Harboring a secreto. And that, my dear and inspired, is the only clue I can give.
As luck would have it, I’ll be back spamming inboxes & clogging up readers on St. Patty’s.
March 17th is a long time to keep a secret. Stay tuned.
Archive for the ‘Playful’ Category
Secrets, Secrets Are No Fun
- Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010 |
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Cloche Up
- Monday, March 1st, 2010 |
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"Mad as a Hatter" ~ In order to bind felt fibers the millinery industry used mercury. Felt fluff would be inhaled by the milliners and over time the mercury would drive them mad.
Not a moment longer will I keep the news under hat (oh no no, dear you, such trickery is old hat). Tis true! The oft-obsessed about cloche now sits jauntily atop my obsessed noggin!
After a lazy Bleecker Street brunch, Mr. Husband and I swooped into SoHo’s The Hat Shop to pick up the custom Guy Carsone aubergine chapeau.
If you look cloche up, the hands of the maker (in this case monsieur Brooklyn milliner, Guy) are imprinted in its felt. You can feel it! I felt it.
You may think I’m talking through my hat. Why don’t you throw your hat in the ring? I guarantee you’ll sense a thing or two new. If not, I’ll eat my hat.
By Jove, who knew the chapeau had (la haute) cultural currency?
Scarflette Tartlette
- Thursday, February 11th, 2010 |
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Next year's scarflette, perhaps?
A gorgeous sparkle flourish increases allure to this scarflette.
Valentine’s Day 2010 marks the first year I am deeply attached to two loves. C’est pas vrai?! The forbidden love triangle!
The first love goes to my dashing husband. We will be inseparable as we brunch and crush on one another and our much beloved New York. The tie that binds, the capstone to the love triangle, is the delicious buttery texture of a handmade scarflette, wrapped come-hitherly round the decolletage.
It seals the deal on a year of love – thoughtfully crafted in unison. One in which a supportive husband believes that his wife’s entrepreneurial aspirations and craft life are worth exploring; And, one where a wife believes her computer engineering husband deserves to live a life surrounded by art, craft, design, and all sorts of visual intrigue and expression.
I guess this is one of those rare occasions where we welcome a third party into our relationship. It’s a symbol of love and cooperation. We hope to continue to craft a closely knit marriage of mutual support.
More akin to my humble scarflette. On Saturday, I will be meeting with my faithful tutor Victoria to fix dropped stitches and add buttons.
~ Cheers to all Scarflette Tartlettes!
What do you share in your relationships, in your marriages?
Nighttime Knitting Leads to Pillow Talk
- Monday, February 1st, 2010 |
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Photo credit Krafti-Kit.
Of late you may have drawn the conclusion that I’ve canned crafting in favor of art acquisition. Au contraire, my friends, I was merely pulling wool over your eyes. The only thing that was drawn was the bed curtain, the very spot where each night I’ve shacked up with a pair of needles and giant balls of yarn. I feel sheepish for withholding, but a woman needs her privacy to practice.
The last week was abundantly full of craftercises. The earlier part was saddled by knit wittery as I struggled ardently and sweat profusely to harness the cast on and knit stitch. I kept a hardy laugh on, though, which kept spirits soaring. By mid-week I was rolling rhythmically with my needles, yarn balls flying everywhere. Mercifully, last evening all labors came to a head: I witnessed the birth of a scarflette (small neckwarmer), a gorgeous heathered pacific blue! I cannot wait to take it for a walk, to show all the neighbors a most prized creation.
Lena Corwin stencil pillow courtesy of thehaystackneedleonline.com
Somewhere in the middle, I stole time to attend Etsy Lab’s stencil workshop. All participants were asked to bring an item to stencil. Ever the good crafter, I brought a fully stuffed pillow, and to my chagrin was unduly challenged. It ain’t easy, dear readers, to stencil on a rounded surface. Ed Roth, the patient instructor and owner of Brooklyn-based Stencil 1, was equally perplexed by my odd choice of project. But alas, after engaging in a protracted session of pillow talk, we resorted to spray adhesive to get the job done.
Despite the remedy, the adhesive could not withhold the force of my eager brushstrokes nor the bulging pillow. I wound up with a sadly contorted design and the resolve to avoid pillow talk at all costs. I’ll leave it up to the pros.
What nighttime exercises, craft or otherwise, have you been working on?
Knotting in New York
- Tuesday, January 19th, 2010 |
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I used to think New York was a place of grand gestures, and that this city would make me better simply by association. All I had to do was walk with purpose through any one of the revolving doors belonging to Sixth Avenue’s looming skyscrapers and. . . poof, I was made. That was the easy way.
