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Oscar De La Renta, Dominican Fashion Designer, Dies at 82

Like both my parents Oscar De la Renta (1934-2014) was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.  Like my father, he was a dominos aficionado.  He was born, “to a Dominican mother of Spanish descent (particularly Canarian), Carmen María Antonia Fiallo, and a Puerto Rican father, Oscar Avelino de la Renta.”  My mother was Dominican of Spanish descent and her mother was a fashion designer.  My grandfather, Rafael Ricart, was a politician, poet, and prominent business man.  His cousin was Octavia Ricart, wife of Trujillo, the dictator’s, son.  So… I imagine that at some point my grandfather and his woman, Maria Dolores, the fashion designer, may have interacted, socially, with De la Renta’s family.  It may not be true, but when I heard, last night, over dinner with my family, that De la Renta was on the way to the Big House in the Sky, I wept a tear, of sadness that I never met the man.

His story, the excellence of his work as a fashion designer, touch me.  “De la Renta’s heritage mixes Dominican great great grandfather José Ortiz de la Renta was the first constitutional mayor of Ponce, Puerto Rico to be elected by popular vote.” Last year I visited Puerto Rico, for the first time.  We stayed near Fajador, at The Waldorf Astoria Casitas Resort.  It was very luxurious but what really made the trip great was the instant kinship I feel with Dominican Republic’s English speaking, neighbors.  In San Jan,  we visited a museum focused on the stories of the Caribbean people.

De la Renta was a citizen of the world. “At the age of 18, he left the Dominican Republic to study in Spain, where he studied painting at the Academy of San Fernando in Madrid, Spain.” He studied painting!  I understand this step to his total mastery of color and form in fashion.  (Frau Kolb paints!) The study of color informs every outfit I’ve ever put together.  In New York, one may wear mostly black, yet… this is only as a means of entry anywhere and protection from urban grime, a film that covers subway seats and hotel beds… Fashion is for me more than a mere spectator sport.  Ease may spring from an aesthetic approach to living.  Wearing clothing that fit, flatter, and reflect one’s values, distinguishes an individual.  De la Renta, knew that people want clothing that helps them look attractive yet blend in.  He was not the most daring of designers.  De la Renta was at the head of a clothing empire, selling everything from perfumes to masses and evening gowns to the elite.  (In New York City, fashion is an everyday fact.  People may wear layers of black, but the awareness that fabric and cut matter, is profound.  On the streets of New York one may read another’s fabric choices, noticing the leather, the cashmere, the better silk blouses.)  To live in harmony with one’s environment and to add an understanding of color… yes… that might be the ideal fashion state.  What more ready self expression than an owning of color theory and clever implementation of the facts, yielding appealing results; black recedes from the eye… HOT PINK, packs punch!

De la Renta, dressed generations of world-class Fashionistas. Jackie Onasis, first lady of American style, wore his designs.  More recently, we have the image of fashion Icon Sarah Jessica Parker strutting, rocking, making an occasion in one of his fantastic frocks.  Spanish goddess, Penelope Cruz and less attractive Hilary Clinton and most… interestingly… Nancy Regan were among his notable political showpieces.

Oh!  How I love to think of young De la Renta, just after he, “began sketching for leading Spanish fashion houses, which soon led to an apprenticeship with Spain’s most renowned couturier, Cristóbal Balenciaga.” (I love Balenciaga!  The best boots I’ve ever had, bought at Barney’s New York in Beverly Hills, and still in operation and favor, a decade later).  It is said, by the writers of wikipedia, that De la Renta, “considers Cristóbal Balenciaga his mentor.”  Imagine that!  (Those relationships, ever so vital, the people we meet, when we are young, and impressionable, turn out to be… our mentors!) I am beyond ready for an excellent bio-film, in which this pivotal moment in the mega designer’s career is explored.

“Later, de la Renta left Spain to join Antonio del Castillo as a couture assistant at Lanvin in Paris.” Again, I can relate to this aspect of his biography in that I adore Lanvin flats.  I was wearing my favorite golden pair we visited the Eiffel tower.  I wore them with a Missioni dress I treasure one of a couple Missioni dresses, which are my go-to, public wear (easy, never too much, Missioni’s knits fit me.). I wear Lanvin flats, habitually.  I’ve had them in “Gunboat Metallic,” and “black velvet.”  I wear them religiously because flat as they look, they conceal a little (magic) heal, which makes them the most comfortable walking shoes with style, I’ve ever known.

I’d love to be a De la Renta woman, that top-notch Fashion forward, clothing conscious woman that distinguishes herself from all others by the monumental quality of her stunning gowns.  Yet, I’ve not worn many a formal gown. I am a California Beach Mom. For many years, I’ve moved in a world where flip-flops are de rigor  and hair combing is optional.  I can count the number of formal events I’ve attended, in my entire life, in one hand. Fashion for me, is less runway and palace, more Gallery and Museum.  Anything, I wear to the the studio becomes trash.  Yet, I’m a stickler for quality in clothes.  I believe in investing in wear that one can depend on.  I’m a fabric fanatic, forever fascinated with cashmere, silk, and cotton.  The significance of wearing comfortable clothing that looks distinct is not to be dismissed.  Yet, the dream of being a princess attired for the world stage is one that De la Renta’s women brought to life.   De la Renta, in his life, designed the dreams to cloth naked souls and give shape to ambitions larger than Texas.

 

 

 

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Nitespa, Mar Vista, Los Angeles: Book a Royal Blast into Autumn Bliss!

New Friends,

Frau Kolb & DJ Frankenstein in front of three "Rush Hour Grids, For New York," Paintings by Frau Kolb, 2011 on view at Nitespa Mar Vista, now
Frau Kolb & DJ Pink Frankenstein in front of three “Rush Hour Grids, For New York,” Paintings by Frau Kolb, 2011

 

I dressed up as a BLACK BIRD, loosely inspired by the blackbird in the delightful coming-of-age love story, “Moonrise Kingdom,” another great film by Wes Anderson. I was feeling shaken, having had a medical emergency earlier in the week. Fortunately, all were forewarned that I was, “mysterious.” Which made my entrance all the more smooth, that and the super tunes spilling from DJ Frankenstein’s turntable, I could have to arrive on a stretcher to the wonderful party arranged by Julia Martin, and I’m sure it would have not offended the super-cool crowd or  the proprietress of the new Nitespa Loft in Mar Vista, on the West Side of Los Angeles.

Frau Kolb with Anne Barron and Christopher Strimbu photo © Jess Barron, 2014
Frau Kolb with Anne Barron and Christopher Strimbu photo © Jess Barron, 2014

 

Lovely Ms. Martin has successfully established new place for our set to meet, hang our hats, get our nails done, a massage, a facial, a needed Brazilian… all kinds of services to help us recover that coveted baby-fresh and pampered GLOW. Nitespa is a space specifically tailored to those that are looking for a more personal, intimate, fitting refuge from the mundane, the coarse, the ordinary, impersonal spa.

