une bibliothèque

growing up in alexandria, my back gate swung open to a spacious, sun-dappled library. i spent endless afternoons there, pouring over astrid lindgren and roald dahl books, contraband issues of seventeen, and microfilm reels from the days of flappers. i was delighted then, when i finally paid a visit to my local library, just around the corner from my apartment and steps from my beloved waverly diner.


it was a nineteenth century courthouse and today, it is a cozy collection of stone spiral staircases, stained glass windows, gables, and gardens. i couldn't help but think of beauty and the beast.

around the time that it was built, a spunky socialite named anne charlotte lynch hosted lively literary salons in my apartment building. writers like ralph waldo emerson, herman melville, and edgar allan poe stopped by to raise hell. with some goading from anne, edgar even shared a poem of his, called "the raven", for the very first time. (he once lived nearby with his beloved virginia - later known as lenore, annabel lee, and lolita.)

my, i love my haunted old neighborhood.

(see also: party girl)

your sunny, funny face

although audrey hepburn wielded a mythical sense of style, many of her roles demanded a rags-to-givenchy transformation. there were sabrina and my fair lady, of course. then there was funny face, wherein audrey played a fabled greenwich village girl of yesteryears. naturally, she worked in a bookshop called "embryo concepts", spouted "empathicalism", and liked a good pout now and then.

she would be eventually be whisked away to paris, where she upset fashion shows, danced in speakeasies, and shockingly, wore bright hues. looking back, however, i am happy to claim this story's ugly duckling as one hep style icon for the village. she's perfectly, breezily polished, while still indulging in a healthy dose of make-believe. the unabashed head-to-toe black. that turtleneck. all of her trench coats, kerchiefs, and fuss free skimmers.

sure, her beatnik inspirations teeter on ridiculous, but i, for one, can't wait to play dress-up!

(see also: trovata, jonas löfgren)

une icône: jean seberg in "breathless"

these days, the ladies of new wave film occupy the same esteem that i once held for disney princesses. in the light of technicolor and jump cuts, these women are cool, fearless, and well, completely fabulous. there's anna karina, of course, catherine deneuve (especially in the achingly bright-eyed movies of jacques demy), and most recently: jean seberg in breathless. as patricia, an american student in paris and an occasional lover of handsome gangsters, jean exuded unassuming confidence, vivacity, and easy charm.

here, vogue re-imagines her stylish turn as patricia in a spread from the early nineties. i personally love seeing pixies with so much swagger.

cent lettres d'amour

happy valentine's day! if you're hoping to swoon over sweet nothings today, there are perhaps none sweeter than the one hundred love sonnets that pablo neruda penned for his wife, matilde urrutia. the note he fondly affixed to this bundle of poems, a true labor of love, read:

"my beloved wife, i suffered while i was writing these misnamed "sonnets"; they hurt me and caused me grief, but the happiness i feel in offering them to you is vast as a savanna. when i set this task for myself, i knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, crystal, or cannonfire. but - with great humility - i made these sonnets out of wood; i gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and i have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, i built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each i built little houses, so that your eyes, which i adored and sing to, might live in them. now that you have declared the foundations of my love i surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life." - october 1959

like matilde before me, i've loved pablo neruda for ages. his poems, crafted from pacific coastlines and labyrinthine fjords and foam-covered stones, always make me glad to have descended from his same shores.

(see also: snarky personals, labour of heart)

les étoiles dans ses cheveux

my mother was sure to pass along her avid love of flea markets to me. (why, just last saturday in brooklyn heights, i found delicate cards from the sixties, already carefully signed in childish swoops.) not surpisingly then, i could amble through etsy endlessly. i recently came across this new shop of handmade delights, taza and the prince, for young ladies who like technicolor musicals, the letters of f. scott and zelda fitzgerald, and their own freckles.

(see also: the creator's rockstar diaries)

la nostalgie

(or "the trees like lungs, filling with air.
my sister - the mean one - pulling my hair.")

these evocative pictures by talented miss olivia bee, age fourteen, are nibbles of proust's madeleines, swallowed with swills from a chipped teacup. they are carefully underlined passages in library books, the feeling of birch against bare feet, hot breath whispering in your ear, radios that crackle, and the somnolent light of late afternoons.

