Monthly Archives

November 2015

Lifestyle

Grateful for…

Grateful…

For blue skies

For the sun that makes our days just a little bit brighter

For driving…with the windows down on sunny days, listening to blaring music – while the hair on our heads dance in the blowing wind for us as we remain stationary in our seats

For music and having no fear of reaching “maximum volume”

For the friends that share in these California drives with us, and the adventures that come about from them

For the New York subway system – simply because of those who dance on the train and shamelessly make the platforms their stages

For the opportunity to travel the world

For home

For airports and the big, welcoming signs within them, held by the hands of loved ones that jump up and down and run to us from across the terminal before we hug them with all our might

For old friends and new friends – the ones that were born into our lives from the start, and the ones that come up out of nowhere, like sparks that jump out of a fire pit at random at a bonfire on the beach

For the beach – the vivacious crashing of the blue waves and the sand that collects between our toes

For the sweetness of maple syrup that seeps between our fingers, making our hands stick together like paws

For s’mores and ice cream and cake and sprinkles on everything, and for indulgence

For the warm cups of coffee in the morning that steam in our faces and pair perfectly with yesterday’s leftover chocolate-chip cookies that we nibble on – and for the crumbs that spill all over the sheets

For the yearning eyes that beg for a bite that belong to the faces of our furry four-legged friends

For clouds that force us to be cozy

For waking up in the morning

For late night conversations about television and music and art and love that unravel into morning

For love

For heartbreaks that make the experience of love somewhat worthwhile

For hopelessly hopeful romantics that believe in love as their religion

For romantic comedies – and all comedies for that matter

For age-old tradition and for breaking tradition, and for collecting its broken pieces to craft new rituals and beliefs that open new doors for generations to come

For youth and for its fresh voices – and for past generations whose voices will echo eternally

For calling “wrinkles” “laughter lines”

For growing up but never growing old

For making mistakes and learning from them – and laughing at them, and then making new ones again

For laughter

For our flaws and imperfections and for celebrating them with pride

For presents and gifts wrapped in glistening metallic wrapping, with bows the size of our faces stuck on top of their boxes

For family and loved ones and seeing them smile

For champagne and flying corks that weave through streaming rainbow confetti

For birthdays and anniversaries and New Year’s Eves

For wanting to believe in magic

For butterflies – the thousands in the sky and the millions in our stomachs

For the experiences that hurt us so deeply and push us to the ground that give us no choice but to get up and move forward in the direction of progress and eventual triumph

For victory and for loss – and for the distinction between the two that we think exists

For the rain that trickles and then pours from the depths of the sky, that quietly tap our windowpanes, drench our clothes, and drown our inhibitions

For tears

For the little things that turn out to be big things

For weekends, and knowing that Monday is only temporary

For the chance at an education that makes us question why we ever wanted to become a doctor or a lawyer in the first place

For those brave enough to dream of being astronauts and olympians when they grow up

For time

For strangers that surprise us with delight – momentarily or for a lifetime

For eyes that capture a world’s worth

For the promise of a new day and a fresh start

For vibrant sunsets that radiate hope for tomorrow, with shades of blazing red, crimson orange, glowing violet, and electric blue that all bleed into one another and glare before us

And for our beating hearts of the same warm hue, that keep us alive and enable us to helplessly gaze at many more sunsets to come.

Fashion & Style

An Angeleno Autumn

It’s the middle of November – the peak of autumn, if you will: leaves turn to warm tones that dangle off branches, temperatures dip, and Starbucks’ red cups embellish the landscape of the city. Time to whip out our oversized scarves and wool sweaters to brave the chill of anything sub sixty in New York.

Meanwhile, I’m packing for my trip to the West Coast for Thanksgiving – with a suitcase full of cotton t-shirts, shorts, and ankle socks.

Something seems to be off here…

Next thing you know, I’m back home in LA, reunited with the rows and rows of palm trees that are as inescapable as they are comforting – and things are looking and feeling almost exactly as they did the last time I was here in July. The temperature hasn’t changed much, and neither have our wardrobes. The only sign of seasons turning are in Barney’s window displays and E.P. & L.P.’s recent menu changes “in accordance with the cooler temperatures,” as my waitress put it.

And as I was sitting there last night over dinner, in my (unnecessary) denim jacket, hearing about the “autumnal specials” in seventy-degree weather, it dawned on me: our seasonal weather changes here in La La Land are just as comical and monotonous as the city’s nickname.

But maybe these so-called “seasons” are characteristic to what we love about each coast: the constant flux of temperatures and nature in the east, versus the sunny sameness in the west, where daylight savings, autumnal menus, and window displays are the only marks of the seasons changing.

