When So-Called Art Imitates Parody

Compare the homeless to yourself and your life. What do they have--apart from their freedom, sleeping under the stars, not doing much of anything, a life-long enforced reduced calorie diet plan--that you don't?

A sense of style that's what. Think of the wonderful accessories you'll never have...well not unless you decide to rid yourself of all the things that bog you down, of course--your home, family, car, money, heating in winter, clothes that coordinate. Think instead of the amazing sense of style of a trash bag as a garment, the bohemian deliciousness of living in a cardboard box, the casual chic of a shopping cart to hold all your aluminum cans and the occasional feral cat or raccoon. Aaaah....I smell...fashion. Ummm no....that's just the really bad body odor and the feral animal...or both. Never mind!

If you thought Derelicte was only a dreamed up bit of funny in the movie Zoolander, think again. Never let it be said that high-end designers are out of touch with reality. Perhaps they're making size 00 and size 0 dresses because that's the only size the homeless tend to be underneath the bulk of the oh-so practical yet chic layers of newspaper, shredded sweaters, and large, shapeless jackets. They're hiding their fierce bodies. Work it ladies n'gents!

For there is a designer who is paying true homage to homelessness...by creating a collection based on...you guessed it homeless people. I find myself humbled and inspired by Dame Vivienne Westwood's new autumn-winter collection at Milan. This is the press release from Milan Fashion Week: "Perhaps the oddest of heroes to emerge this season, Vivienne Westwood found inspiration in the roving vagrant whose daily get-up is a battle gear for the harsh weather conditions...Quilted bombers and snug hoodies also well well in keeping the vagrant warm."

That is, of course, if the vagrant can afford thousands of Euros for one of her jackets.

What is scarier still is if you compare this statement to the one issued by the evil Mugatu (who recruits male models for political assassinations) in Zoolander: "Let me show you Derelicte. It is a fashion, a way of life inspired by the homeless, the vagrants, the crack whores that make this wonderful city so unique."

If there is one thing the homeless love more than hot coffee, an occasional meal, shelter, and some warm clothes in winter it's being an inspiration to pampered, rich folk. It's humbling for them I'm sure. Aaah...the homeless!

Of homelessness itself, Westwood had this to say: "The nearest I have come to it is
going home and finding I don't have my door key...I mean, what a disaster that is, dying to get in your house and you can't."

What a disaster indeed. What if you had to pee or need a lie-down on your 10,000 thread-count sheets? I can't bear to think of it. The horror, the tragedy. And they say charity and empathy are dead. Vivienne Westwood you bring a tear...yes at least one tear to my eye.

Here is a quote from the Times Online story on the show: "Some carried bedrolls. Another emerged from his cardboard box with a sleeping bag, slung it around his neck and quickly walked away.

Several hundred fashion experts burst into rapturous applause as the cameras flashed. Dame Vivienne Westwood was presenting a menswear show at Museo della Permanente, Milan, last night in which the models were supposed to look like rough-sleepers. Read the whole story here.

And when you do, ponder how unlucky you are...to be sitting in a warm room, in front of a computer, perhaps with a lovely cup of fragrant tea or a steaming mug of coffee, with your family around you. Life sucks if you aren't sleeping in a cold alley...mainly because your jammies aren't stylish unlike the vagrant's mis-matched, layered fashions. It's just not fair, is it? Thank you Muga....ummm...Vivienne Westwood.

Now I must go practice my blue steel look...and perhaps even the magnum! Keep your fingers crossed for me. Maybe I'll go out and observe a few homeless people tonight. It's cold though...they're probably huddled under newspapers in an alley somewhere. Damn!

I tried to find the actual Derelicte fashion show clip but here's another one from Zoolander. Note Mugatu's trash bag cravat...and the Derelicte sign on the runway. Enjoy!

Of Winds and Poets and Me

I have a confession. I wasn't always in love with Lord Byron. There was a time, brief though it was, when another poet ruled my heart and still comes a close second to Byron. Initially, there was something repulsive about Byron, what with his debauchery, his lusty affairs...the incest. All the things that would later make him fascinating were a bit much for a child. Okay, maybe I was still fascinating but in an icky way. I needed to be a little older (13? 14?) to swoon for Byron's dark moodiness.