(We all have so much to worry about, with ebola, police brutality, social disparity, the cost of living, the tumbling market, the children’s issues, marital demands of fulfilling obligations you never imaged you might ever be expected to meet, all the while maintaining one’s standard of living, in a world where the competition and the caprices of the ancient goddess, Fortuna, are not without a cruel sense of humor.)

Fortunately, Nitespa has expanded. The new location ROCKS! Some of you remember the dilapidated little beauty shack where we drank wine, communed, and got our nails down in Venice, Beach California. It was very hip and easy access. It was near Abbott Kinney Blvd. I’ve written about the spot before. The NEW LOCATION is a true hideout for those needing serious pampering in an indulgent VIP friendly, luxury loft location, which feels like an upscale home, where BEAUTY is welcome to perch.

You really must experience Ms. Martin’s unique sense of urban hospitality.  She is creating a new way of being beautiful, in a breezy easy, health conscious surge of FUN!  Nothing could be better for you than going to Nitespa, in my book.

WE, Julia Martin and I met years ago, when I tripped into Nitespa Venice for a manicure. I was delighted for the white wine she, so graciously, served and the cute Japanese girls that were creating lovely nail art for Julia’s fortunate cliental, including me! My nails wet, I asked Julia to rummage in my big old patchwork leather bag for my wallet. She was amused to discover a little travel bottle of tequila in there (I still, almost a decade later, have that same little bottle… somewhere in my home). Our pure connection was instantaneous, we felt ONE with each other’s fun loving spirited being!

Over the years our friendship has grown. Other less firmly founded, connections from that fun frenzied Los Angeles period, have faded away. In contrast, I am continuously impressed with J. Martin’s unique sense of urban hospitality. The astounding tenacity and insight of a woman with goals, a family, and a business to run is a wonder to behold and an inspiration for anyone. She managed to keep Nitespa on the map, in Venice, while so many other businesses folded in the high rent, high density area, jammed with trendy restaurants and slick boutiques competing for clients among the cash strapped, the striving, and the few that are flush, alike on the pure force of her personal charm and dedication to providing excellent beauty treatments to extravagant eccentrics and other demanding divas. She managed this feat by being a friend to her neighbors and an active part of the local art and business community.

"42nd Street, Times Sq. Grid," acrylic painting, 24x30", 2011, by Frau Kolb
“42nd Street, Times Sq. Grid,” acrylic painting, 24×30″, 2011, by Frau Kolb

A supporter of artists, including me (notice that four of my paintings are now available for viewing at Nitespa’s beautiful big white walls…) , Julia Martin has earned her place of recognition, trust, and affection in the west coast art community, from San Francisco to San Diego Julia Martin is LOVED and her following grows more staunch, loyal, and determined with each year of her continued success. No wonder that with so many beauty options available in Los Angeles, those in the know, have come to prioritize the ever-soul replenishing treatments offered at her open yet exclusive beauty hide-out and become her frequent VIP guests. Julia’s new Nitespa location is spacious and private with comfortable treatment rooms and a full kitchen available. Her space is a place where we can face ourselves and make time to ponder matters of personal and public significance in a comfortable, yet luxurious, Townhouse loft.

 How do we tune into our selves and find time for all the parts of our being that might otherwise be neglected?

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(I’m so glad I managed to get my act together and appear as Frau Kolb, in full Frau Kolb verbosity, at Julia Martin’s Royal Moonrise, Wes Anderson tribute party, on Saturday Night. Especially because, I was the Guest of Honor!) I’ve NEVER had that happen before.  I’m touched!

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Friendship is the answer. Last week, Frau Kolb had the pleasure and privilege of being honored by the honey eyed-genius, behind the living vision of intimate manicures and memorable massages, Ms. Julia Martin… a unique source of good in the world of Beauty. She is now The West Coast Beauty Muse for Talkinggrid as of last week’s splendid display of magnificence in entertaining a fun-loving group of way-ward intellectuals, part-time revelers, and party crashing troubadours in search of cosmic booty! What a grouping of interesting humans! I even had the pleasure of a powerful art chat, with an informed and active art collector, residing in Santa Monica! (He promised to have us over for dinner that we may enjoy his private art collection. Imagine that! )

 

We had a blast!   The magic number of cool, elegant, educated, chilled-out, party-people, sipping cocktail punches presented with faultless aplomb by the excellent Ms. Martin. For the party she wore a short fur and a stripped dress, a loose interpretation of Margo Tennenbaum’s smeared eye liner, big fur routine,  in Talkinggrid’s favorite movie, by Talkinggrid’s favorite director.

We were hoping Owen Wilson would just magically show UP at the party. I prayed for his super-coolness to just appear, but alas he did not. We did, however, enjoy discovering a lemon juice soaked ONE dollar bill inside a lemon… thanks to magician, who entertained us with the old fashion slight-of-hand the soul craves and somehow, my Post Paris Blues have VANISHED! I am cured!

Thank you, Julia Martin, superlative hostess, proprietress, and vision behind the one-and-only Nite spa, Mar Vista for a more than merely wonderful evening. It was a true pleasure and I can’t wait to come in and have lovely French, Pascal take care of my visage and lovely Christina to paint my nails, like little masterpieces, each one.

Thank you.

 

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Constantine Finehouse’s Sushi Cure for Paris Nostalgia

 

Autumn in San Diego, California, 2014

The sun dips into the sea earlier each setting.  Summer flings are winding down.  A tidy sorrow, fine and knit of tiny mistakes collected over many seasons of living, wraps itself around you… Paris, is a vivid recent memory and you tend to it by reading the history, the canned memories, and the predictable novels set in the twenties, when Hemmingway was a young buck, pushing a pen around with the force of a bayonet.  The reading soothes… yet… longing for those little plastic-wicker chairs outside cafes where people sit and read and people watch… how I miss them!

Frau Kolb is in San Diego, California, gripped by a bad case of Paris Nostalgia.  POST-PARIS BLUES threatens to strangle our pleasure in being here.  How is that?  I mean, Paris… yes… is wonderful.  But, hummingbirds and butterflies are not at home there!  In contrast to the urban wonder of Paris, San Diego is defined by its still unspoiled open spaces and natural beauty.  Blue sky triumphant like a blanket of possibility, stretches across the rusty mountain tops in the distance.  Nature, wild and inviting, canyons and mountains, call out to those that love to hike.  Usually, this bounty of being enthralls me.  Yet, now… I keep thinking of the little bookstores in every neighborhood in Paris, which invite a different kind of bounty, an internal exploration, which I so enjoy.

Thank goodness for a perfectly timed visit from a best friend based in Boston, Massachutes. Constantine Finehouse, concert pianist, multi-lingual, multi-cultural, friend to Frau Kolb, long time supporter of The Talkinggrid, POPS into San Diego TO THE RESCUE!  

 

He brings with him urbane sophistication, offhand knowledge of many subjects, and a self reliant independence that makes him the perfect guest.  His only need is to practice piano.  To this end, he heads out… coming and going like a semi-feral cat.  The prey he brings back from his excursions are telephone pictures of another San Diego.  The San Diego of under used upright pianos in churches and universities… so foreign, and near!

