The Errant Æsthete

 

The novelist Alison Lurie wrote:

“Whatever is worn on the head
is a sign of the mind
beneath it.”

 

Stephen Jones, British milliner, disagrees.

“Whatever is worn on the head
is a sign of what a person
would like to be.

Hats are a passport
to another world.”

 

A Givenchy Hat, Paris, 1958
Frank Horvat

 

Gelatin silver print, 32 x 48 inches, 81.3 x 121.9 cm. Edition 1/AP. Signed, titled, and dated in ink on label on verso. This is a fine, rare and very large print of one of Horvat’s most famous images. Auction Details

 

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.

 

Jelaluddin Rumi

 

Photo: Roses I, 2009, Guido Mocafico, Via Wayneford’s Posterous
Guns and Roses Exhibit, Hamiltons Gallery, London thru 20 February 2010.
Text: The Essential Rumi, Translations by Coleman Barks.
Cocktail of Choice: la fée verte (the Green Fairy), also known as Absinthe.

 

“Let Them Eat Cake”

 

It is rather well known that the origins of many English phrases are completely unknown. Nevertheless, many people would claim, and with some conviction, that the above stated quote is attributed to none other than the high priestess of opulence, Marie-Antoinette (1755-93), the Queen consort of Louis XVI. She is supposed to have said this when she was told that the French populace had no bread to eat.

The original French is ‘Qu’ils mangent de la brioche’, i.e. ‘Let them eat brioche’ (brioche is a form of cake made of flour, butter and eggs). The usual interpretation of the phrase is that Marie-Antoinette understood little about the plight of the poor and cared even less.

There are two problems with that interpretation: 1. There’s no evidence of any kind that Marie-Antoinette ever uttered those word or anything like them and 2. The phrase, in as much as it can be shown to be associated with the French nobility, can be interpreted in other ways, for example, it could have either ironic or even a genuine attempt to offer cake to the poor as an alternative to the bread that they couldn’t afford.

As to the origin of the expression, two notable contemporaries of Marie-Antoinette – Louis XVIII and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, attribute the phrase to source other than her. In Louis XVIII’s memoir Relation d’un voyage a Bruxelles et d Coblentz, 1791, he states that the phrase ‘Que ne mangent-ils de la croûte de pâté?’ (Why don’t they eat pastry?) was used by Marie-Thérèse (1638-83), the wife of Louis XIV. That account was published almost a century after Marie-Thérèse’s death though, so it must be treated with some caution.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s 12-volume autobiographical work Confessions, was written in 1770. In Book 6, which was written around 1767, he recalls:

At length I recollected the thoughtless saying of a great princess, who, on being informed that the country people had no bread, replied, “Then let them eat pastry!”

Marie-Antoinette arrived at Versailles from her native Austria in 1770, two or three years after Rousseau had written the above passage. Whoever the ‘great princess’ was – possibly Marie-Thérèse, it wasn’t Marie-Antoinette.

Her reputation as an indulgent socialite is difficult to shake, but it appears to be unwarranted and is a reminder that history is written by the victors. She was known to have said “It is quite certain that in seeing the people who treat us so well despite their own misfortune, we are more obliged than ever to work hard for their happiness”.

Nevertheless, the French revolutionaries thought even less of her than we do today and she was guillotined to death in 1793 for the crime of treason.

 

In honor of the famed Queen of France and this, the annual day of love for hearts small and large everywhere, a sampling of Red Velvet Cupcakes from Magnolia to Chocolate Dulce de Leche Bars to Raspberry Chocolate French Macaroons to the above featured Top Tier Devil’s Food Cake to a virtual bake book of limitless cake recipes culled from the kitchens of the world, Celebrate with Cake

 

Photo: Marie Antoinette, Queen of France
Historical Research: Gary Martin, 1996 – 2010

Better pass boldly
into that other world,
in the full glory of some passion,
than fade and wither dismally
with age..’

~ James Joyce

For the literary, there is no greater day devoted to words than those of love on Valentine’s day. This past week, one of my most favored literary sites, The Writer’s Almanac has been featuring lyrical love letters, one of which, I posted by John Keats, Ode to Love, a few days ago, only to discover, and sadly, I might add, that a newer generation is neither enthralled nor admiring of his writings. Perhaps the missives of James Joyce will be met with a kinder fate.

 

James Joyce said things like, “A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.”

But he often apologized wholeheartedly to his wife, Nora. And said things like, “I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”

Yet to Nora Barnacle, he wrote things like — on October, 25th, 1909 —

“You are my only love. You have me completely in your power. I know and feel that if I am to write anything fine or noble in the future I shall do so only by listening to the doors of your heart. … I love you deeply and truly, Nora. … There is not a particle of my love that is not yours. … If you would only let me I would speak to you of everything in my mind but sometimes I fancy from your look that you would only be bored by me.

Anyhow, Nora, I love you. I cannot live without you. I would like to give you everything that is mine, any knowledge I have (little as it is) any emotions I myself feel or have felt, any likes or dislikes I have, any hopes I have or remorse. I would like to go through life side by side with you, telling you more and more until we grew to be one being together until the hour should come for us to die.

Even now the tears rush to my eyes and sobs choke my throat as I write this. Nora, we have only one short life in which to love. O my darling be only a little kinder to me, bear with me a little even if I am inconsiderate and unmanageable and believe me we will be happy together. Let me love you in my own way. Let me have your heart always close to mine to hear every throb of my life, every sorrow, every joy.”

 

On that note and this occasion when I’ve been swilling quite a few cocktails of distinction these past days, shall we raise a glass to the inestimable Mr. Joyce?

 

James Joyce Cocktail

* 1 1/2 ounces Irish whiskey
* 3/4 ounce sweet vermouth
* 3/4 ounce Cointreau
* 1/2 ounce fresh lime juice

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker and shake until cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

 

Photo of James Joyce, C. Ruf, Zurich, ca. 1918
Letters (27 October 1909 to Nora, in Trieste. Found in James Joyce Letters Vol. 2, edited by Richard Ellmann, 1966)

A dandy
is a man
who places particular importance
upon physical appearance,
refined language,
and leisurely hobbies,
pursued with the
appearance of nonchalance
in a cult of Self.

 

The New Yorker’s third annual contest soliciting readers’ takes on Eustace Tilley, the magazine’s iconic dandy, who appeared on the cover of the first issue and on almost every anniversary issue since, has concluded. Of the twelve favorites chosen out of more than three hundred entries, this was my personal favorite. Entitled “Madame X”. By Claire B. Cotts, Berkeley, Calif

For a portfolio of the twelve winning entries, which would have made Rea Irvin, the creator of the original cover proud, browse here.

 

 

A Dandy is a clothes-wearing Man, a Man whose trade, office and existence consists in the wearing of Clothes. Every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse, and person is heroically consecrated to this one object, the wearing of Clothes wisely and well: so that the others dress to live, he lives to dress … And now, for all this perennial Martyrdom, and Poesy, and even Prophecy, what is it that the Dandy asks in return? Solely, we may say, that you would recognise his existence; would admit him to be a living object; or even failing this, a visual object, or thing that will reflect rays of light….

– Thomas Carlyle, “The Dandiacal Body”, in Sartor Resartus

 

George “Beau” Brummell, watercolor by Richard Dighton (1805)

The model dandy in British society was George Bryan “Beau” Brummell (1778-1840). Ever unpowdered, unperfumed, immaculately bathed and shaved, and dressed in a plain dark blue coat, he was always perfectly brushed, perfectly fitted, showing much perfectly starched linen, all freshly laundered, and composed with an elaborately knotted cravat. From the mid 1790s, Beau Brummell was the early incarnation of “the celebrity,” a man chiefly famous for being famous–in his case, as a laconically witty clothes-horse

 

 

In honor of Madame X, a cocktail named after Monsieur Brummell, which, it is said, he relished, before the word “cocktail” was born.

 

The Beau Brummell

Pour into tumbler with ice a good drink of Bourbon or rye whiskey, a tablespoon of “gum” or powdered sugar, if you prefer, and add a teaspoon of lime juice. Stir well till very cold and strain into an old fashioned cocktail glass. Crown top with a bit of yellow lemon peel previously tweaked over the liquid. It’s “stiff!”

“There are those
who spend lifetimes in houses
that have nothing to do
with who they really are.
They may be perfectly designed,
yet if they fail to reflect
the personalities of the people
who live in them,
the very essence
of intimacy
is missing
and this absence
is disturbingly visible.”

~Rose Tarlow

 

 

The Iron Rose (Cocktail)

2 parts gin
1 part Champagne
3 drops rose water

Put gin, champagne, and ice in a shaker. Add rose water. Serve in a martini glass, a flute or an exquisitely stemmed crystal that glints in candlelight.

 

Rose Tarlow, Melrose House, Fabric
Description: “Bloomsbury” in Merlot

Isabella Blow discovered and inspired him, the fashion industry simultaneously mocked and adored him, the world today mourns him. Fashion designer, Alexander McQueen, dead at 40.

 

“For every 1,000 so-called designers who pin a piece of jersey around a mannequin and call it fashion, there’s only one McQueen, an explosively imaginative designer who openly courted controversy (he called one of his early collections, a mix of military jackets and torn-lace dresses, “Highland Rape”) but who also treated craftsmanship as a foundation and not an afterthought (he began his career as an apprentice on Savile Row, helping to construct custom-made suits for the likes of Prince Charles and Mikhail Gorbachev). In a world where fashion churns through chain stores like H&M and Forever 21 at a dizzying and alarming rate, McQueen’s death at age 40 is a sad reminder of the way certain values have been misplaced in our culture: Not just in fashion but in all creative fields, thought, precision, wit and a sense of history are rare and endangered qualities.”

Salon

 

Friend and fellow blogger HOBAC discovered this profoundly lovely clip that encapsulates the imaginative daring and brilliance of McQueen. A small, but far from insignificant, gem.

VIEW

 

Photo: Silent Storyteller
More

In early honor of Valentine’s Day …

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

 

John Keats lived to be just 25 years old, but in that time he wrote some of the most exquisite love letters in the English language. These tender missives of ardor were to his betrothed, Fanny Brawne.

Keats was 23 years old, recently back from a tour of Scotland, England, and Ireland (during which time he’d probably contracted the tuberculosis that would soon kill him), and had moved back to a grassy area of London, where he met and fell in love with Fanny Brawne. During this time, he composed a number of his great poems, including Ode to a Nightingale.

One Wednesday in the autumn, he wrote this letter, considered by many the most beautiful in the English language:

 

My dearest Girl,

This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my soul I can think of nothing else. The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life.

My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again — my Life seems to stop there — I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving — I should exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you.

My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love … I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — I have shudder’d at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr’d for my religion — love is my religion — I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet. You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavored often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no more — the pain would be too great. My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

Yours for ever
John Keats

The following spring, Keats wrote: “My dear Girl, I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you the more I have lov’d. … You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass’d my window home yesterday, I was filled with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time.”

Keats and Brawne became engaged. He had hoped to earn a bit of money for them before they married. But before too long, he began coughing up blood. When he saw it, he said: “I know the color of that blood; it is arterial blood. I cannot be deceived in that color. That drop of blood is my death warrant. I must die.” He wrote to tell her that she was free to break off their engagement since he would likely not survive. But she refused, and he was hugely relieved. Sadly, death preempted their wedding.

 

Photos: Jane Campion film Bright Star
John Keats by William Hilton

 

I suspect there are any number of those out there as eminently gifted as Keats vying for the hearts of their beloved this Valentine’s Day. One can only hope they require in excess of 140 characters to make it so. Or perhaps not. Have we, after all, morphed into a culture of brevity with the capacity of saying so much more with a paucity of so much less?