But my first dead poetic crush was someone close to Byron, their lives intertwined. Yes, Shelley. I know, I know. He was a bit icky (open marriage anyone?) too but he did have that delicious renegade quality, the romance of the exile, the tangled life...and all by the time he was 26 when he drowned. Most tragic!

A few weeks ago the Bise was whipping around Geneva, pushing me from the back as I walked, tangling my hair into a bird's nest around me. And it started me thinking of all things wind-related.

How the wind becomes part of our literary selves? How we ascribe certain attributes to the winds we experience.

In my childhood in India, there was the loo (no...not a toilet). The loo is a hot, dry wind that blows during the height of summer in the Indo-Gangetic Plains. Rather than doubling my efforts, here is how I describe the loo in my novel The Burden of Foreknowledge (2007).

"When the loo blows, it brings with it the heat of the desert and its gritty sand, driving people indoors for refuge. I go out to feed our cows and it slithers up my nostrils until I choke. I gasp for breath trying to suck in the thin, super-heated air. It is as if a fiery serpent is trying to make its home inside me.

Just as I think I cannot bear it any more, I stumble back inside. The wind haunts us for days, whistling and whining like an angry, vengeful ghost. If I venture outside I wind a wet cloth around my head...."

But it was also the loo that made watermelons and melons ripen to perfect sweetness, as the dryness sucked out the excess water and concentrated the sugars. It makes Indian mangoes into the almost mythical fruit that they are.

In Switzerland, I encoutered the Bise, French for "a light kiss." Let me tell you, there is nothing light about it. It should be French for a "kick in the ass." It is fierce, is generally dry and attacks us from northern climes. The only upside is that it is accompanies blue, clear skies. It creates beautiful days but, as the loo can kill a human being through almost instant dehydration (within hours, even minutes), the Bise acts on the nervous system. How I don't know. It sounds pleasant but I need to research it some more.

Victor Hugo wrote a poem, Le Bise about it.
"Le bise le bruit d'un geant qui soupire;
La fenetre palpite et la port respire;
Le vent d'hiver glapit sous les tuile des toits;
Le feu fait a mon atre une pale dorure;

Le trou de ma serrure
Me souffle sur les doigts."

(Bad translation but here goes:
The Bise is a brutish giant who sighs
The window flutters and the harbor breathes
The winter wind yelps under the roof tiles
The fire has been guilding my atre (??) blade.

Through the hole of the lock
I feel the wind's breath on my fingers)



That's me 'enjoying' a windy evening by the lake. Freezing! Note the hair whipping around, the scrunched eyes, and the frantic waves on our usually calm lake.

We are also lucky(?) in Switzerland to sometimes be treated to the Mistral, arguably the wind with the most beautiful name. Isn't it a lovely name for a girl? The Mistral too is strong, cold and usually dry and passes through the Rhone valleys. It can cause Mediterranean storms. In the Provencal Christmas crib there is usually always a shepherd who holds his hat, his cloak billowing around him because of the Mistral. Sadly, but appropriately, a French missile has been named Mistral.

Interesting isn't it, that we are rarely moved by gentle breezes. Winds are elemental. They create weather systems and born because of them. They have well-worn paths and we can trace the seasons through the winds that are part of our lives.

And, why was it, when I lived in the land of the hot loo, when we looked forward to winter for relief from summer, that the one poem I loved was about a wind. Yes, for it was his lovely Ode to the West Wing that made me fall in love with Shelley. It's a little bit dark, even macabre, it's fanciful, it talks about the power of the wind, its twin roles as destroyer and preserver, and touches on the circle of seasons and that of life. It leaves the reader with hope. Here it is:

Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1803-1882)

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Still Life on the Street

Okay, so it was technically not a still life. It was more of a mural really but let's not get caught up in the details. As you might (or might not have) noticed I took a blogging vacation, or a vacation from blogging, and now I'm back, sort of, kind of. Still in a funk but I think I'm emerging. And so there I was on Rue du Rhone, near Confederation and there he sat as the world went around him and by him. Unperturbed and focused, still within the hubbub.