Daily we make our way, to safety, to the familiar port, the secure harbor with a “little help from our friends.”  Whenever we care about another that feeling gives us strength to move forward. Friendships are necessary for mental health. Yet, fitting IN is NOT my strength.  I struggle with normalcy and haven’t experienced it much in my life.  I’ve given up on the normal, because I don’t understand them and I don’t think they have much patience for us either.

Fortunately, we gather “a little help from our friends,” who aid us in getting on with, “the business of life.”  I’m grateful that my most sophisticated and sensitive, Male Muse, a friend for more than a decade of meaningful connection, pianist Constantine Fineshouse, came to visit for a long weekend which helped me transition from being the Parisian Frau, to the well adjusted Southern California Beach Bitch, that some believe to be the real me.

Our conversation flows mostly in English, although we met in an advanced Spanish (grammar) class at Columbia University in New York City.  Although, Constantine’s German is nicht schlect,  we rarely speak in German or Spanish.  We met while were students. Our friendship sprang up immediately and has endured various incarnations. We have matured yet we always allow ourselves a little silly surrender to childish playfulness.  The initial spark, which animated the first part of our friendship, a was a delicate little flame, which lasted only a few weeks, snuffed by a small difference in age and my need to go find the real fire to light the hearth that is my heart, capable of warming my soul, for fifteen years going on forever.  The small spark, however endured and has survived.  Today it is used to maintain the spark of the small torch toward the path of this lasting connection, a trusted and cherished platonic friendship, like a temple built on a solid foundation, which also serves to build up the part of me that needs support and maintenance, which gives me strength to find my little patch of cultivated peace in this ever sunny land. How pleasant!

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The fact is that every city, every location, has its merits and San Diego is a town with many fine qualities, besides its beautiful beaches and picture perfect weather. Finehouse, for example, worked his magic on his smart device, (kept hidden, unless needed for specific purposes, Finehouse is NOT one of those people that is constantly fidgeting with his obscenely smart phone). Reading reviews, he finds the perfect a hole-in-the-wall sushi house, next to a parking lot, in an ugly strip mall that serves sushi so good that a line snakes out their door everyday at lunch time.

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The quality of the mostly raw seafood served, had my Boston based, highly sensitive Male Muse, Mr. Finehouse, drooling…

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San Diego offers dreamy sushi!  You know what else…

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In La Jolla, we visited Cafe La Rue at the Hotel Valencia. I needed a dose of Parisian pleasure, no matter that we are so very far from France, the source… Paris, inspires.   The decor invites comparison with that of a traditional Parisian Bistro or Cafe, it has sweet paintings of Parisian Life, done in 1947, the food is good, hearty, my favorite breakfast they serve is the Toad in a Hole, which is totally delicious, not particularly French, and totally the right kind of comfort food to banish the POST PARIS DOLDRUMS alas the waiters, elegant as they are, speak no French what-so-ever and somehow… here, in Southern California, I am an exotic and strange in my demands for a little sip of sparkling ambrosia, whereas in Paris, everyone seems to understand me, my secret language, my arcane tastes, and hidden expectations.  I settled for a glass of, always pleasing, Vueve Cliquot and a nibble of charcuteri and

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(pasterized… American versions of) French cheeses… all was edible enough, even almost ideal… what is missing is that open ended ease of Parisian Cafe Life.  One is not expected to rush off after a meal, from one thing to the next, in Paris.  In the United States eating is something that simply happens for the most part. It is not taken seriously as a pursuit, a focus.  People often eat in their cars.

Cafe La Rue, at 1132 Prospect Street in La Jolla, California is a far cry from being fast food.  Yet, one is expected to eat, pay, and move along. There is no personal touch, no sense that you matter, that your preferences or presence count.  Even though all the waiters and bartenders there are handsome and friendly enough… The missing ingredient, in American cuisine is TIME.  People here rush from one thing to the next and savoring doesn’t happen in the context of coming and going.  It takes time, conversation, expertly prepared fresh food, and a culture that supports the lingering soul to make meals truly touching like the splendid Lunch for One, I had at Cafe Constant in Paris or the incredible marathon evening at Je Thé… me with Jacky and The Muse and Hartmuth Kolb in Paris, France.

 

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Lunch for ONE, at Café Constant in Paris, France

 


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Merci, Monsieur Claude Reich for the restaurant recommendation.  I waltz into to Cafe Constant with confidence.  I dance in the restaurant at the moment when the corner table becomes FREE!  I take my seat, guided by a divine feeling of fulfillment at having made it to LUNCH.  The table, from which I can see the entire room,  is waiting for me. I am waved into the freshly set table by a pert young man, Garçon.  He pulls the table out for me, appraising me in an instant, slightly bowing, and then nodding, “Bon Jour, Madame!”

I am in heaven.

 

 

Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France
Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France


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IMG_3907Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France

Sometimes we encounter a spot, a specific location, a space, an entrée so delicious, an invitation so tempting… that being there is… an ongoing lingering pleasure… a savoring… of eternal good taste, forever.

Welcome to Paris.

Take lunch with me, please. Sit down across from me. You are the perfect guest because I can see right through you. I may dismiss you as I please. You are never offended. You care. Yet, you are transparent without substance. You sit. You listen well. Conversation is not your forte. I don’t mind. I’ve brought a book. I am reading, “Paris; True Stories of Life on the Road.” Or sketching… or perhaps I am daydreaming. Lazily watching others chew, sip, swallow, listen, answer, and gently argue over topics not likely to be resolved.

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I make a note to myself about the plain lady, looking very Catholic, stern and her prune like mother, an wrinkled replica of the younger woman. She, with her antiquated haircut would be an excellent character in a book. A book… I am not writing a book. I blog. I write about food, fun, and fast times in museum settings. Nothing too exciting, yet a few people care to read my words and I am grateful for their LIKES and shares, donations, endorsements, and trickle of praise.

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Frau Kolb is at ease at Cafe Constant, in Paris France.

 

Indeed, I feed on the positive attention of a few loyal readers that care to know what Frau Kolb had for lunch in Paris during the sexy summer of 2014.

Delicious fresh French food, I savor  every firm and well rounded green pea, every cube of carrot, delights me!
Delicious fresh French food, I savor every firm and well rounded green pea, every cube of carrot, delights me!

 

 

Yet, I will not tell you what I eat. I will show you. You can look over my shoulder. Or better yet, sit with me. Yes, take a load off.  Relax.  We have all the time in the world.  No one would ever rush us, here at the famous Cafe Constant, there are is an ebb and flow of patrons, ever so steady and well… I might stay here all day, it is so comfortable… and the people!  Behold the polished Asian couple now seated to my right.  Wow, they look like advertising, picture perfect. They must be from the future.  I gather by their high tech watches, slick designer space gear.  I love them, instantly.  Yet, hope they don’t notice me taking them in along with my espresso.

 

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Frau Kolb experiences Post Lunch Bliss at Cafe Constant in Paris France, Summer 2014.

