Just in case any of you are aucklanders, and were thinking of going to 'Degas to Dali' at the new revamped auckland art gallery, AND wanted my appraisal, here it is:
The collection comes from the National Gallery of Scotland. While they claim to have some of the 'best art in the world' i think it would be more accurate say they have some of the works of some of the great masters, but generally, the kind of pieces I imagine the painters would give to their favourite baker, or dying aunt, or bequeath to a, dare i say it, scottish gallery.
There are Dali paintings yes, and there are Degas paintings, there are freud, bacon, bonnard, magrite, nicholson, von jawlensky (a personal favourite), manet and monet... it's a veritable swingers party of great painters.. however, this pick and mix collection seems to encompass mainly works that were achieved prior to the artist really getting on a roll with their personal style, and before they became famous.
Picture Francis Bacon in his painting room slapping a hat and coat still life together, then when looking for canvases to paint over, to save money, this one just BARELY escapes a paint-over job. Bacon to me is a rich array of larger than life colours forming harrowed and haunting faces alongside sinister and morbidly sexual motifs like skulls. Francis Bacon is madness. Francis bacon is not: Hat and Coat Study.
To badger this point, there is one monet. It is of boats in a harbour. When I was seven I saw all of Monet's collection of watercolour lilly ponds and bridges and the lilac hued beauty of it burnt into my brain. Boats are nice too though.
As well, 'Degas to Dali' is somewhat of a liberal interpretation. The collection is not a sequential view of artworks, transitioning from movement to movement. Rather, it is a slap together of some expressionist, some impressionist, some surrealist, and sprinkle of pop art, oh and some landscapes. Because who doesn't love a landscape. Where, ever, have you viewed Picasso, alongside Warhol? Is it just too nouveau? Am I just too antiquated?
There are EVEN some 18th Centurey Japanese prints, welllll before Degas' time. I guess the curator thought: why take them down, when you'll only have to dust behind them. A sentiment I can strongly empathise with. But then, I'm not the curator of The Auckland Art Gallery.
While he/she was at it, he/she thought fit not to change the light bulbs. Probably the two most rewarding paintings, in terms of familiarity, as well as sheer brilliance, are Degas' two paintings from his most famous 'ballerina series'.
They are truly beautiful, emotive, you can smell the wooden dance room floors, hear the young ballerina's whispering girlish secrets as they practise plie's... but one of the two paintings is so poorly lit, that it is hard to see. It is genuinely hard to see. Like reading a book by an eco-lamp, waiting for it to take hold of it's identity and brighten the fuck up, but the brightening... it never comes. Not to go on, but to go on, further in the 'exhibition' is a single Morandi painting - he is known for painting bottles and jars in a monochrome of beige and bluey creams, that while just bottles and jars, manage to speak of silence and humility - and here is this single Morandi, being lit by a blue fluorescent light. I never liked those blue fluorescent lights in 5th form painting, and I certainly don't like them any more in the AAG.
I went to the Dali exhibition in Melbourne, it was mammoth and unhestitatingly astounding. And I don't even like surrealism. Surrealism is at the best of times like somebody telling you about their dreams. If i'm not in it, why would I care? It's abstract and often looks like somebody spilt their coffee on the rug. These particular pieces, ever the more. But this exhibition had me at hello. It took half a day to absorb it all. I came out at least having some appreciation of the great life and contribution of Salvidor Dali. The piec on show at the AAG, looked like a doodle Dali had made whilst talking on the wireless combobulator.
Highlights are: 'Maurice' - Pop King Andy Warhols fluorescent pink and blue screen print of a friends daschund. Eminently charming, farcical and at once noble. Andy Warhol famously said everyone would have their fifteen minutes of fame, what he not so famously also said was 'even pets'.
