Doing the next thing is probably the last thing on my mind when faced with a crisis. When I hit a brick wall, such as an overdrawn bank account, fight or flight (jump on a plane or kill your ex) syndrome, unemployment or usually all of the above, all I can think of is ultimatums; I will have $100,000 by tomorrow or I will shoot myself in the head. No, actually I would slit my wrists because that would obviously be much more dramatic. But no really, when I hit a low, apparently I would much rather throw myself into a life of prostitution and drug running than simply taking the next serving job, and well, just doing the next thing. Perhaps Michael Bay and I have much more in common than I thought... sex, explosions and intervention from outer space.
Inevitably though, after screaming threats at the universe in my car, lying in the middle of the room staring at the ceiling searching my self destructive mind for a hair brain solution to my current "problem" and then spending the next few hours googling "what to do next?", I somehow realize I just have to do the next thing. I would still rather run into the woods and build a fire, and if I could find a woods, I just might do that very thing, but the soft beauty of "the next thing" like a soft blush in the morning sky slowly creeps up on my psyche. So I make a to-do list, things that must be done. Interestingly, they are all creative; not an item on the list is destructive, and I realize I am not a captive, but "indeed there will be time." "There will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; time for all the works and days of hands...time yet for a hundred indecisions And for a hundred visions and revisions... And indeed there will be time To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and 'Do I dare?' time to turn back and descend the stair."
Yes, there will be time to find the art in the pain. The phoenix rises not out of the sky, but out of the burning embers of "the next thing." So, although there may be red paint thrown across the room when I wake, I pick up my pen and write.
All quotes from T.S Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" except of course the title quote, which is Back To the Future, duh.
So I'm completely fascinated by these fashion photos with Pokemon characters photoshopped in.
This is the blog I found the photos on, although I have no idea who to credit the photos to as my German thoroughly sucks, and thus am not posting them all. But you should check them out, and if you can read German, tell me what the blog says.
However, I just realized photoshopped pictures on the internet is not "real life," they are just part of the virtual reality we all live in. Made me ask myself, "what art did I observe in my actual interactions with the real world today?" The answer is wasabi.
An older Indian gentleman kept asking for sides of wasabi and ginger to go with his appetizers and dinner tonight. Be aware he did not actually order any sushi. When it came time to leave and he asked for his leftovers boxed up, he also wanted his wasabi boxed up. But then mid-boxing, he asked for more wasabi to be added to the leftover wasabi. Now that is a living piece of art. Imagine a man sitting in a small dimly lit chic restaurant, at dinner with family and friends, drinking beer and eating wasabi like candy.
Now imagine the same man at home, sitting down in front of the TV with his take-home box of wasabi and spooning away at the luscious green pile. Or imagine the man waking up in the morning, coming downstairs in his pajamas, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a small take-home box, pulling a spoon out of the drawer, taking a seat at the kitchen island and diving right into that wasabi; he then washes it down with a swig of coffee.
I stumbled across this chair while on a shoot this weekend. The house we shot the commercial in was super modern, almost postmodern because the guys who previously owned and built the house fought and broke up mid construction so there are balconies with no entrance or exit, windows where there should be doors, etc. The chair was in such sharp contrast to both the decor and architecture of the house that I fell in love.
I have no idea the year of this chair, but apparently Versace Home is still creating similar chairs. Here is the one they have online right now.
I really am not into rococo, but contrasted with postmodern...hell yeah.
“Art is the tangible evidence of the ever-questing human spirit.” The same can be said of true fashion. Someone commented the other day that Chicago is a city where people come to find their art. Much of the art in Chicago is experimental or emerging. What might be dismissed in New York for not being completely put together is often given credit here in Chicago for the fact that it is artistic expression and therefore has potential. I actually moved to Chicago to find my art. I was busy facilitating other people’s art, which I am good at and love, but I knew I had to stop and find, and then create, my own art. I think the same thing happens in fashion. We find it easier to facilitate someone else’s art, and follow a trend, than to stop and find our own style. When someone stops and finds their own way of expressing themselves, fashion/art has been created.
Fashion as a wearable art form reminds me of recycling: taking one object, sometimes something outdated, unusable in its current state or simply unwanted, and creating something useful, even something beautiful. Recycling is a physical example of the way the creative mind functions. In creation of a work of art, not only is there a physical synthesis, but there is also an idea-synthesis that happens. All this is a bit philosophical perhaps, but I do have a point . . .. There really is nothing new under the sun. No work of art is wholly new or original, especially not in fashion. Fashion is simply a metamorphosis of ideas, silhouettes and colors and patterns.