 

I will take care of the bill. Keep your cash. You will need it, later. We will go out tonight, perhaps. IF you have time, after your next engagement, I will be around. Floating. I have a good book with me. I am reading, “Paris, Paris; Journey Into The City of Light,” by David Downie. I have my sketchbook, chalk, erasers and those black wing pencils, I prefer. Perhaps, I will POP into The Louvre and make a record of the wet dream of inter-species perfection, The Winged Victory, the statue… of a luscious female form emerging from the chiseling water, which plasters the wet “fabric,” of stone against her hot winged body. The ancient statue is mesmerizing work of art worthy of its pith. She is eternally ready for an armless flight into… forever.

Me, Myself, & Frau Kolb at Lunch, Cafe Constant, Paris.  Summer 2014!
Me, Myself, & Frau Kolb at Lunch, Cafe Constant, Paris. Summer 2014!

 

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Witness: The Mona Lisa, The Queen of Visual Kitsch, Rule the Universe!

We get out of bed and make our way to the museum early. We are on a mission!  Armed with a marked up map and specific instructions, thanks to Stephanie at Panoramic tours, we know just where to go, Underground. It is the most direct route. We were going to see HER.

THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE.  A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality.  “She,” rules the space around her.  Yet... how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings around her?
THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE. A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality. “She,” rules the space around her. Yet… how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings that bestow her power?

Of course, we did not expect to have any, “alone time” with her.  We knew that she is “everybody’s darling.”

What we got was much worse… we were reminded of how meaningless, insignificant, and trite our Bucket Lists are.  We were, 100% a part of the herd of humanity, snapping an image of La Gioconda, before being pushed out of the way by the next, equally determined tourist/pilgrim with a smart phone or a canon camera, at the ready.

Once, she was stolen, by a “crazy Italian,” convinced that she wanted to go home.
Once, she was stolen, by a “crazy Italian,” convinced that she wanted to go home.

(FOOL! She loves to be up there, behind bullet-proof glass, the absolute center of an ongoing panic, a perpetual craze, which occurs with clocklike regularity, from the moment the museum opens, until the last tour bus leaves, in the world famous and celebrated Louvre Museum, in Paris, France.)

Seeing her… I did NOT see her. She was invisible. I saw the flash of cameras, the crazed LOOK of… hunger? Yes, HUNGER for… what? Recognition, perhaps… we seek to see THE ORIGINAL, THE MOTHER IMAGE from which all the tacky little key chains, coffee mugs, calendars, and other scraps or fragments of the sacred, the untouchable, THE ORIGINAL, the a priori … which is stamped on the faces of the ART STARVED crowds… “Art starved?” You ask… Well… Yes, that is what I witnessed.

 I saw adult infants reaching for the teat of certified beauty and established aesthetic certainties. The queen of conformity, The Mona Lisa is the mental rabbit foot, the proof that one is CULTURED, cultivated, worthy of living. Having documented the sight of her with a selfie, we are FREE, to turn on backs—forever—on the little revered painting by Leonard d’ Vinci, the original Renaissance Man. (I believe, we all want some of the milky charm that sprays from this eternal fountain.)

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She and she alone sits and is worshiped by i-phone clicks and selfie sticks, wielded with an alarming lack of grace. She is photographed so many times per day, and visited by so many people, NONE of whom really see her. Instead, they ignore each other, pulling and tugging—fighting—to see her?

We all wish to solve the mystery. She is a treasure, that is for certain.  Yet, why? How is it that a painting can stimulate such visual appetite, cultural hunger?  The standing whiff of desperation around her is a grand spectacle. Frau Kolb was a part of it; flaunting her own needy and naked desire to be beautiful, famous, loved, and celebrated. We all want a piece of that excitement. The thrill of being seen as significant, worthy, ein Schatz (which means, “a treasure,” in German). We all want to be valued, special, celebrated or at least accepted. Don’t we?IMG_9321

Well, long ago, a German cultural critic, Walter Benjamin (15 July 1892 – 26 September 1940) wrote an essay which, I’ve tried to read, many times. Yet, I simply don’t understand it. He speaks about, “the Aura,” of the work of art and… how that aura was lost via reproduction, which is not… or is… I can’t tell which… a BAD thing. Opps! (I know… I studied art history, I really should be able to understand what Benjamin or Theodor W. Adorno, who responds to him. “Art in the Age of Mechanical  Reproduction,”  is the article by Benjamin which I regret falling to comprehend, because that is the heart of the matter…) Mona Lisa’s pull is in the ease with which her high impact and mysterious image can be turned into endless reproductions! Yes. She reproduces like it is nobody’s business.  She sells!

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Mona, with her come-hither looks is forever… a siren, beckoning tourists, to the crush… to the HORROR of Invisibility.  Since we are all NOBODY in comparison with the famed Dame!

Leonardo d’ Vinci’s Mona Lisa is reproduced in cheap prints on coffee cups, deli napkins, and shopping totes… enough “kitsch,” (A wonderful German word, which art historians LOVE, which means… crap art we get a KICK out of like… whoopee cushions of culture…) to populate a cosmos of gaping landfills.  Clearly, the tightly guarded ORIGINAL work of art was painted by Leonard d’ Vinci, a time traveling genius, who had the political savvy to die in the arms of a French King, (no less!). Moreover, Leonardo may have understood, precisely how to make an immortal image, one which could easily be pressed and passed on, a type of female figurative currency. Yet, she is nothing special, really… She is not even… BIG… she’s not even Marilyn… platinum blond….but she is pure POP, contemporary art, that is for certain.  Who among us can verify that the painting we think we see is not a poster?IMG_3809

The “painting,” sits behind bullet proof glass and must have a red velvet rope around her. I mean… if she were not the real thing who among the millions that snap a picture in a year could tell? Certainly NOT I! I got no where near enough to see the genius, the otherworldly, Uncanny hand of the master! One barely has time to snap a selfie before being pushed out of the way by someone convinced that their need for a selfie is greater than yours.

Frau Kolb among the crowds, visiting the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, France.  Summer, 2014
Frau Kolb among the crowds, visiting the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, France. Summer, 2014

I believe that when The Muse of Talkinggrid, Ms. Crane said, “Fuck the Mona Lisa!” She was nailed a sentiment I share. Why all the fuss? Mona Lisa’s tripped out, picture perfect, made for selfies image, is as vapid as that of two bit hussy. We refuse to be humiliated!  We are better than THAT! Well… actually, we (husband & I) fought the crowds to see her. We pushed. Shoved, each other… Actually, Harmuth never pushes, but is not a person anyone can dismiss.  Ms. Crane is likely not to have pushed anyone because she is,The Muse, after all and people really do respect her “Aura.” Frau Kolb is convinced that “the Aura,” of La Gioconda is one more example of a sheepish desire to fold into the herd, while feeling superior and civilized.

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I did not see a single person that looked satisfied by their brush with the inordinate tourist crowds mobbing Mona. After grabbing a snap of her, across the room and over the heads of a gaggle of other anonymous gaping gawkers, every visitor I saw looked cranky, disappointed. One and all, we are NOTHING in the face of Mona Lisa’s FAME, her radiant reputation!  She rules.