(see also:au revoir simone, sok song)

oh deer

can you imagine a more bewitching pet?

audrey hepburn and her fawn called pippin

(see also: the bird and the bee, cherry blossom girl, roman holiday)

tweed et bicyclettes

just days ago, a group of bicycle enthusiasts and dandies hosted london's first-ever tweed run: a fancy-free jaunt with a break for afternoon tea. evoking a life of leisure, everyone involved sported their most dapper, old-fangled fashions. tweed, naturally, was matched with more tweed, houndstooth, argyle, fair isle, flasks of gin, and smart capes. to help keep things cordial, the top prize was the doff of the cap award for the day's most civilised behaviour.

i'd be charmed, i'm sure!

(see also: this month's tweed run san francisco, evelyn waugh)

un danseur, un patineur

i imagine that there are few talents more enchanting than being able to roller skate and tap dance at once. my charmed friend katie found one man who could perform such an astonishing feat. ladies and gentlemen, i give you mister gene kelly:

(see also: singin' in the rain)

un cirque

were i born a hundred years earlier, i'd surely have arrived in manhattan on the midnight train and flocked to the ziegfeld follies. i did, in fact, move to new york and join show biz, albeit in a less romantic era. no matter! these pictures by wendy bevan, all captured on polaroid film, remind me that all a real ziegfeld girl needs is a little bit of swagger, glitz, and a few odd birds by your side.

(see also: geek love)

bon conseil

this proud, hand painted sign flaps valiantly over a side street in the west village. (i passed it this afternoon, en route to tea and sympathy.) it offers some tried and true advice: if we all do one random act of kidness daily, we just might set the world in the right direction.

(see also: my favorite color is shiny, sweet darlin'amélie)

fleurs délectables

while watching monsoon wedding, i was tickled by love-sick dubey's habit of swallowing marigolds whole. i recently came across a bin of dried, sweetened hibiscus flowers and brought a bag of the tart, red beauties home. now i too can't resist devouring these blossoms. it's best to just pluck and pop the finespun flavors all at once.

and when the weather is finally sweltering, i'll have to serve bourbon and mint leaves with this lavender ice cream on the rooftop.

une lune de papier

my, i love this picture, spotted while museum-hopping this weekend:

backdrops circa 1940s by lorna simpson

cue: it's only a paper moon

un film

half nelson is easly one of the most beautiful movies i've seen in years. the story is a deftly realized spin on the tired old tale of liberal guilt in inner-city schools. a charismatic, well-meaning history teacher alternately inspires his students and wallows in a messy drug habit. when a 13-year-old student stumbles upon his other life in a locker room, they begin an unexpected, redemptive friendship.

(see also: entre les murs, lars and the real girl)

étiquette

in 1965, edward gorey published this tongue-in-cheek rebuttal to the day's strait-laced etiquette guides. it's mischievous in its rejection of old sexual mores and delightfully brazen for women with a loose grasp on prim behavior.

(simply click on any page to enlarge.)

(see also: splendor in the grass, the melancholy death of oyster boy, the portable dorothy parker)

une barbe

the ground has been repaved with sheets of frost and shingles are sprouting their gleaming gardens. what's a shivering girl to do, but take a cue from still colder lands? and well, if she can't grow a beard to befit jack frost, there are these vik prjónsdóttir caps from iceland.

(see also: when i'm 64)

une icône: anna karina

we all need a few eccentric ladies to admire. personally, i think that anna karina is the hippest girl in town. she ran away to paris, met coco chanel, then godard, and became a devil-may-care darling of new wave film. she was a doe-eyed gamine; cerebral and wild - not incidentally, but essentially wild, like thistles. what's not to love?

(from top, see also: pierrot le fou, vivre sa vie)

papier et ruban

(see also: fake eyelashes)

i always look forward to valentine's day, for the heaps of pink frosting (see also: epicurious) and the opportunity to make foolish valentines. these are usually sent secretly to vague acquaintances or platonic infatuations. (enlist a friend, cozy up, and give it a try. it will elicit a lot of delighted giggles on february 14.) this year, i'm hoping i can unearth relic prom photos (think beehives, yards of taffeta, horn-rimmed glasses, and powder blue tuxedos) to use. i'll keep my eyes peeled in brooklyn this weekend. so many vintage shops have nooks filled with mysterious old pictures.