The hard way is walking through a much more humble door, belonging to a small shop where anonymity isn’t allowed (if only because the space is limited), and beseeching one’s help face-to-face is a prerequisite. I was all knotted up. This was for real! And so, here is how this afternoon’s reality transpired:
Enter Purl Soho, a yarn yard of outrageously vibrant hues.
Enter Amy, my dream weaver.*
Enter I, knotted up.
Amy and I milled about the yarns, talking the yarn talk. I got my first pair of chopsticks and fabric. Yes, that’s what I called them. I was ready to quit after the exhausting task of getting familiar with yarn, but Amy is a for real knitter and wanted to get on with it.
Over a cup of tepid coffee with extra sugar to get rid of the coffee taste (Amy had for real coffee with extra coffee aroma), she taught me how not to be a knotter, but a true knitter. With each knit and purl, which I was not supposed to do, I got a bit closer to confidence. Knots melted from my body and wove themselves through my chopsticks and into my fabric.
It’s too early to tie up all the loose ends of this story. What I can conclude is that the small gesture of two chopsticks humbly and happily clickity clacking is something I can get used to as I make my way through the streets and avenues of New York.
* Outside of teaching me how not to be a knit wit, Amy can be found living her own dreams on her blog.
Knit Wit
- Wednesday, January 13th, 2010 |
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Me, my gift tag, and a whole lot of pride. Speaking of pride, am I suffering from hubris? I think there's a trend forming here. How many pictures of me can this blog take? Photo courtesy of @Etsy.
I woke up this morning to the annoying shrill of a high-pitched note. To my dismay, then delight, it was my voice. It is back and I can hear it! For an insane moment there, I really thought I had lost it for good. And to think that the only way I would be able to relate to you would be through the written word?
Stultifying!
Amidst a slew of other life demands (Hey, somebody’s got to get the Charmin), I’ve been reading your ideas for how I should dress my nook of New York in addition to steeping my spirit in the textures you most adore. Hello autumn leaves, a worn awl, a baby’s cheek, and a buttery sheepskin rug under foot on a cold winter morning!
To inspire next year’s holiday wrapping, I hope you enjoy this needlepoint gift tag I made at Etsy Labs. Isn’t it a gem and this palette of red, blue and yellow? No words to describe its beauty.
It is true that I was under the impression I was knitting at the time of this creation, which sparked a gamut of coos and high-fives from my internal peanut gallery. I laugh now as I flash back to its genesis, shocked that I insisted the instructor compliment my knitting skills! Oh la la, I’m arrogant.
In conclusion, needlepoint is a form of canvas work embroidery; knitting is needlework created by interlacing yarn in a series of connected loops. And, a knit wit is what I was.
Check.
I sincerely hope you’ve had a chance to laugh off a personal, professional or artistic indiscretion in this new year? If not, get going!
What-if Holidays
- Monday, November 30th, 2009 |
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With Thanksgiving 2009 in the bag and my feeling a bit more like one, I have had a precious moment to reflect.
The fete commenced Wednesday night with the requisite - if you’re a New Yorker, a bit whimsical, and have a brood of kiddies – visit to the Macy’s Parade balloon blow-up headquarters on the perimeter of the American Museum of Natural History. What a blow out! Indebted to a playful Blogher contributor and friend Suzanne Reisman who hosted a party for the event, the hubby and I experienced our first rain-soaked, festive gathering of thankful Manhattanites who, like me, worship Papa Smurf.
Big Daddy Smurf
Arriving home late, we shifted into pack-for-the-6am flight-to-the-in-laws-in-Chicago mode. In an out of character move, I gave no advanced thought about what to wear for Thanksgiving. Game plan: go with the gut. After all, that’s what a good part of the holiday centers on. Amongst an abundance of dresses, tops, shoes, tights and accessories, I stuffed the luggage full of whatever seemed right. With the last zip of the London Fog travel gear, we were off.
As dawn broke outside the window of seat 24B, it, well, dawned on me that something unusual had happened. I turned to hubby, poked his shoulder, and shouted with a fusion of awe and glee that I think I had dressed like a turkey. Huh, he says?!
What-if holidays we dressed the part?
Thankfully it was not a literal interpretation, rather a mere channeling of the Thanksgiving spirit, but it was a significant “coincidence” that warrants an extra forkful of sharing.