The actual work of art, as it hangs for “public pleasure,” at the Louvre, the painting is erased by the mass unseeing of the image under a storm of “distracted,” self absorbed, self appointed, “art critics” of mostly ZERO integrity (this, of course, includes me… I too have fallen, stooped, and hustled to see the Lady behind glass… only to encounter what I knew would be a monumental waste of human energy, in search of sacred… something… Which, of course was NOT there. There is only a flimsy experience of emptiness, in an overcrowded museum hall, where all the other paintings are made utterly invisible, erased, by the frantic crowds clicking images of themselves and the beast that is desire for recognition, reputation, and singularity; which may be the fuel that gets all the tourists out of bed and ready to face challenging crowd conditions for so little reward, paying for the privilege of being one more ART LOVER!  Hah!

We, at Talkinggrid, admit to being vain.  We want, no less than anyone else wants, our “brands,”to endure; our own five centuries of fame. We want to be Marilyn, the American La Gioconda, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, and The Venus de Willendorf rolled into ONE, mega MOM, a super being, with an ample bosom, ready to feed the entire world. Yet, few are willing to do the exercise, the calisthenics required, of those that seek enduring glory.  Few are going to die in the embrace of royal patrons, either.

This fortunate young woman is tall enough to get her Mona Lisa Selfie, without losing herself in the throng.
This fortunate young woman is tall enough to get her Mona Lisa Selfie, without losing herself in the throng.

 

 

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Je thé… Me, Taste Paris, with Jacky Larsonneur

We were early, the first customers of the evening at Je thé… me, a romantic restaurant known for its good food. We crossed the thick curtain covering the door and into a comfortably furnished, tight, dining room. The host, Jacky Larsonneur, tall and erect, is standing at the center of the room, his mischievous blue eyes sparkling.  He pounces on us with the grace of a well fed tiger!  We were to be his willing prey for the evening.  We loved being the center of his sage and savvy attention.  IMG_3618


He ushered us to our padded seats and fully welcomed us to his place, with a touch of formality which would be soon brushed away, he instantly signaled that the ancient rules of hospitality were in effect.  We had arrived into the care of Je thé… me, a space where we could put our guard down and swallow the delicious fact that we had entered a restaurant unlike any other.  Larsonneur has deftly owned and operated the enchanting restaurant for almost three decades. The space is a home away from home, a well polished jewel of romantic corner kitchens, an absolutely perfect, quintessentially French spot. I’ve quietly dreamt of such places my whole life. In New York, we attempt recreate the energy of such spaces… perhaps Balthazar’s succeeds. The shelves are filled with books, tea pots, and other “comforts of home.” The warmly furnished room is acutely inviting, a place to melt away stress and enjoy a fine meal. The Germans call this feeling, “Gemütlichkeit,” which loosely translates to, “cosy,” or “warm and familiar.” It is a complex word, really… yet it fits perfectly in thinking of the warm embrace of the space, the restaurant, Je thé… me… such a sensual name… such an excellent evening, about to unfold.

Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé... me in Paris, France.
Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé… me in Paris, France.

“English?” He asks after a few pleasantries in French. He introduces us to his menu. It was poetry in food, just delightful.  Salivating over the options, we allowed him to guide us, making recommendations, choosing which wine we drank. At ease in the roll of Culinary Guide, he takes us on a marvelous trip into a familiar yet new world of flavor.  We eat and drink with silent reverence. Other guests arrive. First a man with two beautiful Asian women, who sound 100% California. They are seated on the other side of the attractive room. Later, they come to appear flabbergasted, mouths open, eyes bulging, at the wealth of attention we receive from our talented host. Shortly after an older woman and her (likely) granddaughter appear and are seated. Finally, a young blond couple from Denmark take the table next to us, where they proceeded to make-out passionately for two hours. Did they eat food? I don’t know. I was busy scarfing DOWN my entire plate, making every morsel vanish, worshiping drops of reduction sauces, expertly prepared.

Fondréche 2012, Ventoux
Fondréche 2012, Ventoux

I am transported to a purely sensual zone. Ms. Crane, The Muse, sits next to me on the bench, laughing, making funny comments about the cast of characters around us, the universe, and beyond. Hours slip by, we don’t fret.  This is a time reserved for eating, drinking, and conversation.  My adoring Big German Scientist husband, enjoys the view, across from us and documenting our good time without being intrusive. Speaking of welcome intrusion… did I mention that Jacky planted his laptop on our table and sang to us, old French songs? He did. He sang to us!  He serenaded our table! (How’s that for entertainment?) He has a marvelous voice.  He popped his laptop on our table and shared with us a video of him, on youtube singing in a choir as a young boy. He was an angel. He sang solo, brilliantly!  The camera loved his blond boy beauty. Oh, Jacky!  You are a restaurant man beyond compare!  What talent!  Pure charm! Je thé… me.

IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012
IL ÉTAIT UNE FOIS, 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The food was divine. Yet, I refuse to divulge the details of what I ate.  Eat bite was a discovery, an explosion of flavor in my mouth.  No, I won’t write a laundry list of ingredients.  No.  Exactly what I ate doesn’t concern others…  Unless, of course, they man-up NOW and venture beyond the barnyard gate, to Je thé me… in Paris!  Once there, I can imagine, a parade of pilgrims, FRANCO-FOODIES by the herd, hereby and henceforth, respectfully paying homage to Larsonneur’s impeccable hospitality, good wine, and super-fresh French food with bus tours (god forbid) and other (less tacky) fanfare.  I will just say: that if one does not live to visit Jacky Larsonneur at Je thé… me, is simply missing out on enjoying living, breathing, singing history in action.

There is no television in the historically preserved room. By and large, French restaurants do not bombard you with advertising while you are eating. French food is to be taken s l o w l y, quietly or boisterously depending on the mood. The music, wine, and incredible quality of the food all collaborate to take you to sacred heights within yourself and in communion with tradition. French food is famous, of course, but when you actually sit and eat food that deserves this degree of reverence it changes you.

I will never again be the same woman. I have changed from the inside out, a part of me, my heart… I think… is now––forever–– French. I do not know IF the Potato Eaters at the other tables felt the same AWE over the delicate, fresh, innovative, yet totally traditional FRENCH cuisine, prepared sensitively, and served with intimate flair.

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At our table, Ms. Crane, Hartmuth and I were swaying in a whirl of FOODIE JOY beyond general comprehension. It was a secular, intensely sensual, culinary-come-religious-experience. In this mood, of beyond bliss, the hours passed and we continued eating. Finally, we begged Jacky to pick our desserts. He brought one for each and each was pure perfection with the entree, eaten. WE had NEVER had such a meal, such service! The wine… ah… it was sublime. I shall never recover from this re-introduction to what food can be. Food is a potential space-ship with direct shuttles to heavenly JOY! Now, from the shelf, tumbled one of the encyclopedias on France. (OK, I admit, that I could not resist pulling one of the books off the shelf and perusing it, while the ice wine was being retrieved.) The book popped open, before us and there was Jacky, turning the pages to his Chateau… really? Yes, he pointed to a picture in the book and said that this was his family’s country property. Oh… now my American mind wrapped itself around very foreign concept. His Chateau… WOW!