Of my favourites: The Lustre Bowl by Sir William Nicholson, exhibits a single lustre bowl (copper oxide and glass veneer over wood creating a lusturous sheen) and a dozen green peas on a plain white table cloth in a black room. Has to be seen to be felt, this painting, is probably worth the $20 admission fee. You can feel the temperature of the room. Feel the mood of the owner of the bowl. Someone who does seem to know a little of how to do their job at the gallery points out on the plaque how the bowl looks so hard and shiny you can hear it ping, whilst the peas soft and malleable and each displaying their own character. It's quite a fete. Lest I wank on.
I truly love Picasso, and there is one simple painting of his from the blue period showing the back of a woman holding a baby. The weight of her body, heavier on one foot, the curve of her back and crook of her neck are all perfectly executed. Barring the cubist period, Picasso never put a foot wrong.
To conclude, The Auckland Art Gallery has had a surgical facelift, it looks great. It's gone from Anna Paquin to Cate Blanchet. I think it could hold it's head up alongside, not the Louvre, but let's say the National Portrait Gallery of London. They have left the skeleton with some flesh on it, of the old building to be seen in places, such as alcoves that end abruptly at glass, waist-height walls, which meet spiralling staircases that dwindle symmetrically to smaller and smaller staircases. I had the greatest of expectations for this new gallery and their first international exhibition. I rather enjoyed closing my right eye and looking with my left, and then closing my left eye and looking only with my right, to see what each hemisphere of my brain would notice more.
I think go, it's only twenty bucks right, you get to wander around with the middle and upper middle class feeling cul-cha'd and like a better person, whispering in hushed tones your 'informed' (touche) opinion of great works.
I just think instead of calling it 'Degas to Dali' they should have more honestly entitled it 'a bunch of paintings from Scotland, not the best, not the worst, to be fair, the B team'; bring a torch.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Just a little about me
That isn't really me by the way. In breaksupsville. It HAS been me and that is a true story... but not right now. I was just thinking about it... how tragically the same it always is.
Today, a completely different post. I want to tell you about something awesome I did. Seeing as this blog is drenched in woe.
Today I did a crossfit competition. I am sitting here icing my thumb and shoulder with pea's. Thumb taking breaks from peas to type.
My crossfit gym (quattro) and another one (rapid) met up at their gym in eden park, got put into teams, and competed against each other.
Crossfit, for anyone who doesn't know, is awesome. It is a the new style of fitness training, everyone who does it, gets obsessed with it, because it's that good. It's that good and getting you fitter, stronger, faster, more flexible, more agile, more able, more functionally fitter, and to levels of fitness you never even imagined for yourself.
Part of the ethos of crossfit is that the working out centres around camrardarie. It is the furthest cry from dudes working out in gyms, doing completely non-functional movements that don't translate into life, calling each other a pussy and hurting their bodies by compromising technique to look like a hard man.
It is everyone together, learning, being challenged, overcoming the scariest fucking shit, encouraging each other. Little tiny women come in, scared, we all are. And in three weeks they're over head snatching half their body weight. It changes you. It's the best thing that ever happened to me, crossfit.
Every time you go to crossfit, you do something you have never done before.
What ever you deadlifted last time, you aim to do more. If your technique on snatch was lacking, you practise and practise. Every day, you acheive something. And i'll tell you something about that. Anyone with even an iota of depression in their mind, should do crossfit. Doing something better everyday, while people who love you, yes, love you, stand around and get psyched for you and share your success, ask for your times, pat you on the back, egg you on, cheer, run with you to the finish etc. jolts you out of a bad mood so fast and furiously you can't remember what the fucking problem was.
yada yada. Everyone's obsessed with it because it's THAT good.
We turn up, there's about 40 athletes. We get teamed into fours. Two Rx'd and two scaled. What this means is that Rx'd do the workout as prescribed, and scaled people get a lighter weight or shorter set. EVERYONE works their guts out, it just allows for the different levels of ability. I'm Rx'd. There's alot of pride in that for me. I am naturally athletic, but i have to work FREAKIN hard to get there, and stay there. There aint no shortcuts and no faking. You work til you cannot work even one milimetre harder. You collapse on the floor when you're done.