The artist, sitting on the sidewalk, transforming it. On a hot day when the asphalt was burning to the touch, shimmering in the sun, he sat in a verdant meadow full of wildflowers and placid cows and weird woodland creatures. Spectators stood on the sides of the taped off sidewalk-canvas. A tram went by, then two. Shoppers passed him by, shoppers from everywhere. Loose-jawed American accents mingled with languages others didn't understand. Arabic, Tamil, Hindi, French, Italian, and German simmered together under the sun.



And the artist never looked up, even when someone dropped coins, plink by plink, into his metal bowl. Not even when the soft rustle of paper bills joined the coins. He painstakingly painted a white flower, then added some more blades of grass, added a spray of pink flowers to a tree.



The world goes on as it does. The one who creates...does.

Beam me up...Serge!

Trekkie 1: Do you feel weird Pierre?

Trekkie 2: Like someone is looking at us? Maybe taking pictures with those quaint little 21st century cameras?

Both laugh heartily.

Together: These poor, primitive shoppers.

Trekkie 1 (presses his communicator): The perimeter is secure captain. All shopping at H&M and Etam continuing as needed.

Trekkie 2: Now it's time for coffee and croissant...Damnit Jean, I may be a starship officer but I am still a Frenchman, non?

Trekkie 1: Absolutement.

*There is no reason for these poor security guards in the French mall (Moillesulaz, Annemasse area) to be dressed like low-rent ship personnel from the Starship Enterprise (the original).

Two cities, four phones, and a thief

Now anyone who knows me knows I am no fan of Boston. Okay, maybe as a tourist but our three years there we complained. A lot. And we love Geneva. Okay, maybe not as much as our beloved California (that's a story for another post). But something happened yesterday that positively made me yearn for Boston. Weird, huh?

First the backstory: In Boston a certain someone in our family lost his phone. Twice. Once in the not so great neighborhood of Hyde Park and once near the Brookline Theater, more upscale area but still in Boston, a large city, with a sporadically rough reputation and a not unimpressive crime rate. Each time the person who found the phone scrolled through, found the number marked Home, called us and told us they had our phone. Then they stayed with the phone until we went over and picked it up.

Then there is Geneva. When we first moved here, my niece had her phone swiped. A nice new Razr. It disappeared from some kebab restaurant. That's all we know. No one called. No one let us know.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend at the Brasserie Lipp. Nice place, right? I went to the restroom. My phone rang and I just took it out of my bag to stop it ringing and yes, I admit it, I put it on the little sanitary receptacle box in the stall. Came out, washed my hands (yes, I actually did :-), walked out the door. There were other women waiting to use the two stalls. All upscale Geneva types with VL bags, Hermes scarves and hoity toity expressions.

I walked out the door and within five feet of it, fumbled for my phone, remembered where I had last seen in, ran back to the bathroom stall. No. Ah, okay, someone must have turned it in. Talked to the staff. Left my home phone number and name in case someone turned it in. No one had turned it in. I came home and called back an hour or two later. Ample time for someone to have turned it in. Nope.

So this is what I learned. Apparently, for certain people in our fair city, it doesn't matter if you're drenched in expensive designer clothes, at heart some people are just thieves. And this is for that one thief in particular. Shame on you!

Really, if I walked in found a phone what would I do? Turn it in. There is no question. Which person walks in and goes, cool, Lipp is now rewarding its customers by giving us all Samsung flip phones in the restrooms? Shame. On. You.

Now beneath my cynical exterior does dwell an optimist of sorts. I can't believe someone would steal. Period! So I am going to call the restaurant again and see if someone turned it in but I fear that is just my naivete talking.

One more thing, thief (who I know will never read this blog), the phone you switched off as soon as you swiped it (and perhaps even saw me frantically return to the restaurant and search for my phone. what were you eating, btw?)...well, once you switch it off and then switch it back on, you need a PIN. That's right. You get three chances to get it right before the phone locks up. Have fun!