That our host  enjoyed our company was demonstrated in that he invited us to stay with him for a few more bottles of wine.  We were out till the earliest hours of the next morning, sitting, conversing, laughing like lunatics well past midnight, playing, and dancing with Jacky.  The Muse, Hartmuth, and I Frau Kolb… this evening could be the stuff of legend and myth. We were early, the first customers of the evening for Je thé… me. We crossed the curtain and into the room and found ourselves in a new relationship with the world, with life. We were welcome, ever so welcome, so we stayed and renovated our selves, with intensive healing doses of hilarity, studied frivolity, and unfiltered joy expressed in hearty appetites.

The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé... me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!
The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé… me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!

From the ether of fantasy and wishful thinking, surrounding Paris and The Muse, that which prompted this life-altering trip to a new return destination, a NEW cultural base for Frau Kolb & The Talkinggrid from which to learn and grow, the health and happiness of yours truly and those that truly crave a slice of a very good way of life, the French Way.  I will return again and again to now beloved Paris, France and specifically to see Jacky Larsonneur and  the most romantic of restaurants, where we feel in love, not just with the food, the wine, the host, but also with Paris, Je thé… me.

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Born from The Womb Room and Ready to Go!

Drained from racing to the top of a collective dream, we retreated into the refuge offered by the elegantly understated, Hotel Pullman. Our room is done in inoffensive shades of plumy gray. A wide desk, a leather lounge chair, and a generous floor lamp allow for serious securing of ideas and floating impressions, gathered all around The Eiffel Tower, and retrieved from memories of last night’s adventures. Our room is a perfect haven for two tired tourists to recover, before transforming themselves into rare, industrial strength, Urban Butterflies.

Ever competent, Hartmuth, is on his lap-top searching for “The Perfect Restaurant.” Reading reviews in FRENCH, with no difficulty, my husband never ceases to impress me.  (He found this, La Fourchette, a website, much like the trusty Opentable.com, website in the United States, where he made our reservation for the evening.)

We coin our affection for the gray on gray, plum room, our temporary HOME by giving it a fitting nickname. “The Womb Room,” embraces us.  Soon, we will be born from it, and ready to go out and enjoy what Paris has to offer.  At the moment we are content to each melt into our very own perfectly comfortable twin bed, separated by a trim twilight gray on dusty plum nightstand, stacked with Guidebooks and anthologies of short stories set in the contemporary French Capital, which I happily hauled across the Atlantic, in my indestructible, stand out peace-sign print, carry-on bag.

I doze with “First French Reader; a Beginner’s Dual-Language Book,” open on my belly, while my husband continues his intensive on-line hunt for “The Perfect Paris Restaurant.”

WE are hosting The Muse for dinner out tonight! She’d offered to come to our area, in the 7th arrondissement. The Muse! Coming to see us! Hurray! What excitement! Anticipation!

I can not tell you how much fun we had the night before. I really can’t. I won’t. I refuse to reveal just how splendid it was.  (I’m hoarding the story, savoring the lingering taste of the mind boggling pleasure of roaming deep into Paris, into the sweet Summer Night, in the quiet and refined company of pure Beauty and Handsome Strength.) In the same league of excellence as my husband, Ms. Crane is an amazing human. She positively thrills me with her keen intelligence and juicy observation skills, an avid people-watcher Ms. Crane makes KILLER cracks about The Audience.

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The Audience? Yes, “All the world is a stage,” after all… wherever we go, Ms. Crane and I experience… a surge in public attention, a blanket of external focus, which wraps around us, creating an interesting bulge.  Lumpy is the attention hurled at us, everywhere.  We only catch that which is useful, wholesome, deftly allowing all the rest to fly past us.  Undeniably, The Muse is so beautiful people crave to facilitate, to pave the way around her, and I benefit for this power she wields, without seeming to notice. Yet, from experience I know that THE MUSE notices everything. She is sharp, keen, calm, and alert.IMG_9093

Our friendship sprang from a mutual connection. Yet the force with which it grew, took us all by surprise, like the famous beanstalk, which Jack accidentally planted, our friendship immediately lifted us UP and apart from others. We found in each other a source of the most precious fuel. An immediate rush of mutual support and genuine understanding, which yields a bounty of frame shaking laughter, and truckloads of unmitigated earth moving, JOY!  Few times in life have I felt such a strong bond for another.IMG_9092

It happens to be that the first time I met Ms. Crane I was in the company of my very best friend. Having flown in from Manhattan, she is a secretive Muse, a blue-eyed lady ninja, who has always had my back.  She approved of Ms. Crane, immediately promoting her to “Someone Special,” status.  This New York Muse, being an apt judge of character, is always watching out to ensure that I’m aware, paying attention to who plants roots in the garden of my heart, she acts like a beneficent pesticide, killing weeds that seek to spring up and take over the ordered peace I cultivate.IMG_9097

Many are startled or envious of The Muse’s intense physical beauty.  The first response is understandable, the second unforgivable.  The Muse has green eyes to make emeralds jealous. She is a tiny mountain of dangerous Alpine Curves. What breasts! What body of knowledge!  The grooves in her brain must be very symmetrical, electric.  Her hair smells of apricot blossoms in ripe summer meadows. She is a living ideal of human perfection, in Frau Kolb’s humble estimation. The desire to climb to new heights in her arms must be universal!IMG_9087

I experience unparalleled pleasure each time she hugs me. Her hugs scoop me up and carry me away from all mundane, ugly, and sinister nonsense which threatens to invade the pristine landscape of my picturesque imagination. That Frau Kolb would gladly travel to the end of the cosmos, to have lunch with The Muse is no question. (The timing of my first trip to Paris is but a token of my commitment.) No friendship can compete with The One that gives you reason to forget all the HORROR and arrive at the simple hilarity of reality. Together, Ms. Crane and Frau Kolb laugh and laugh at all the minor league and rather pathetic, mean people, the two-faced hordes of Los Angeles Liars, the lame Game Players, Aspiring Professional Actors, and cheapskate Name Droppers. We laugh at the pretentious “Grand Dames,” and the cheesy, “The Mean Girls.” In short, we laugh at all those that try and fail to harm us, to damage our enduring sense that living is a worthwhile choice.IMG_3598

We laugh. Laughter heals. Over lunch, or our soon to be dinner, we invite the world to laugh with us and thereby heal itself, because we can not help but roll with mirth when we contemplate our good fortune in having found each other.