First workout:
300m row on machine, no probs.
Then what is called a hang clean. You take a loaded up barbell from the floor and 'jerk' it/pull it up to chest height, flick your arms under neath and 'catch' it, elbows pointing forward. sorry if that makes no sense. essentially, you get the weight off the floor, slide and jump it up the body, to a position where you are standing with the barbell 'racked' on your chest. They're hard.
I have to do it at 40kg. 40kg is ALOT. I weigh 68kg. It's more than half my own body weight. All your shopping, the day you do the big epic supermarket shop and spend $200, probably weighs about 15kg. 40kg is alot.
I'm first too, and i start, and i go to jerk it and that mother fucking bar does not go up. I put it back down, reset, lift, jerk. And that goddamn scary fuck shit bar is not going up. I look up like a lost lamb, and i'm saying 'dave (my trainer) it's too heavy' in disbelief. Because what are my fucking options at this point? the workout has started, I"m Rx, nothing can be done, this IS my weight.
And Dave comes rushing over like a protective papa bear, bends down, puts his hands on his knee's and says JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as you can. An order. It's now. Can you do it or not? I lift the bar, I JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as i can and the fucking thing goes up. catch. stand. JESUS CHRIST. I have to do 15, then 12, then 9, 36 in total, with barbell jumping to tire you out in between.
This is the part of the workout where I start feeling emotional. You feel fucking emotional, because it is SO hard, and there's no backing out. You didn't come here to wuss out and not do what you are capable of doing. You came here to see what you were made of. There is no not doing it. Your mind says two things to you, IT's So HARD I DON"T THINK I CAN??!! and it says, NOW WAY OUT, JUST DO IT.
And that's upsetting. I won't lie.
I've done alot of sports, and trained other people, so i know about the mind.
It is all in the mind. Everything. Everything you do, you are what you believe you are, if you believe it, then it is. We get brought up/socialised/nurtured to beleive certain things. I am fat, thin, I am slow, I am fast, i learn quickly, i'm funny, i fail often, if i try i can do anything etc. etc.
Do you know about people with split personalities where one personality has ALLERGIES the others don't have?
The mind people, the mind.
The difference between doing, and not doing, is believing you can do it.
So crazy scared mind feels the heavy weight, feels the lungs on fire, unable to get breath, feels dizzy, feels pain and says HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M SCARED, I CAN"T DO THIS.
And experienced, well trained mind says: Keep going. You ARE going to do this. That's all there is to it. IT is going to get done, and by you. There is an end to this, and you're going to be there soon in 20, 19, 18, 17...
you just keep telling yourself all the thigns you need to hear. And you keep going.
Crazy scared brain is crazy and scared, and upset goddamit. And smart brain has to drown it out. It helps when your friends are there being smart brain all around you. Yelling KEEP GOING, you can do this.
The workout is insanely hard. After the clean and jerks, you jump laterally across the bar. you're gassed. you're spent. the very last rep i do is a contorted mess and the judge is looking at me egging me up to standing position so he can call REP! and i'm done.
I'm done. I literally, have never done anything that felt SO beyond my ability before.
We complete. We're last. I doesn't matter. Everyone has pushed themselves to within an inch of their lives, everyone is psyched and proud for each other, just for doing it.
after a short rest the second work out looks like this:
30 40cm box jumps (jump up, jump down, etc.)
30 Kettlebell high pulls - 16kg kettle bell from ground to chest.
30 burpee's (pure evil)
30 kettle bell swings - 16kg kettle bell from between legs to over head.
nd then 20 of each, then 10.
And a 400m run to finish. fast as you can.
Suffice to say, very hard. The kind of hard I really love though. It's when you're lifting tricky, heavy weights, unsure if each rep is going to make it, that's scary. Lungs, well i'm used to them screaming at me, you just think, fuck it, keep going, you can't DIE right? You can't DIE doing this...?