trois bicyclettes

lately, i've set my sights on a gleaming old cruiser to pedal about the city, while humming doo-wop ditties. this, in turn, has inspired a fascination with copenhagen cycle chic, which is essentially the sartorialist on wheels. take a peek at all these danish darlings doing the very same.

une nouvelle vue

for as long as i’ve lived in new york, i’ve wanted to live in the village. i supposed that i would once i was the sort of batty old lady who wears sequins to breakfast. through a stroke of good luck, this wish came true earlier in life than i expected.

i've moved to a romantic old flat in greenwich village, just in time for the new year! here is the new view from my bedroom window, splashed with the empire state building. it's enough to make me feel like i'm in a storybook.

(by the by, my brother gave me a book of essays, up in the old hotel, by joseph mitchell about all the charming eccentrics who once ruled these streets. i can't recommend it highly enough.)

un miroir

i could just lay and listen to sweet rock ballads incessantly. apparently, i’m not alone. when the velvet underground released i’ll be your mirror, andy warhol lobbied to put a scratch on the album so that this song would repeat itself ad nauseam.

ballons d'hélium et ombre

this canopy by gustafson porter, from the venice architectural biennial (helium balloons and wispy fabric flapping in the breeze), is the stuff that afternoon dreams are made of. how wildly appropriate for lazy spring days spent shaking grass from your hair.

(see also: apartment therapy.)

un président

now that, my fellow americans, is a president:

(see also: time magazine's photo essays, especially of steven soderbergh's che. i caught this movie during a one-week run at the ziegfeld to qualify for oscar nominations. it has received some premature criticism, based on the assumption that it deifies che guevara. in my humble opinion though, it is a raw, beautifully shot, and fascinating picture of modern revolutions, flaws and all.)

un petit rêve de moi

"sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you"
... or a rather perfect song for winter

(see also: erin fetherston)

crème

early episodes of the muppet show are chock full of gems like this (especially the musical performances, which featured the likes of rita moreno and debbie harry). and my, how i adore fierce ladies!

quatre yeux

for one reason or another, i find myself lovingly watching heaps of old woody allen movies these days. this may have sparked my newfound pursuit of wildly oversized annie hall glasses.


(see also: lula)

tatouages

i've always secretly wanted an armful of nautical tattoos adorned by sailors en route to the south seas - anchors, mermaids, and scrolls of cryptic phrases. in fact, i once fancied a slight, gentle boy simply because he would roll up the sleeves of his cardigans to reveal tattoos befitting a burly maritime man. i've never found the sense of commitment to accomplish this, so its little surprise that my storybook sensibilities fell for these temporary tattoos by british illustrator julia pott, from her etsy shop.

un film silencieux

i may have gone my whole life without seeing a silent film in its entirety. this morning, with my moma card in hand, i put an end to all that and watched the ethereally gorgeous and perfectly cheeky lady windermere's fan. it was too delicate not to love; as though in a single blink, this celluloid neverland might just vanish. most of all, i liked how some of the movie's conversations went unheard (or in this case, went without intertitles), like bill murray's last whisper in lost in translation.

and my, how i covet all those flapper bands!

une madeleine

(see: tiger lily and tiny teeth)

(the promenade by marc chagall)

today the mail cart delivered flowers, a parcel, and a new book about my favorite artist, marc chagall. i do love a good first page (my favorite is tucked safely away in lady chatterley's lover). a quotation from chagall on this particular first page caught my attention: "every painter is born somewhere. and even though he may respond to the influences of other atmospheres, a certain essence - a certain 'aroma' of his birthplace clings to his work."

i'm certainly not from a land of shtetls, flying lovers, and violin-playing goats. (nevertheless, there were honeysuckle vines and ghost stories; attics and library books; record collections and enchanted, endless summers.) so ever since, i've entertained myself by trying to pick out splashes of my own childhood infatuations.

une métropole

(tote bags from atsuyo et akiko)

(picture by souther salazar)

"chapter one. he was too romantic about manhattan, as he was about everything else ... - no, no, corny, too corny for a man of my taste. can we ... can we try and make it more profound?

chapter one. he adored new york city, although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. how hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television ... - too angry. i don't want to be angry.

chapter one. he was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat. - i love this! - new york was his town, and it always would be ..."

- woody allen, manhattan