This feeling of LOVE is one I know intimately.  Yet it is not ROMANTIC in the way that I am thinking of now… I will never forget our first date, he made me laugh right away.  His humor cutting through my New Yorker attitude and introducing me to a new vulnerability I hadn’t been able to afford before his muscle and brains came into my life.  Thereby, my WHITE KNIGHT books the room for love and laughter, healing, and feeling good.  He secures the possibility of my joy.  He protects me and provides for me, the way that I always dreamed ONE would. He performs this service and many others promised and did not deliver, without prompting.  He is dynamic, active in his LOVE.  Because, LOVE is NOT A THEORY!  Love is laughter, support, understanding, and flowing fuel into the tank of one’s soul.  Love is reciprocal, life sustaining, and energizing on the cellular level.  It makes the world spin

NOW,  my German Genius has found, “The Perfect Restaurant.”  We are dressed.  I’ve changed into a long sleeved silk blouse with a coral collar, thick black tuxedo slacks, with a traditional side seam, and I’ve carefully stuffed my swollen foot into platform Prada heals.  I’ve applied a dash of make-up and we are ready to GLOW!IMG_3597 IMG_9072

Thus, we set off to Je thé… me where we met and established the greatest admiration and affection for the most charming restauranteur and entertainer: Jacky Larsonneur  He treated us like old friends on our first visit.  We arrived early and stayed well beyond closing, indulging in fabulous French wines and the after glow of a perfect traditional yet innovative dinner to exceed our expectations and etched permanent smiles on our newly adopted French faces.

 

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Race to the Top of The Eiffel Tower?

What a Huge Turn ON!

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What is it with humans and our “sky scraping,” towers? WE crave heights! PEAK experience(s), which should be, theoretically, mired by the fact that everyone else on the planet seems to agree about the arch significance of the ever present, “Bucket List,” a standard compendium of minor glories, subtitled, “Travel Triumphs That Must be Experienced by All Humanity.” Every nation’s monuments appear to be made to be seen, recorded, and spun into Profile Pictures, galore! Take for example, visiting the Great Wall of China or the Egyptian Pyramids… If you make it either of those important sites, you will want to celebrate by taking pictures and posting them to the zippiest internet site available so your “friends,” will ogle and envy your good fortune. Right?

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The same is the case with a virgin visit to famed Paris, petty travel glory ignites envy. Just yesterday an on-line friend confessed to being “jealous,” that Frau Kolb is in Paris, the famous City of Lights. Who can blame anyone for a pang of jelly-feelings when faced with another’s APEX moment, a glorious moment during which time stands still and we appreciate reality? Yet, there is nothing to envy. We’ve all had such moments and looking around I could see countless others having their photo opportunity, memorable moment, a golden instant pressed like a butterfly between book pages, a preserved out-of-breath, orgasmic arrival. However, those that know my secret… are aware that when life-threatening advanced breast cancer returned last year… there was no guarantee that I’d live long enough to hold hands with my husband to climb UP and UP and UP to the SUMMIT Level, to this immortal PEAK, a magical point, from which you can see far and wide over all of grand and intricate, studied and admired, cherished and enjoyable, Paris. To envy my ticket, which is an ongoing relationship with mortal illness, a grand motivator, indeed, a spur toward worldly milestone counting, daily writing, and well…no one really envies the price I’ve paid, for the life I live, because that would be insane.

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You get on line, to pay, and wait your turn to start going up,up, up… everyone is more than happy for the privilege of scaling France’s moIMG_3508st prominent national symbol, a monumentally scaled architectural art object, and space-age cash cow (the tower is the world’s most visited paid monument). My husband and I are sporty people and despite my swollen foot, I am faster than most tourists, bellies bulging, and all that jiggly jazz, but NOT faster than the fascinating Tattooed French Lady. She was very thin and had very short hair. Tattoos in the pattern of leopard skin and high-end Fashion brand logos (CoCo Chanel, Givenchy, and so on…) covered her arms in permanent sleeves. Her Lover, perhaps her husband, an adoring pierced man, a few inches shorter than her (and she was not tall) was one step, just, behind her. They waited on line with us and climbed at almost exactly the same rate. By the time we reached the first platform level I felt as though I knew her, them, a little. Perhaps… this feeling was illusionary. But, I was feeling connected with humanity as we reached higher levels, together.

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IMG_8924The couple, I observed, without thinking if they noticed me noticing them. It seemed to me that they were Parisians. They were among the few locals among the mostly international tourists. She was more emotionally reserved than him and kept quiet as he nibbled on her neck and we all waited to buy our tickets. I noted how much more demonstrative couples in Paris are, not only were the pair behind us on line comfortable engaging in loving touch while waiting to race us up to the first and then to the SUMMIT Level, near top, where a little room, houses a funky little instillation of dummies dressed up in period costumes representing Monsieur Eiffel and his big hat wearing corseted daughter and a phonograph bestowing mustached and tweed wearing mannequin representing the celebrated American businessman, Thomas Edison.IMG_8932

We looked in, along with everybody else. We took our pictures, perhaps no different than any others, perhaps better. Who knows? Who cares? We marveled at the expansive views and the gathering crowds behind us. We were ecstatic to be there, having climbed The Eiffel tower along with thousands upon thousands of others and still feeling special to be there. (It doesn’t matter that almost seven million others, per year, make the same secular pilgrimage, to the heart of Romantic Ideation, The Eiffel tower is impressive and I now consider it my favorite national symbol.) This blissful “special,” feeling is replicated over and over, day in and out, each group of people, individuals, routinely loud Americans, every type of Asian combination and permutation, Europeans, lots of determined Germans, focused Russians… all the people of the world, except perhaps Australian Aboriginals and Native Amazon dwellers, were in redundant evidence. All gawking, photographing, and snatching at a moment so significant that it blurs into utter meaningless imagery bought and sold all over the world, little trinket Eiffel tower totes, tee-shirts, towels… every possible object can be bought with Eiffel Tower or Mona Lisa print on them, at Walmart, I am sure. I’ve seen such things.  You have seen the same junk for sale.  You may have Paris, Eiffel Tower, Wallpaperin your bathroom, perhaps.IMG_8930So… do I, feel that it cheapens me or The Tower, that everyone agrees it is a place to kiss a beloved, pop-the-question, and bask in the absolute Must See emblem of the much visited and celebrated city of Paris? No, not at all! The Eiffel Tower is perfect.  It is a dazzling structure, “after all these years.”  Its capacity to withstand the onslaught of projection, massive idealization, dreams, and desire projected upon it. La Tour amazes me by standing up to all the attention! I’m convinced: The Eiffel Tower must be a LOVE Magnet. It must be catching and emitting all the waves of lust and desire that circulate the world’s streets, channeling all that flirty energy to France, the WORLD’s (Erotic) Fantasy (Romantic) Capital!

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I’m convinced that The Tower is emitting a special frequency which excites in humans a sexy turned ON, feeling. You will note its effect particularly in and around Paris. The closer one is to the Tower in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, in either location or sentiment, then the more likely one is to feel this BUZZ, this sacred electricity which radiates from the groin, the head, the heart… it is entirely human.  It is: concentrated Romance, in its purest form. To prove my theory, I observed and counted and photographed countless couples kissing, curled up together, a pile of arms and legs mingling on lawns park benches all over pretty Paris. I would post my records, findings, but I fear that such action might result in trouble for someone that doesn’t want to be identified on their afternoon stroll and make-out session with someone else’s main squeeze. So… I demonstrate self control.

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Whatever the reason, it is plain to see, that “Romance and Conquest,” are in every tourist’s eager eye as they climb or ride the elevator up to the summit of the world’s most celebrated and replicated radio tower and phallus symbol since The Tower of Babel was leveled by punishing confusion, dispensed in a sudden gaggle of new tongues.  Just as, the post-coital looks of satisfaction etched on the faces of the fortunate visitors as they exit the monument in droves is easy to decipher.  The code of conquest, over the desired object, in this case imaged as a woman, built to be explored, endures.

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Meeting The Muse, Ms. Crane & Frau Kolb Paris Before Midnight

Evening slowly wraps itself around the glowing Eiffel Tower in a cloudy shawl of sunset orange, royal blue, and burnt electric gold. Tourists, girls in their pretty flower print dresses, sway in a stiff clean breeze sweeping across the Seine, looking up at the bright lights, many sights. We return to our room for showers and a change into less comfortable and more stylish attire. (I put on my travel socks, designed to squeeze the swell out of my foot. They look presentable with my silver 1920’s style beaded mini-skirt, velvet bustier, and white tux jacket.) My male half, HC Kolb, also adorns himself with a good hair brushing and other gestures of appropriate fastidiousness in manly grooming. He arms himself with a high tech camera lens and we are ready to GO!IMG_8865

This meeting with Ms. Crane, The Muse, is a momentous occasion. For those of you regular readers of Talkinggrid, that are familiar with The Muse and our art adventures in Los Angeles, California, remember that The Muse VANISHED into Europe months ago, then suddenly she was spotted making waves and causing excitement, first in Dublin, Ireland, then all over Europe! The Muse has now deigned to perch in Paris for a spell. Who knows how long the city will continue to enchant her? Questions regarding the mysterious and alluring Muse, abound. Frau Kolb is on the case, giving chase to The Muse, across the North American continent and The Atlantic Ocean, Frau Kolb is almost re-united with the one and only, Ms. Crane in Paris, France!

Blessed are those mortals that witness the splendor of The Muse in the exciting embrace of the midnight summer dazzling linguistic and material luxury, of long Parisian nights filled with wandering Lovers, Seekers, and Other Dangerous Folk.IMG_8867

 

We arrive at the appointed spot. I sit. My husband snaps an phone photo of me anticipating the arrival of The Muse. However, she is graciously waiting, having found a perfect table, downstairs in the sexy red velvet bar where “American Style,” cocktails are served to a rushing cascade of crashing notes in a bellicose serenade of frenzied cat-fight piano playing, in the “American Style,” I assume… just the kind of playing one imagines happens in the snug, tight, sexy space of “Harry’s American Bar,” a joint straight out of countless literary and cinematographic fantasies I’ve harbored since birth.
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I felt as though I was slipping into the pages of a well wore book, a beloved fantasy. Yet, not exactly, since I was at my wits end! Where exactly was The Muse? I took the initiative. I marched downstairs. She was there LOOKING FANTASTIC! Could a human be more beautiful? More well proportioned? More striking without lifting a finger? NO! NO! NO! Ms. Crane, The Muse, is perfection embodied. She is. In Paris, France, where Beauty most routinely lounges in every corner of the city, Ms. Crane is the most superlatively at home being. She outshines The Eiffel Tower. I can attest to the intensity of her charm, being that in Los Angeles she ruled my world and her effect is clearly not based on location, location, location. Paris suits The Muse, just fine.

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The First Steps: Walking in Paris

IMG_8843After our first Parisian Cafe Lunch, we walked. All over the world, walking is NATURAL! Walking is FUN! I love walking, on sidewalks, in Paris, in New York, and London.  Frau Kolb walks everywhere.  We hit the streets, for a few hours, of neighborhood window shopping and mental preparation for THE MAIN EVENT!!!

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Yes, I admit it. Frau Kolb has an agenda. Frau Kolb is on a special mission in Paris. Frau Kolb has flown across the United States of America and The Atlantic Ocean to see HER, The MUSE. Well, there are three embodiments of femininity that are now associated forever to Paris in Frau Kolb’s mind. The first is La Tour, the Eiffel Tower. She is beautiful, beyond belief. A perfect structure, calling out to visitors from every corner of the round planet, she beckons and they come in droves and have for well over a hundred years!  She is entirely delightful, worth every effort and amazing, as a source of pride and a point from which one can see all Paris from her busy heights.  She offers the best perspective over Paris.  Presenting the entire city for eager eyes to take in.  But one can never forget the fleeting, shifting, ever-changing glamour and thrill which is being high up, over Paris.  What a perfect structure!  Absolutely, my favorite tourist attraction, in the world.

The Mona Lisa, queen of the Italian Wing in the Louvre Museum, Paris.  She is, after all, the attributed work of all-time-genius Leonard de Vinci, the time-traveling Master of Scientific Creativity in Art. She, too, like the tower, pulls in visitors, cameras clicking, maniac desperation for a glimpse of her famously enigmatic smile, grips the public. (I pay homage to Mona’s marvelous appeal in coming posts… and pending pages. You must only return to Talkinggrid to witness the coverage of La Giaconda’s madding appeal.)

Paris's Italian Draw, at the Louvre, behind glass...Tourist hordes & Frau Kolb pay paparazzi homage.
Paris’s Italian Draw, at the Louvre, behind glass…Tourist hordes & Frau Kolb pay paparazzi homage. However, in the words of the one and only chief, living MUSE of Talkinggrid, Ms. Crane “Fuck the Mona Lisa!” What a refreshing position!  This option had not occurred to me! Talkinggrid’s Instant Expert on all things Paris, Ms. Crane was brimming insight into the necessity of avoiding the hordes, the “selfie girls,” among the ravaging armies of tourists coming from ALL OVER THE WORLD to snap a picture of her little tight lipped, butter won’t melt, is-it–smirk (?), FAMOUS smile. According to Ms. Crane, “She’s not worth it.”  She is rather, “small.”  Mona is closely guarded and behind glass.  This painting is the ultimate untouchable object.  (Who can resist?)

Ms. Crane in Paris.  What could be better?  Now, Frau Kolb had a real reason to rush, to arrive, to be in Paris.  Her glowing presence, more important to me than the mystery of the Mona Lisa’s smile or the breathtaking sparkle of the Eiffel Tower.  Muse Crane’s unique radiance, fuels Frau Kolb urgency to visit Paris in July 2014, for the first time, and not sooner or later.  One simply must see the most beautiful living MUSE ever known, in the city most famous for its beauty.  It had to happen. There was no choice. Ms. Crane’s pull is so strong.  Her soul, her AMERICAN sense of FREEDOM, is so beautiful, one would gladly fly across the ocean to witness her bloom in the ancient center that is Paris, France and listen to her thoughts on life, love, and business in this magnificent city.  Wise beyond her years, Ms. Crane, inspires thought, action, and admiration wherever she goes.  Thus, Frau Kolb follows the Muse, wherever she may frolic.

As we walked around, performing a quick inspection on the pretty surface of marvelous, manicured, Paris, taking our first steps and photographs to share, Frau Kolb was anticipating the pleasure of communing with THE MUSE in her new perch, Paris, a worthy pedestal for Ms. Crane’s  world class appeal.