Again last. And on the final run on the way home (to end the work out) amanda yells I LOVE OUR TEAM, and i say ME TOO, and we do. Everyone had there strength, their failing, their weakness, everyone worked til they couldn't work anymore, and then worked a litle bit more.
It does something GOOD to the insides of you, it does something good to the people all around you.
That's all I have to write about today. Not funny, or embarrsing, or entertaining, or about any sad dating foible, or singleness, love, break ups, or anything of the sort.
Just wanted to tell you how awesome I was today.
:)
Today, a completely different post. I want to tell you about something awesome I did. Seeing as this blog is drenched in woe.
Today I did a crossfit competition. I am sitting here icing my thumb and shoulder with pea's. Thumb taking breaks from peas to type.
My crossfit gym (quattro) and another one (rapid) met up at their gym in eden park, got put into teams, and competed against each other.
Crossfit, for anyone who doesn't know, is awesome. It is a the new style of fitness training, everyone who does it, gets obsessed with it, because it's that good. It's that good and getting you fitter, stronger, faster, more flexible, more agile, more able, more functionally fitter, and to levels of fitness you never even imagined for yourself.
Part of the ethos of crossfit is that the working out centres around camrardarie. It is the furthest cry from dudes working out in gyms, doing completely non-functional movements that don't translate into life, calling each other a pussy and hurting their bodies by compromising technique to look like a hard man.
It is everyone together, learning, being challenged, overcoming the scariest fucking shit, encouraging each other. Little tiny women come in, scared, we all are. And in three weeks they're over head snatching half their body weight. It changes you. It's the best thing that ever happened to me, crossfit.
Every time you go to crossfit, you do something you have never done before.
What ever you deadlifted last time, you aim to do more. If your technique on snatch was lacking, you practise and practise. Every day, you acheive something. And i'll tell you something about that. Anyone with even an iota of depression in their mind, should do crossfit. Doing something better everyday, while people who love you, yes, love you, stand around and get psyched for you and share your success, ask for your times, pat you on the back, egg you on, cheer, run with you to the finish etc. jolts you out of a bad mood so fast and furiously you can't remember what the fucking problem was.
yada yada. Everyone's obsessed with it because it's THAT good.
We turn up, there's about 40 athletes. We get teamed into fours. Two Rx'd and two scaled. What this means is that Rx'd do the workout as prescribed, and scaled people get a lighter weight or shorter set. EVERYONE works their guts out, it just allows for the different levels of ability. I'm Rx'd. There's alot of pride in that for me. I am naturally athletic, but i have to work FREAKIN hard to get there, and stay there. There aint no shortcuts and no faking. You work til you cannot work even one milimetre harder. You collapse on the floor when you're done.
First workout:
300m row on machine, no probs.
Then what is called a hang clean. You take a loaded up barbell from the floor and 'jerk' it/pull it up to chest height, flick your arms under neath and 'catch' it, elbows pointing forward. sorry if that makes no sense. essentially, you get the weight off the floor, slide and jump it up the body, to a position where you are standing with the barbell 'racked' on your chest. They're hard.
I have to do it at 40kg. 40kg is ALOT. I weigh 68kg. It's more than half my own body weight. All your shopping, the day you do the big epic supermarket shop and spend $200, probably weighs about 15kg. 40kg is alot.
I'm first too, and i start, and i go to jerk it and that mother fucking bar does not go up. I put it back down, reset, lift, jerk. And that goddamn scary fuck shit bar is not going up. I look up like a lost lamb, and i'm saying 'dave (my trainer) it's too heavy' in disbelief. Because what are my fucking options at this point? the workout has started, I"m Rx, nothing can be done, this IS my weight.