Brilliance occurs in the fashion world, not by creating something new out of thin air, but by the way the look is put together, the art is truly in the composition and the line. Edie Sedgwick, famously known as a muse to Andy Warhol, was a fashion superstar in the 60s because she took everyday items such as black leotards, mini dresses, and large chandelier earrings and put them together in an unusual way that expressed who she was. While Edie Sedgewick may have been the “It” girl of 1965, Tavi Gevison, the thirteen-year-old fashion blogger from Chicago who was the star of New York Fashion Week this fall, is arguably the “It” girl of 2009. Though the two women might seem to have little in common, their fashion sense has earned respect and admiration for the same two reasons. First, their fashion sense was/is theirs, and secondly their fashion sense was/is uninhibited, a bizarre collage of everyday pieces arranged with good taste but without regard for the status quo.
Carl Sandburg, the great American poet famously referred to Chicago as “Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders,” and fashion designer Michael Kors, after calling himself a “camel and gray flannel sort of guy” called Chicago “a camel and gray flannel sort of town.” So although the Washington Post dubbed Chicago “the Milan of the Midwest” earlier this year, the Chicago fashion market is still inherently built on practicality. This pragmatism results in both beautiful unpretentiousness and unfortunately an over reliance on gore-tex. Practical does not need to equal boring, but you would think North Face was running a city-wide viral marketing campaign by the way Chicago dresses as soon as the first cold front hits. Too often we end up just wearing clothes instead of wearable fashion. However, Chicago has no shortage of fashion inspiration; Chicago is after all home to Michelle Obama. Nor can the problem be blamed on the city’s designers and stylists. Great art does flourish in this city’s fashion community. I don’t think we can even blame the extreme weather. The real problem, I believe, is a disconnect between art and everyday life. Chicago is a stormy brawling city, but it is also a city with “lifted head singing so proud to be alive;” a city of ever questing human spirits.
I went to see RedMoon Theater’s Winter Pageant a couple weeks ago and was reminded of the uninhibited magic and beauty that lies in a child’s mind. Maybe what we all need this holiday season is a trip back to childhood. Children seem to always know exactly who they are and how they want to express themselves. Remember the uninhibited chopping of your own hair, coloring on walls and playing dress up? Who says we, as adults cannot do the same? The art and theater community here thrives on experimental and emerging art. Why can’t we throw a little bit of that into our fashion? Tis the season: find the magic in the everyday.
This column is called Art in Real Life because that is exactly what fashion is. Fashion is simply wearable art, whether a designer creates it or it is something you throw together because it makes you smile. Style is not following a trend, but should like art, be the evidence of the ever-questing human spirit. You are human; go forth and create.
Once upon a time, I quit my life in the horridly humid yet semi glamorous south and moved cross country in the middle of a recession to the practically cold and yet amazingly warmhearted city of Chicago. I moved to pursue my art, and finding myself unemployed mid recession in the Midwest, I quickly found that the term, starving artist, was no joke.
As most artists do while waiting for their art to start paying the bills, I pursued employment in any area I was slightly skilled or interested in. I had always been fascinated by fashion and am a decent writer, so when I saw an ad on Craigslist looking for a columnist for an online fashion magazine, I immediately responded. I submitted a few ideas for a column to an unnamed person via email, and the next thing I knew I was having coffee with a very young, very ambitious, very good-looking and very easily distracted man. Three double espressos later (on his part that is), I had tickets to every fashion show in town and he had a more solid business plan. We were the most perfect networking team to ever grace the tents of Chicago fashion, and we agreed that upon launch I would serve as editor. I decided my editorial column would be called "Art in Real Life." However, while visions of being the next Anna Wintour flitted through my head, apparently visions of a more parliamentary nature flitted through his. Thus our magazine, though conceived with passion, was never born due to politics. He ran for office and won, and fashion lost a good man.
Two years later, I am back in an odd paradox I call Houston, still looking for art in real life, and still realizing that no matter where I am, or what my circumstances are, art is always there for the observation and inhalation. To be an artist is to see. Ancient poets were called Seers. And because I was raised by a woman who lived through the Great Depression, I hate waste, and I am starting this blog to prevent waste and provide a home for the little unborn column. I figure anything with a name deserves a few moments of breath. So for what it's worth....