* The layered ruffles of the J.Crew dress with iridescent purple and chartreuse hues look a tad like the plumes of feathers on the turkey’s bodice, right?
* The striped turtleneck could be mistaken for the wings or tough dark skin on its legs, no doubt?
* The patent leather brown oxford shoes with the talon heel, could they not be the bird’s feet?
* And, c’mon, the rose scarf hanging loosely around the neck? Is that not the turkey’s wattle?
When the ensemble that emerged from my suitcase was fully arranged, I and my wattle had a glorious gut-busting laugh.
On this What-if Holiday, I continue to be thankful for the freedom to express and the abundant ways that one can go about it.
My muse
A turkey impression that I can't believe I am posting
Displaying my turkey flair
It reminds me of a recent visit with mom to see the exhibit “Rare Bird of Fashion: The Irreverent Iris Apfel” at the Peabody Essex Museum. Iris is a rare bird, summoning the spirit of her interior life and making it visible to the world. Her audacious expressions rejuvenated my spirit, leaving me with that extra boost of chutzpah to go out into the world with all my feathers splayed.
Click on the links above for an amazing application that allows you to curate Ms. Apfel’s wardrobe for yourself! A perfect opportunity to play What-if I . . .?
Zippy, Pithy Elsa Maxwell Quotes for Thanksgiving
- Monday, November 23rd, 2009 |
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Enjoy the abundance of the season with an earful (and if things get messy, an arsenal) of Elsa Maxwell’s musings on the Art of Lively Entertaining.
Wishing you a supreme gustatory gathering!
Serve the dinner backward, do anything – but for goodness sake, do something weird.
Someone said that life is a party. You join in after it’s started and leave before it’s finished.
Under pressure, people admit to murder, setting fire to the village church or robbing a bank, but never to being bores.
Bores put you in a mental cemetery while you are still walking.
A bore is a vacuum cleaner of society, sucking up everything and giving nothing. Bores are always eager to be seen talking to you.
I make enemies deliberately. They are the sauce piquante to my dish of life.
Giving parties is a trivial avocation, but it pays the dues for my union card in humanity.
Love, Loss and What You wore?
- Tuesday, October 6th, 2009 |
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I’ve been meaning to read the book Love, Loss and What I Wore by Ilene Beckerman, but am happy to know it’s now been made into a Broadway play by Nora and Delia Ephron.
This morning, the Ephrons are visiting the Martha Stewart Show, reminiscing with great nostalgia about what they wore to their first proms and to their brownie meetings. The domestic doyenne doesn’t hesitate to share a story about how she hid a bra from her mother (who was apparently in denial about Martha’s burgeoning womanhood) in the back of her closet until her displeased mother discovered it.
We all have memories of what we wore when a significant event happened in our lives. The Aussie actor Simon Baker remembers handmade swim trunks, my mother remembers the-in-her-words jazzy raincoat and hat she made during her college days. I remember a friend’s black poodle skirt that I’d beg to wear any chance I got. I felt transported to the 1950s, a period that I had assumed was America’s utopia.
What were you wearing?
Simon Baker Sews Respect on Rachael Ray
- Monday, October 5th, 2009 |
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An unbeatable benefit of living in New York City is the variety of unique opportunities at our disposal on any given day. One of them was scoring tickets to the Rachael Ray Show. Admittedly, I have never identified with her TV persona, finding the cloying cookery lingo excessive. EVOO FOREVER!
She is a different woman in person – much sharper, all business, and very real. When Simon Baker came to the show, Rachael drew a wealth of information from this hunky, yet surprisingly introverted star. She also turned the actor of The Mentalist into a sentimentalist.
When Rachael brought the discussion to Patrick Jane’s trademark vest – a wardrobe selection he believed best suited the character – Baker’s tone abruptly changed from shy to unreserved and emotional. Sitting up straight and looking the audience dead in the eye, Baker explained the genesis of his appreciation for sartorial sentimentalism. He recounted with warm reverence how, as a boy, his mother sewed all his clothing, including a pair of swim trunks that performed like Quiksilver’s, yet were made with a love that can only only come from the labor of a mother’s hand.
Baker’s unexpected foray into the domestic scene of his childhood was an intimacy that encouraged tears. But, beneath the tender moment, I felt a sickening panic rise within.
My future self wants my kiddies to remember the handmade hugs that protected them during their stormiest and sunniest of days. My present self is at odds with the sewing machine. Even when I do get the beast to hum along, will I have opened Pandora’s sewing box?
By the way, can anyone identify me in the audience snapshot above? Here’s a hint.