And Dave comes rushing over like a protective papa bear, bends down, puts his hands on his knee's and says JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as you can. An order. It's now. Can you do it or not? I lift the bar, I JUMP AND SHRUG as hard as i can and the fucking thing goes up. catch. stand. JESUS CHRIST. I have to do 15, then 12, then 9, 36 in total, with barbell jumping to tire you out in between.
This is the part of the workout where I start feeling emotional. You feel fucking emotional, because it is SO hard, and there's no backing out. You didn't come here to wuss out and not do what you are capable of doing. You came here to see what you were made of. There is no not doing it. Your mind says two things to you, IT's So HARD I DON"T THINK I CAN??!! and it says, NOW WAY OUT, JUST DO IT.
And that's upsetting. I won't lie.
I've done alot of sports, and trained other people, so i know about the mind.
It is all in the mind. Everything. Everything you do, you are what you believe you are, if you believe it, then it is. We get brought up/socialised/nurtured to beleive certain things. I am fat, thin, I am slow, I am fast, i learn quickly, i'm funny, i fail often, if i try i can do anything etc. etc.
Do you know about people with split personalities where one personality has ALLERGIES the others don't have?
The mind people, the mind.
The difference between doing, and not doing, is believing you can do it.
So crazy scared mind feels the heavy weight, feels the lungs on fire, unable to get breath, feels dizzy, feels pain and says HOLY FUCKING SHIT I'M SCARED, I CAN"T DO THIS.
And experienced, well trained mind says: Keep going. You ARE going to do this. That's all there is to it. IT is going to get done, and by you. There is an end to this, and you're going to be there soon in 20, 19, 18, 17...
you just keep telling yourself all the thigns you need to hear. And you keep going.
Crazy scared brain is crazy and scared, and upset goddamit. And smart brain has to drown it out. It helps when your friends are there being smart brain all around you. Yelling KEEP GOING, you can do this.
The workout is insanely hard. After the clean and jerks, you jump laterally across the bar. you're gassed. you're spent. the very last rep i do is a contorted mess and the judge is looking at me egging me up to standing position so he can call REP! and i'm done.
I'm done. I literally, have never done anything that felt SO beyond my ability before.
We complete. We're last. I doesn't matter. Everyone has pushed themselves to within an inch of their lives, everyone is psyched and proud for each other, just for doing it.
after a short rest the second work out looks like this:
30 40cm box jumps (jump up, jump down, etc.)
30 Kettlebell high pulls - 16kg kettle bell from ground to chest.
30 burpee's (pure evil)
30 kettle bell swings - 16kg kettle bell from between legs to over head.
nd then 20 of each, then 10.
And a 400m run to finish. fast as you can.
Suffice to say, very hard. The kind of hard I really love though. It's when you're lifting tricky, heavy weights, unsure if each rep is going to make it, that's scary. Lungs, well i'm used to them screaming at me, you just think, fuck it, keep going, you can't DIE right? You can't DIE doing this...?
Again last. And on the final run on the way home (to end the work out) amanda yells I LOVE OUR TEAM, and i say ME TOO, and we do. Everyone had there strength, their failing, their weakness, everyone worked til they couldn't work anymore, and then worked a litle bit more.
It does something GOOD to the insides of you, it does something good to the people all around you.
That's all I have to write about today. Not funny, or embarrsing, or entertaining, or about any sad dating foible, or singleness, love, break ups, or anything of the sort.
Just wanted to tell you how awesome I was today.
:)
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Resuscitation
Things you do when you have just been broken up with:
Not eat. Drink alot of tea. Smoke alot.
Look at their face book page. Imagine everything they say is an encoded message to you. Cheer up. Or to someone else. Back to wanting to die.
Check your phone.
Do sudoku. Alot. At night. When your bed is a hot enemy and sleep is a rumour.