Loser!

So anyone who needs to contact me or has been trying to call. Please call me at home or email. I don't have a cell phone for the moment.

Surprising people: La Italia II

I am an avowed cynic, always looking at life, events and people with a slightly (okay, more than slightly) jaundiced eye. But happily despite my Scroogish side, people manage to surprise me.

On the way back from Naples and before flying out the next morning, we decided to head out to the Trevi fountain in Rome and also get some dinner. We got off the metro and couldn't remember how to get to the fountain.

It was Christmas Eve and sort of deserted. A rather prosperous looking older gentleman and his wife (girlfriend)who was in furs and diamonds, walked out of a pharmacy.

Nope, he didn't speak any English but his wife did...just a bit.

Trevi fountain?

He pointed.

We tried crossing the road, not remembering insane Roman drivers, where the car is king. We survived. They observed. We began to wait by the cross-walk.

"Senora, come, we drop you."

Really? OMG. Now I am used to poorer people being helpful in places but this guy with his cashmere coat, silk tie and his wife twinkling with gems and resplendent in fur, opening the door to his large, late-model Jaguar...he was giving us a ride?

He took us right to the fountain, then pointed it out with a smile. We wished them Buone Natale (I said that with a question mark at the end. "Close enough", the lady laughed) and Happy New Year, shook their hands, and thanked them profusely.

How's that for for some Christmas spirit huh?


I threw another coin in the fountain. Rome despite its aggravations and problems is growing on me. And on December 24th it showed me its heart...and won me over as even the Colesseum could not.

Viva Roma!

Cultural differences

Strange isn't it how culture affects even the smallest things? Last year, during thanksgiving we spent a few days in Greece. There was a cab driver who was so happy we were from India because he loved old Indian movies. "Nargis," he said was a "beautiful, beautiful woman," as he kissed his fingers in appreciation. And then he said, "she wear olive on forehead. Very nice."

An olive? Ah, a bindi. A cultural approximation of something familiar (not surprising for a country where olives and olive trees are everywhere) with something foreign...an actress with a bindi on her forehead.

And I remembered that years ago, an American asked me about the bindi (one of my fave questions along with arranged marriage and bride burning..Arrrghhhh). "Why do they have something that looks like someone shot them in the foreheard?"

Ba Ba Mouton Noir!!!

You know it's bad when Germany and Britain call you the dark heart of Europe. Oucch!

Ooh la la...here's yet another reminder that all is not as it seems...even in a land as perfect as a painting with its history of neutrality (mmm...Nazi money anyone?), fresh air (oh those fascinating consumptives and their quest for Swiss air) and chocolates (okay, they're holy, let's not go there).

Yes, this is the poster for the Swiss People's Party...and no it's not a kids cartoon. Those are three white sheep atop the Swiss flag kicking a black sheep (Baaaa!) across the border. Now some say that this poster alluded to kicking out foreign-national criminals from La Suisse.

But others see it as racist. I ask you...why couldn't that sheep have on a beret and a striped T-shirt? Or wearing clogs? Perhaps showing a row of bad British teeth? Eating a bowl of pasta?

Non!! Mon Dieu! It's a black sheep so yes, I must come down on the side of those who call it racist.

The funny thing is I've driven past this poster a few times and thought it was advertizing something for kids. It was not until the controvorsy broke that the old lightbulb went off in my head.

Not that I am shocked. Few things shock me these days.

And, oh btw, that is one agile sheep...do you see its two hind legs kicking out in tandem. That is the Jackie Chan....errrr...(wrong color)....William Tell of sheep. Except then he'd be shooting an arrow at the apple on top of the sheep's head. Never mind!

I need to brush up on my Swiss references. It's either William Tell or Heidi. And we all know what Heidi would do....milk the damn sheep...drink the frothy, warm milk (Yechhh!), make some cheese and then kick the sheep over the border. Oh man!

P.S. For all those who asked. I am fine though I have a slight whiplash (a bit like being a little bit pregnant) but I now drive like an old lady and those darned Swiss bicycles just swoosh past me. But I don't care. They can't kick me...I am in my tank-like car.

