauded.