Fruit and Veg, Woeful Sprawl, White Teeth

It was a hot weekend of playing in the garden. We now have edible green beans, strawberries, arugula, mountains of chamomile for tea and skincare formulation, lemons and limes, spearmint for tea, Morrocan mint for mojitos and juleps, three kinds of lettuces, and some decorative plants. We planted zucchini and hope that will be ready to harvest in a short while. In the meantime, have a look at our chard and apples!



We returned from our little vacation on Friday. It was an unexpected delight. We had planned a week of camping in the redwoods but we got rained out after the first night. So we packed up our camping stuff and checked into a chain "inn" in Santa Cruz to ride out the rainy days. It was a lot of fun. There were hikes in the redwoods, lots of train and trolly rides in various places (because vehicles, particularly the antiquated kind, are my toddler's current obsession), and day trips to Big Sur and Monterey. Except for beautiful Big Sur, I noticed a depressing abundance of chain restos and awful tourist traps everywhere we went. It got me thinking: has the landscape of this state changed so much that there is no longer any place to go except nature, tourist places and chains? Are we lazier now that we travel with a child or is there really, as Gertrude Stein once said about my neighboring town of Oakland, California, "no there there?"

This feeling of opressive sameness was mitigated somewhat by the glorious, gritty descriptions of North London and its varied population in Zadie Smith's fantastic 2000 novel, White Teeth. I loved this book, with strong, funny characters and an epic narrative that spans WWII to 1996 or so. Smith has wit and spark as she touches on such issues as colonialism, race, class, sex, beauty, religion, ethics and coming of age. White Teeth spans generations and locales--India, Jamaica, Bangladesh and London-- to weave together seemingly disparate people into a surprising story line that I whipped through because I couldn't put it down. I believe I am the last semi-literate person on Earth to pick this book up (there was a time that everyone I ever encountered anywhere was reading it). But if there are any other latecomers out there, expecially those who love Salman Rushdie (who I would have guessed was the writer here in a blind taste-test), I recommend it most highly.

Now I'm onto a reread of Living the Savvy Life and a book of short stories by the very promising Katherine Mansfield.

What are you reading?

Is anyone here from San Francisco?

If so. . .

One of my favorite book stores is hosting this tomorrow. I'm working on childcare and hope I can make it myself.

CAROLYN BURKE will discuss
No Regrets: The Life of Edith Piaf
Thursday, May 5 at 7 PM at Bookshop West Portal, San Francisco

Join us for a fascinating evening with Carolyn Burke, who has written an enthralling and empathetic biography about the beloved French chanteuse, Edith Piaf. Burke, who has chronicled the lives of photographer Lee Miller and poet Mina Loy, captures Piaf's charismatic appeal, along with the time and place that gave rise to her remarkable international career.

As a child, Piaf grew up in a Normandy brothel run by her grandmother, then led a vagabond life, touring as a singer with her father's acrobatic performances. Burke had access to previously untapped Piaf documents, and highlights aspects of the artist that are rarely mentioned, such as Piaf's aiding Jews during World War II. The author demonstrates how, with her courage, her incomparable art, and her universal appeal, "the little sparrow" endures as a symbol of France and a source of inspiration to entertainers worldwide.
"Burke's terrific biography of Edith Piaf shucks the simplistic arc of self-destructive urchin to a more complex portrait that includes the singer's heroics in the French Resistance and roles as mentor, lyricist, and enduring icon." — Kimberly Cutter, Marie Claire  

What I am Doing and What I Want to Be Doing

I want to be reading today. I have two quick reads going and each has me transported somewhere fabulous when I pick it up. But even as my mind is off handcrafting shoes in Greenwich Village and Buenos Aires

or swilling martinis or scotch and sodas with Nick and Nora at the Normandie hotel

my body is here taking advantage of a few childfree hours to make progess on my 100 Things in May project.

In two days I am up to three kitchen garbage bags of clothes to give away, a huge box of toys, and a bag of toiletries for which I need to find a home.

When I finish this round I get to go in for a skincare treatment. It's an intermittent fasting day so I'm doing what I can to treat myself in food-free ways. But I wouldn't argue with a martini later on

.

But I'm an Earth Mother Type (a long post, mostly about parenting)

So I had the pleasure of spending a short bit of time with a charming femme d'un certain age at an art show this weekend. She was a jewelry maker originally from France and she had great style. We chatted a lot and I took mental notes on her to report here. She wore glasses and strong eye makeup with a definite bohemian vibe. She sported her own unique jewelry and flowing clothes in neutral, subdued colors. Her hair was a long blunt cut with bangs (and the women debating Ines de la Fressange's style guide on the Yahoo French Chic group will be interested to note that this was not a gal who appeared to wash her hair on anything even closely resembling a daily basis). Mostly I noticed the forthright way she spoke- confident, vivacious and also a keen listener.

We began talking because I had my three-year-old with me and talk tends to go to those who spill the most ice cream and giggle most loudly. Mine is a spirited kid and she told me hers were too. She said that when her son was young, the teachers at his (US) schools would chide her that he didn't "respond well to social pressure."" That a teacher of small children in our educational system would find fault with that quality doesn't surprise me; it was her delight in it that suprised me greatly.

I've had German, Greek and Italian acquaintances with young children but I haven't known any French parents that I can think of. But one thing I have read repeatedly is that French parenting is all about training children to respond to social pressure.



Charming petite Parisienne in her natural habitat, 2004


An essay I read recently (yes, I'm talking about this book again - there was a lot to chew on in its pages!) looks at French parenting and its differences with "Anglo-saxon" style childrearing. The writer is Janine di Giovanni. Like part of me, she is Italian-American. Unlike any of me, she appears to be a glamorous award-winning international journalist who is married to a frenchman.

Watching a crying child exhaust himself trailing behind his chic, slender (and unrelentingly quick-stepping) mother in Luxembourg Gardens, she writes,

'Well that kid will be in therapy for the rest of his life.'

I joke about these things but it's not altogether funny, One of the toughest things I have had to get used to in an otherwise idyllic Paris is the huge gap between Anglo-Saxon (or Italian American in my case) parenting and parenting French-style. The French are certainly stricter. They shout more. They slap more. And they enforce manners.

As a result, you find beautifully brought-up children, and many of my French friends who are parents will argue endlessly that instilling discipline and setting boundaries is the way to show the utmost love.

All true. Kids need boundaries and they need to be civilized for their own good. But Di Giovanni writes that, despite the fact that French children are better behaved than their American counterparts,

the hippie earth mother part of me still wonders about originality, creativity, and freethinking. (There is no such thing as an earth mother here; it is simply not chic.)

I'm an un-chic earth mother type. I wonder a lot about these things too. And this process of parenting a young child as he moves into a sprited third year on Planet Earth is a challenge: to transmit knowledge and instill manners and social savvy while respecting the dignity and liberty of this small person -- without slaps and without shaming -- is often difficult.



Free-range American kid in his natural habitat, Sea Ranch CA 2010

How to negotiate the goal of teaching boundaries with the reality of sharing space and a life with small children? How to "train" them well without treating them like lesser beings? After trial and error I have come to a philosophy of trying to approach mine as I would someone who is as worthy of respect as I am but who lacks the life experience to navigate life without help. I see myself as a combination translator, tutor and concierge, if you will. And he is, so far, a really great kid. But it's true you never know how well you've taught your children until they are grown.

Paris at Night, Patti Smith on "Love on the Left Bank"

There is some delicious stuff on Vanity Fair online this week. First, someone pointed an online group I am part of in the direction of these marvelous nighttime Paris photographs, mostly from the 1920's and '30's.




Brassaï, La Casque de Cuir, 1932. From vanityfair.com

 

Robert Doisneau, The Stairway, 1952. From vanityfair.com

 

The full set is available here.




As lovely as the nighttime photos are, it was this feature that really got my attention. A 1954 photo-novel called Love on the Left Bank by photographer Ed van der Elsken’s has just been reissued. There are some amazing photos from the book on the web site, with this intro from the tremendous Patti Smith:

 I opened it and was greeted by a dark and intriguing café scene on the grittier side of the City of Light. It was Jack Kerouac, Parisian-style. I was especially captivated by the image of a girl, the likes of whom I had never seen before. She was Vali Myers, the Beatnik gypsy mystical witch who reigned over the rain-soaked streets. With her wild hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, loose raincoat, and cigarette, she offered herself with abandon and self-containment. She mirrored what I aspired to aesthetically—to be unconscious of style, yet style itself.

Below, some shots from this book that I must get my hands on this very instant.



all images from vanityfair.com



(Seriously, where has this perfect-for-me book been all my life, and why am I just hearing about it now?) The full set is here, with more information about Patti Smith here, and more about Vali Myers here. 

More from Inès and a Beauty Tip from Me

I may have underestimated this book. I've picked it up again this afternoon and I'm enjoying the sound advice.

I have many, many skincare clients who come in to tell my how hideous their skin is when they look at it in the magnifying mirror. That's when I give them

Argentée's Number One Rule for Beauty:

Take your magnifying mirror and give it to someone you don't like.

Similarly, Inès de la Fressange has this to say about Botox: "I pay no attention to wrinkles. I just stand back from the mirror."

Refreshing and delightful! Yes, beauty is fun and socially useful, but shouldn't we have better things to do than obsess in the mirror if all we are doing is looking for reasons to not adore what we see?

Inès writes, "My absolute role model is singer Julio Iglesias. Asked if he was afraid of getting old, he replied, 'But I'm already old.'" The Parisian is more worried about wrinkles at 20 than at 50."

I always tell my skincare clients (many of whom are gorgeous 20-somethings who are terrified of age) that I have no desire for "anti-aging." I mean, not when you consider the alternative! I'm pro-aging. I hope to age a very long time. But we can fight it and dread it and Botox it, or we can maintain our passions and our hobbies and age beautifully, with grace and health. Isn't that what we're striving for? My hope is that with age comes with the wisdom to not fear it.

Balance in Everything

The husband is out of town for a bachelor party weekend that would depress me and annoy me if I thought too much about it. Yesterday I spent a lovely afternoon with two gorgeous girlfriends; one is a teacher on spring break and the other is a lucky lady of leisure. We had lunch and spent hours laughing and talking. There were cocktails and tarot cards, and if either of those things are to be believed the future looks excellent for all of us.

After school was out, my son and I came home to some relaxing and household tasks before heading out for a special evening together. I wrote last week about saying no to ice cream. Tonight was a break from my usual paleoh-la-la. I had a sweet dinner with my kid, followed by yes to ice cream, followed by a trip to the book store.

When we arrived there was a reading in progress by a journalist who has documented the history of Burning Man and its current transitioning from for-profit company to non-profit entity. The reading itself was fascinating enough but what struck me about the evening was the odd convergence of parts of my life: me in the children's section, reading Curious George on the one hand and, on the other, half listening to this journalist relay the story of the politics affecting this sometimes cooler-than-thou scene I've not been a part of in a long time. We ran into our neighbors there. They are also parents (as is everyone on this island, it seems) and also former burners. And while I won't likely go back to the Gerlach desert for large-scale art and dancing all night (at least not for a very long time), it was nice to be there and to feel a small part of the intersection between family and culture, just by virtue of participating in discussion at the reading.

As I was falling asleep I was thinking that I don't feel a conflict between being a woman and a mother. But I do believe that negotiating that balance takes work. Salad and ice cream, Curious George and Burning Man. Balance, balance in everything.

Parisian Chic: A Style Guide by Inès de la Fressange

The blogosphere is abuzz with talk about this cute little new style guide from professional gorgeous person Inès de la Fressange. I picked it up at my local bookstore (for nearly double the price it would have been on Amazon, aye-yee.) I'm not completely wowed by the book but it is entertaining enough. Parisian Chic is full of odd little illustrations and some surprising style advice. I've yet to work my way all the way through but following are some random bits and first impressions:

•  General style rules include a Magnificent Seven list of wardrobe must-haves that is a bit different from most. Included are a man's blazer, navy cashmere sweater, perfect jeans.
• Fun advice about what to wear for such events as an art opening, a black tie event, a country weekend and a first date.
• "For me, a loss of interest in dressing well and wearing make-up is a form of depression."
• The tuxedo jacket gets a lot of mention in this book. So do leather jackets.  I like to wear my tuxedo jacket for the odd informal-formal occasion, but I doubt Inès had tails in mind when she wrote her rules.
•  Inès recommends dressing your kid all in black. Accessorize with a bright scarf or coat. Cute!
• I wish there were photos of Inès herself in the book! She is lovely, and while the book features her beautiful daughter as model, it would have been inspiring to see this gorgeous femme d'un certain age gracing its pages.

The second half of the book is filled with Inès' Paris address book, with recommendations of where to shop, sleep, eat. Being the kind of woman whose Y chromosome somehow missed the shopping imprint, much of the content of these pages was a bit lost on me. But the photography is lovely and the overall impression is creatively inspiring and lush.

The best piece of advice in the book begins this way: "The Parisian never worships fashion idols. She is a fashion icon in her own right. . ."

Read more about Inès de la Fressange on Parisian Chic in this article, in which she says:

'French women don't want to be trendy. They know what suits them. It's more about style than trends. Women should dress up for themselves, not for showing off but to feel better - and if you feel better, you look better.'

Hear, hear.

A Little Bit of Life Cultivation

Yesterday, Day 2 of my experiment in self-cultivation, was a success. I dressed in grey lace camisol with an interesting cut, a cute black cardigan and a nice pair of dark wash jeans that are rapidly becoming too roomy for me. I put on sunblock, spent time on my makeup, styled my hair (the bangs I just cut myself based on Frederic Fekkai's advice in his lovely Year of Style), and I wore more "statement" jewelry than is usual for me. I spent the morning having (above-average) brow waxing and (more-painful-than-average) body waxing.

Brunch in my favorite, very old-style Euro cafe with my book of essays on Paris and another book, the light but sweet Bonjour Happiness, by Jamie Cat Callan. (That book, like so many blogs I enjoy, is the same idea as this blog project I am doing here. Again, cultivate the imaginary best inner self and then begin acting like her. Boom! C'est facile, non?)

So after prettifying, after lunch, the museum. I saw the Eadweard Muybridge exhibition at the MOMA. It was a quiet and strangely lonely way to spend an afternoon. Here are two of my favorite images from the exhibition. I am struck by how timeless is the one of the mother and child in particular. It's amazing to me how indistinguishable from our recent ancestors we human beings are when you take away our clothes.

After the museum I walked down Market Street to my dance class. On the way I stopped at a coffee stand I hadn't noticed before. I had a short, nice conversation with a Tunisian cafe owner who has set up shop near a place I go every week. I told him I was glad he was saving me from patronizing Starbucks and we talked about Turkish baths, massage, and why my coffee choice (black, no sugar) made me "healthy, like a French person." Why, merci beaucoup, monsieur. You do go on.

Next was my dance class, followed by dinner at a knock-out alleyway restaurant, Gitane on Claude Lane. Basically a perfect, slow, elegant day into night. I catch myself thinking, If only I were in love. I balance that with, Gratitude, always gratitude. So much to think about, always.

More on Heartbreak a la Francaise

I'm reading a fabulous book of essays on living in Paris from writers of all disciplines. The book, Paris Was Ours, is curated by Penelope Rowlands and features a piece by a writer named Caroline Weber on love in the City of Light. She writes,

. . .the confusion that attends most affairs of the heart is generally, in Paris, taken to be as inexplicable and incontravertable as the weather. Indeed, it has always surprised me that the American TV series Sex and the City should enjoy such popularity among parisiennes, who are not given to the kind of anguished relationship dissection in which the show's lead female characters endlessly indulge. In real life, as in Sex and the City, a New Yorker asking, "Why hasn't he called me?" or, "How could he leave me?" is entitled to at least a few solid hours of thoughtful analysis (of the relationship's ups and downs), soothing complements (for herself), and righteous indignation (against the man in question) from her girlfriend. In Paris, such a response is as hard to come by as, well, fat people or fake butter. There, a woman's interlocutor will merely offer her a blasé   "C'est comme ça" -- accompanied by a slight shrug that says, "In the face of such existential absurdity, cherie, calm acceptance in the only way. Now let's hit the thalasso spa and see what we can do about your cellulite."

Let me tell you, this passage hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been going over the minutiae, the nuances, the astrological implications of my- and a girlfriend's borderline imaginary relationships not for a mere couple of hours but literally for months now. Every day, via text, via phone, via email. And for what? Something about this passage brought the message home to me: he loves you or he doesn't. What can you do about it? Not a lot. But you can and you should love yourself.

And that really is the basis of this month-long project I'm doing here.