Perhaps my New Yorkers out there take pride in autumn as an opportunity to display their double-breasted pea coats and leather gloves, while on this side of the country, in the City of Angels, we celebrate consistency, as our halos and wings take form in basic white t’s and denim shorts – always.

And while I can’t wait to make the trip back to the Big Apple to see what cashmere creations take the streets, I’m taking this moment to bask in LA’s own version of autumn, with sun and blue skies galore.

So to all my Angelenos, throw some ice in that pumpkin spice. Time to gear up for fall: go out and buy your tank tops, flip flops, t-shirts, and shorts. But don’t worry; feel free to splurge…because I’m sure we’ll all end up wearing the same pieces for each “season” here to follow.

In short, let’s make of this time of year what we will, regardless of where we are. Forecasts and outfits aside, perhaps autumn is more so just a state of mind than it is a mark of temperatures (and wardrobes) changing, necessarily – ultimately just a time to reset and refresh for us all.

Current Events

Vive L’Amour | A Piece for Paris

I have no claim to the city of Paris, other than my profound love for it. After my four months studying abroad there last year, my meager knowledge of the French language and customs was not the core take-away of my experience. The romance that always lit up the city resonated with me the most; and while I still can’t understand French, the Parisians’ undying faith in the power of love and light spoke volumes to me.

Sadly, the City of Love – and light, and faith – as I have come to know it, was met with hatred this past weekend. Acts of terror and cruelty engulfed the city and strived to dim the unconditional light that is so characteristic of the Parisians and their culture. While some time has passed since the event occurred, the news still seems fresh and keeps echoing in my mind.

Last night, I met my friend Julie at Aria Wine Bar in the West Village for an early Sunday night dinner. She was running late because of traffic. Waiting outside for Julie to arrive so we could be seated, I sat on the wooden bench on the sidewalk with my back to the restaurant, facing a row of lit up trees, with strings of tiny light bulbs woven around their trunks and branches.

I was hunching forward as I sat there, holding my phone and scrolling through Facebook. My normally eclectic, whitewashed Timeline glared the colors of the French flag. As I continued to scroll, my feed was overtaken by a collective sea of red, white, and blue.

Almost all of my friends filtered their profile pictures identically with the colors of the flag to show their support for Paris, along with numerous posts of peace signs and blocks of black and white text that read “#PrayForParis.” Regardless of their locations, backgrounds, or beliefs, my friends on Facebook set aside their differences and united to show their respect for this unexpected tragedy that has shaken the globe.

As I continued to scroll through Facebook, liking each post and update, I felt the woman sitting next to me on the bench watching my hands. I initially thought she was bored waiting for her table at the restaurant and decided to entertain herself by looking at my phone. But then I saw her growing closer and closer. I’m not sure if it was the stillness of her body or her focus on my hands, but I inexplicably sensed an unusual heaviness in this woman’s presence. I stopped scrolling, glanced beside me over my shoulder at her, and casually smiled, just to see who she was and what about my phone seemed to interest her. She was older than me, seemingly in her early 60’s. She was wearing dark blue jeans, a grey coat, a long necklace with a silver cross on it, and a black chiffon scarf tied elegantly around her neck.

The red, white, and blue glare from my screen faintly lit her face, illuminating the tears that were collecting at the edges of her eyes, waiting to fall. My smile wilted, and I froze. When I made eye contact with her, I seemed to catch her off guard. I didn’t mean to alarm her, but it seemed as though I did, interrupting her meditative silence and reflection. When she saw that I noticed her watching closely, she uttered a heartfelt, “pardon me, sir. Excuse me, I didn’t mean to stare.” “No worries,” I kindly reassured her, and kept scrolling through Facebook. A moment later, she got slightly closer: “Merci. I mean, thank you,” she muttered helplessly, acknowledging the supportive posts on my phone, in a faint French accent. When I heard her speak French, my heart stopped.

I looked at her curiously, and I could tell she noticed my surprise at her utterance. In this momentary silence, the tears that were bundling at her eyes slowly streamed down her cheeks, rosy from the chill of the night.

I remember her words vividly: “I’m sorry to disturb you. I am from Paris. I arrived to New York last week with my family for my niece’s wedding. It is so wonderful seeing so much support for what has happened. Please don’t mind me, my apologies.”

Before she continued her words, she had to stop to catch her tears. I let her be for a moment, and tried to console her just by sitting there silently with her: “We are stunned,” she said. “I don’t understand shootings like this. Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. Why attack it?”

I nodded in agreement.

“What does that say? On your screen?” she asked.

It says, “Pray for Paris,” I answered.

She smiled, shaking her head from side to side.

“That is beautiful. But we must pray for the world, not just Paris,” she said.

Again, I nodded in agreement.