Plot your new, successful, perfect life. How happy you will be. How achieved those goals will get. How good you'll look. How in love you'll be. How better the next relationship will be. How self sufficient you'll feel. Good hair. Great clothes. Tiny waist. How beautiful your blue and white china sitting on the wooden bench with sunlight filtering over it in your perfect kitchen. Feel wind in your sails. Lie on your bed and cry.
Feel a jolt of painful electricity in your chest when your friend tells you she just got engaged.
Run. Run. Run. Believe that the pain in your legs is the pain ebbing out of your heart.
Not clean the bathroom.
Check your phone.
Not change the sheets for too long. Then change the sheets. Sniff your pillow case on it's way to the washing pile. Sob once as the smell of their greasy head and the knowledge of their goneness wrenches at your soul. Toss the sheets into a pile with the sharp angry flick of resolve. See the sheets drying and wish you could hadn't washed them away.
Cut your hair. Love your new hair. Hate your new hair. Cry.
Over dress in too sexy clothes, go out, get too drunk, kiss someone ugly, fall into a bush.
Tear up when you see animals show affection.
Watch sex and the city. Every season, every episode. Laugh and cry. Think you will be alright.
Write a sad, epic song about them on your guitar. Know that if you could just sing them this song they would understand everything, the burnt bridge between you would be resurrected, they would flood into your life again, touched by your depth of feeling and deep insight. Think about sending them an MP3 file of this song. Restrain yourself.
Write a list of reasons you didn't like them and you're glad you're broken up.
Tell yourself you are over them.
Imagine the list they'd write about you.
Wish you'd been nicer, shared more, less jealous.
Write them an angry, furious, vehemnous, raging email of hatred, blaming them for everything. Send it.
Write them an apologetic, jokey email. Begging them between the lines to take you back. Send it. Promise yourself never to email them again.
Have a moment of happiness. Know that things will be alright.
Sing along loudly to love songs that come on in the car and supermarket. Wonder if God put the songs there to fuck with you.
Check your phone.
Get heart palpitations.
Spend four hundred dollars at the mall. Wear your new expensive mohair cardigan for 24 hours straight. See it in the corner a week later. Regret two things.
Go on a health kick. Start with a green smoothie and lemon water. Have a coffee at lunch. Then a bacon sandwich cuz you're so hungry. Then twelve cigarettes. Start health kick tomorrow.
Call a friend you haven't spoken to for ages.
Tell them everythings great. Hang up and wish you hadn't called them.
Call an ex-flame you think never got over you. Find out they're married. Hang up and cry.
Get thinner. Put on pants you haven't been able to fit for awhile. Tell yourself it will be alright.
Check your phone.
Throw out your ugly underwear. Wish you hadn't worn it around them.
Plot your own suicide, the fictitious imagining of which centres around how sad your ex will be that you are gone. Picture him at the funeral, realise he will get sympathy that he doesn't deserve, and that you had to die to get him to shed a single fucking tear. Decide not to kill yourself.
Check your phone.
Have another tea.
Not eat. Drink alot of tea. Smoke alot.
Look at their face book page. Imagine everything they say is an encoded message to you. Cheer up. Or to someone else. Back to wanting to die.
Check your phone.
Do sudoku. Alot. At night. When your bed is a hot enemy and sleep is a rumour.
Plot your new, successful, perfect life. How happy you will be. How achieved those goals will get. How good you'll look. How in love you'll be. How better the next relationship will be. How self sufficient you'll feel. Good hair. Great clothes. Tiny waist. How beautiful your blue and white china sitting on the wooden bench with sunlight filtering over it in your perfect kitchen. Feel wind in your sails. Lie on your bed and cry.
Feel a jolt of painful electricity in your chest when your friend tells you she just got engaged.
Run. Run. Run. Believe that the pain in your legs is the pain ebbing out of your heart.
Not clean the bathroom.
Check your phone.
Not change the sheets for too long. Then change the sheets. Sniff your pillow case on it's way to the washing pile. Sob once as the smell of their greasy head and the knowledge of their goneness wrenches at your soul. Toss the sheets into a pile with the sharp angry flick of resolve. See the sheets drying and wish you could hadn't washed them away.