Soft and Gentle

We have spectacular thunderstorms here. The mountains echo with the claps of thunder, magniying the sound until it bounces from one to the other. Lightning shines in flashes. That was at night and early morning.

Now it's raining, softly, gently. And I can hear the sway of the trees and see the grey of the dense clouds as they cap the valley. From here to infinity. To eternity.

Coins in the Fountain

The last time I visited Rome was seven years ago when we live in Connecticut. At 11 am on a Friday, I returned from the dentist and B said, "hey, let's have lunch in Rome tomorrow."

I threw in some clothes in a bag and with two other friends of ours we drove like bats out of hell (only the bats are slower) to T.F. Green (about an hour's drive which we made in like 40 minutes) and went to Rome for the weekend.

It was strangely surreal. We were tired and jetlagged and lost track of time. Our friend, M, said, "hey, remember the day we arrived?" We were like, "uh, you mean this morning?"

It was a wonderful weekend, especially because it was such a rare thing. Some people commended me for putting up with my husband like I was some long-suffering wife. Hello!!! I traveled by myself for months in the Indian Himalayas and backpacked through India with my best friend for three months.

I resented being cast as the dutiful, indulgent wife when I could barely wait to throw my clothes into my bag and take off.

I am thinking of Rome because this past weekend was spent there. This time the flight was just about an hour, there was no jetlag and it was insanely hot (yes, me with my heat intolerance and these summer vacations in hot places. wtf?).

Still....Rome was beautiful. The eternal city, alive and lovely at every turn. Built on the sweat of slaves and the blood of millions, it has a certain weary aura and an undeniable mystique. I prefer Rome to Paris. I think it's a more soulful city...and there was very little dog poop on the streets.

The last time we couldn't visit the Sistine Chapel (this time I spent a lot of time there) or the Trevi fountain (I am not much for customs that consist of me tossing money into water).

But there it was, this amazing, beautiful fountain, gushing water on an evening the air was so still and thick I could swallow the heat. And the spray from the water cooled my face and I dipped my hands and arms in it and for an instant got some respite from the furnace of Rome.

I threw in these coins: half a Swiss franc, a US dime, a 20 cent Euro coin and a 50 paise coin: all my homes (well the Euro is more neighbor but you get the point).

Even though I was back in Rome despite not having thrown a coin in the Trevi the last time, this time I wanted to be sure I would return (not in summer though).

I also wanted to be sure that I would also go back to the other places that hold places of my heart. Places where I have left pieces of my heart.

Arriverderci Roma!

Undead Bread

I love the bread in Europe. At our local boulangerie and patisserie we get freshly baked baguettes. But we can also get fresh bread from the Shell station, any small convenience store. And all of it is wonderful. They put no preservatives, however, so by the next day it's hard as a rock and about as fun to eat. Not that I mind. We've all dreamed of European village life and a freshly-baked baguette is always part of the fantasy, right?

But sometimes I just want some soft, regular sandwich bread. You know the regular kind. The Swiss and the French grocery stores do carry these. And you can tell the disdain in which our humble, sliced sandwich bread is held.

First of all, most of the brands call them toast. There is a difference between bread and toast damnit. Then, as a nod to American portion size, there is one that announces (in a giant starburst): Great Big American Sandwiches. And let me assure the slices are about the size of a thimble, nothing great or big or for that matter American about it.

Now we're back to preservatives. So good quality fresh bread has none. Agreed! But apparently for us sliced bread eaters, they put in a giant dose of the stuff. You know we have no appreciation for anything good so we probably love eating some chemicals with our bread. We are American after all.

I have this loaf in my cabinet. I think I bought it 4 weeks ago. There is no fungus, nothing sprouting, it's still soft and white and flawless looking...if you put rubber and flawless in the same sentence that is. But I digress!

I mean really...bread in the US would last maybe a week without some grey/green life emerging on it. But this stuff...it's the dracula of bread. I think it'll stay the way it is for a couple of months. Yechh!

All Hail the Undead Bread