We began to chat. I asked her if her niece’s wedding was called off, how her family has been coping with the incident, and if all of their loved ones are safe. She answered with reassurance that everyone she knows is well and alive, but that her heart goes out to the victims and their families that weren’t as fortunate.

She expressed that the wedding happened before the shootings, just the night before the news broke loose. She then continued to explain that even if the wedding were scheduled to take place after the shootings happened, if it were up to her, she wouldn’t have cancelled. She would have still held the wedding, even in sight of the horror that occurred: “Paris celebrates love,” she said. “We can’t let go of that, even in the face of terrorists,” she said.

As she proclaimed, while we must pray for the clashing of cultures that surrounds us, we must also stand our ground and defend our beliefs. Her resilience stunned me. For a mere five minutes, we shared stories of her life in Paris and my brief experience studying abroad. We discussed the city’s sights, landmarks, attractions, and the undeniable romance that lies at its core. The host came out from the restaurant and gestured to the lady and her husband, who was waiting across the street, smoking a cigarette, that their table was ready.

“Vive la France. Vive l’amour,” she whispered to me, with a poignant smile, as she got up to walk away into the restaurant.

(“Long live France. Long live love.”)

When she got up and left, my despair was met with an overwhelming sense of gratitude to have met her, and to be alive. I suddenly felt as if the glare on my phone acted as a light that represented support and resilience – as if the lit-up trees on Perry Street were paying homage to the Champs-Elysées and, of course, la Tour Eiffel, Paris’ luminous beacon of pride and hope.

She affirmed that when we “Pray for Paris,” we are also praying in the name of love and light. We are praying for the world – as what happened in Paris represents a microcosm of the tragedies that happen all around the globe.

Although I wish it didn’t take a massacre to bring this truth to light, it seems that the ideals of love, support, unity, and respect for one another transcend any language barrier or cultural division, acting as an equalizing force amongst us all. Because there we were: a French Christian woman sitting with a Persian Jewish man, both seeing eye to eye, conversing in agreement about the influence of universal understanding and compassion.

And as the lady sitting there reminded me, Paris is the City of Love, not hate – a place as romantic as it is resilient. And if this proves to be the case, perhaps the simple power of love is stronger than we thought.

“Vive l’amour,” indeed.

Aria Wine Bar: 117 Perry St, New York, NY 10014

Sights

Hello Bluetiful

The word “blue” is conventionally associated with sadness and despair. Feeling blue is feeling down, as many people put it. For some reason that I can’t seem to put my finger on, blue is the depressed, despondent member of the color family, the outcast that all of the other colors, like vibrant yellow and blazing red, seem to feel sorry for. Blue is the one with the sad reputation, as though it seems.

On my walk home, I strayed from my usual route through the West Village, past Bleecker and Hudson Street, and decided to explore the Meatpacking District. I’ve always been enamored by this area: a strip of dazzling land that hangs out on its own part of the island. As mundane as it is magical, this district has often served as a portal into the night for me. Today though, I saw the area in a different light – literally. The vivid reflections of nightclub marquee lights in puddles of rain and spilled beer were replaced by sunlit cobblestone and clear glass store windows. As I continued my walk, curiously aware of my surroundings (as I always am), I stopped in my steps, as I was face-to-face with this bright blue door, framed by warm bricks and dangling ivy – an image so charming, so beautifully blue, I had to stop my walk to take it in.

If I found something as ordinary as a door, a blue door nonetheless, pleasant to look at and even enchanting, why is blue tainted with our perceptions of the color as sad and down? Perhaps, the norms and clichés woven into the fabric of conventionality as we know it blind us from seeing and experiencing the true essences of different things and beings. Sometimes, the most beautiful things are blue, like closed doors waiting to be unlocked, opened, and walked through.

8 Little West 12th Street, New York, NY 10014

Fashion & Style

New Denim

We all own a pair of jeans:

Our work jeans, our Sunday jeans, our Boyfriend jeans, our date night jeans, our fat jeans, our skinny jeans, our ripped jeans, our faded jeans, and the list keeps on going, just like the fabric continues to sustain its relevance in our daily lives.

We all have our favorite pair of jeans too. I know I do. Or, I did, at least.

They were light blue, not quite worn out, but worn in. They were loose enough to look effortless but fitted enough to make me feel chic. Short enough to roll up at the ankle for a casual look, but long enough to make 5”8 (and a quarter) feel just a tad bit taller.

But over time, denim fades, seams rip, and stitches unravel – just as the fabrics of our lives naturally do.