Cut your hair. Love your new hair. Hate your new hair. Cry.
Over dress in too sexy clothes, go out, get too drunk, kiss someone ugly, fall into a bush.
Tear up when you see animals show affection.
Watch sex and the city. Every season, every episode. Laugh and cry. Think you will be alright.
Write a sad, epic song about them on your guitar. Know that if you could just sing them this song they would understand everything, the burnt bridge between you would be resurrected, they would flood into your life again, touched by your depth of feeling and deep insight. Think about sending them an MP3 file of this song. Restrain yourself.
Write a list of reasons you didn't like them and you're glad you're broken up.
Tell yourself you are over them.
Imagine the list they'd write about you.
Wish you'd been nicer, shared more, less jealous.
Write them an angry, furious, vehemnous, raging email of hatred, blaming them for everything. Send it.
Write them an apologetic, jokey email. Begging them between the lines to take you back. Send it. Promise yourself never to email them again.
Have a moment of happiness. Know that things will be alright.
Sing along loudly to love songs that come on in the car and supermarket. Wonder if God put the songs there to fuck with you.
Check your phone.
Get heart palpitations.
Spend four hundred dollars at the mall. Wear your new expensive mohair cardigan for 24 hours straight. See it in the corner a week later. Regret two things.
Go on a health kick. Start with a green smoothie and lemon water. Have a coffee at lunch. Then a bacon sandwich cuz you're so hungry. Then twelve cigarettes. Start health kick tomorrow.
Call a friend you haven't spoken to for ages.
Tell them everythings great. Hang up and wish you hadn't called them.
Call an ex-flame you think never got over you. Find out they're married. Hang up and cry.
Get thinner. Put on pants you haven't been able to fit for awhile. Tell yourself it will be alright.
Check your phone.
Throw out your ugly underwear. Wish you hadn't worn it around them.
Plot your own suicide, the fictitious imagining of which centres around how sad your ex will be that you are gone. Picture him at the funeral, realise he will get sympathy that he doesn't deserve, and that you had to die to get him to shed a single fucking tear. Decide not to kill yourself.
Check your phone.
Have another tea.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Black and Brown is Frown
We need a new flat mate again. Actually we found one. But of course the usual flat mate interviewing preceded this. After meeting a dozen potential flat mates, my existing flatties and I sat around the table together and Mike - if you read my blog you'll remember him, he's the death metaller, six foot tall, shaved head, vegan and serious - said that one of the applicants, cherie, with her heart bracelet and rainbow t-shirt, and her insanely high pitched effervesence, seemed like the opposite of him.
Following this comment, a discussion ensued about what would be our opposites (great theme for a party). I tried to pick mine and said, maybe a really thin, mousy, quiet little librarian type girl with glasses and dyed black hair, but really why and depressed and introverted and emo?
And my flatmate pipes up and says, no, yours would be Malibu Barbie.
And everyone including myself erupts into laughter.
She carries on: with bleached boofy perfect hair, tan-o-rexic, fake boobs, six inch pink heels, heaps of bling and a handbag dog, and just really Done Up.
This reveleation at first brings me pride.. I yam what I yam... and then when it sinks in a little further I realise, I really AM NOT ... a done up girl. All that wearing of grey sweatshirt material, singlets with built in bra's and sneakers, the absence of makeup, the long tangly hair.. and the appearance of not having looked in the mirror (somedays it's true) has obviously not been lost on anyone. Huh. Sometimes you realise how the world see's you, and it's strange.
So I have been thinking that perhaps I would give being a girl more of a nudge. Maybe. Although it does look like a lot of hard work and time.
So the guy from the party... who tracked me down and was very interested in me.
Well he was nice, I saw him a few times, we hung out and it was fun.