With each kneel on one knee to tie my shoes, through each sprint through Washington Square Park to make it to class on time, and during each spontaneous dance on the night of Maddy’s 21^st birthday last year, as all of our jeans meshed into one cohesive shade under the neon lights of Bowery Electric, my jeans were there with me – kneeling, running, dancing. And with each experience, the charmingly deliberate, small rip on the right knee expanded, until the rip turned into a torn hole. The jeans were no longer wearable and went on to inhabit the dim back corner of my closet.

Yet, one man’s trash – his worn out denim, is another man’s treasure – his canvas and his inspiration.

Bangkok-raised artist Korakrit Arunanondchai held his first solo museum exhibition at the MOMA in Los Angeles, entitled 2012 – 2555, named for the year in which it was produced, (2555 is the year 2012 on the Buddhist calendar). The collection showcases footage of the artist revisiting his previous artistic achievements, and documents his grandparents as they transform the family garden into their elderly home. In essence, the exhibition explores the cyclical nature of life and memory.

The collection’s centerpiece is, you guessed it, denim. Arunanondchai correlates the rise of denim culture with the appropriation of Western culture, which impacted the realms of fashion and art. Denim not only inspired Arunanondchai, but the fabric also served as the canvas for his artwork, as each pair of jeans that he utilized were intentionally torn, faded, and splattered with paint. Ironically, their vibrantly distressed appearances breathe new life into the conventional fabric, transforming each pair of jeans from an American fashion staple into a commentary on cultural and artistic immersion.

As my former favorite jeans faded from my wardrobe, torn and ragged with memory, a new form of the fabric made its way into my closet. While my new pair of laced denim shoes that reach right below the ankle is neither fashionably revolutionary nor socially groundbreaking, they represent a fresh sense of modernity – similar to the way in which Arunanondchai’s art does. Cole Haan’s new denim shoes, finished with leather trimming and with wooden soles, are ultimately a re-appropriation of the standard material as we know it. The American brand translated a representation of the “classic” into a contemporary context that we wear in a new way.

It seems the beauty of fashion, clothing, and accessories transcends the mere appeal of looks. The things we wear, the pieces we come to know and cherish over time, can be reinterpreted and modified – in visual appearance, contextual meaning, and social significance – in the MOMA, or even in our personal museums that we rummage through daily called our closets. In response, we continue to step (quite literally) forward in the direction of novelty – in fashion, in art, and in our every days. Whether torn, faded, or dripping with paint, styles shift and trends change in the same way that the natures of our lives do. But as we toss out our old jeans, we make room for new denim in fresh forms that hold the promise of new rips and new memories.

Shoes by Cole Haan

Exhibition photograph courtesy of www.moma.org

Sights

Keep Your Head Up And Look Down

I know, I know, as the saying goes, “keep your head up!” I get it. I get the intent behind that loaded statement of encouragement and promise: keep your head up. Your mood up. Your hopes up. And all will be ok. I’m a believer in keeping your head up and facing in the direction of positivity and, well, onward-and-upward-ness. I am an undying optimist and live wholeheartedly with this phrase and for this phrase. “Keep your head up!”

But we’d all be lying if we said we don’t get knocked down from time to time. Because sometimes, life happens. Sometimes, the upward direction of our heads are forced downward. Sometimes, by the weight of our Mondays, our heartbreaks, our past-due assignments that we forget to submit, the “no’s” we encounter when we want to hear “yes,” and the gravity of reality, we inevitably look down because our necks can’t seem to hold themselves up any longer. And I know, trust me, I know. We’re told to get up off the floor when we’re knocked down: “Get back on the horse when you fall off,” as the saying goes. I’ve heard it countless times. But in this sea of clichés and inspiring bumper stickers that we’re surrounded by on a daily basis, that we sometimes drown in, we find ourselves restricted and limited – or at least I do, to the possibility of an alternate point of view. Whether it’s a grey day in the city or a walk to a class that I’m not looking forward to, sometimes I can be put down by the smallest, most insignificant things that, unfortunately, impact me kind of significantly. I guess that’s just the reality of things.

But maybe there is a beauty within this reality, a potential and promise for optimism and change at the core of our daily moments of adversity…? Perhaps the important act isn’t tilting our heads back up, but keeping our eyes and our hearts open when our heads are down. Sometimes, we stumble upon and (quite literally) walk right on by a subtle sign or sight that has the potential and the power to change our outlooks on our days and our experiences. And from what I’ve noticed when my head has been down, these catalysts of change aren’t always the most obvious or explicit. Sometimes, the little things that shock our hearts and our minds for the better are scribbled in chalk or hastily spray-painted on the ground right below the soles of our feet.

Sometimes, having our heads down for a moment at times when we can’t keep them up is an opportunity in disguise for spiritual refuel, if you will – as long as we stay present and aware, and keep our eyes open in the meantime for the hints of color that lie between the cracks of the grey.