But one problem was, he was a bit smaller than me. Okay quite a bit.
This is not hard to achieve... I have an athletic figure that has also been described as 'amazonian': tall, broad shoulders, kinda strong looking. I love it and am happy in my body, but being around a smallER guy... sometimes the words 'big mama jumbo' would go through my head. No girl wants to feel like big mama jumbo. Ever.
I mentioned this hitch to a male friend of mine, he's the kind of guy who likes his women skinny, in make up and with breast implants, so I thought he'd understand.
He said 'no problem, just wear more dresses and some make up and do your hair'.
Like possibly he'd been trying to find a time to say that to me for awhile.
Well, I thought this was potentially good advice, so out I went, and dresses I bought.
The problem then, for someone such as myself who is not exactly The House of Style, is that I don't have all the things that go WITH dresses: belts...handbags and other things I don't even know about, no doubt.
So here I was last night rummaging through my unfailingly stylish cousins wardrobe and admiring her new buys, she is deliciously stylish, always, and has impeccable taste, her outfits are art, I am in constant admiration of her. And there amongst her new things was a brown stretch belt. I said, hey i might borrow this to go over my new dress? It's black and like this and like this with some white flecks.
And she screws up her lips and goes mmm Black and Brown is Frown.
I crack up. did you just say Frown?? I ask. Yeah, she says, black and brown is ... frown.
Oh. She's serious!
In mock horror I ask her 'is there anything ELSE i should know?'
and she immediately says 'blue and green should never be seen... unles it's blue jeans and a green top' she says succintly.
Wow. The things you didn't know you didn't know. I mean, there are SLOGANS?
I suddenly felt a sharp feeling in my chest, that picked last left out feeling, like somewhere along the line every female had been taken into a girls only club and taught how to accessorise, what necklines suited them, dressing for your season, and how to remember fashion rules using rhymes leaving me playing outside in a muddy puddle with a wooden sword and pulling the legs off crabs.
There are so many things about being a woman that I clearly don't understand, but the thing is, it isn't my fault!
Growing up I had exactly two types of clothes (barring nickers), the ones my brothers had grown out of, and the ones my mum made at home.
Skivvy's featured heavily in my wardrobe, faded from years of use, in red, navy blue and forest green. As did track pants. Good, hard wearing, comfortable, practical clothes. I can remember tracking items of clothing as the passed from the folded pile in the hot water cupboard that belonged to my oldest brother, and then to the pile that belonged to my second oldest brother, and then finally! to my pile. Because I of course, wanted nothing more than to be my brothers.
Mum kept my hair short, boy short, once I had a rats tail. So short dad accused her of trying to make me a lesbian (multiple issues revealed by that little interaction). And then, when my parents divorced, I lived mostly with my dad. I was eleven. I lived with my dad, and two older brothers. I can't tell you how little they knew about being a girl, let alone dressing like one.
MY dad, was the man INFAMOUS for his choice of practicality over style.. no, not even style, over APPEARANCE. Dad is the man in the funny fluffy hat. Dad was the man who wore sandals and socks (it is an awesome combination, one must admit they deeply know this) but not just ANY socks, knee high, ribbed, folded down at the top, white or light pink or mint green 'business' socks and not just ANY sandals, brown Roman sandals. Dad is the man who now wears every day seeing glasses that are large round ovals that nearly join in the middle, they are somewhere between an owl, an old lady, the 80's and a made scientist. They are truly laughable. When he got these I actually had to intervene and tell him that they looked ridiculous (but in softer terms) because I didn't want people judging my dad as a crazy old bat!!
After considering this for several days my dad said to me: i listened to what you said, and you may well be right, but i have given you lots of good advice in your life that you haven't taken, and I am going to keep wearing the glasses. And so it was. is. People looked at my dad, for many of the wrong reasons.
Where was I?
Oh so yes. A girl. I think I ought to be more like a girl. Only, it seems like such a lot of hard work and frankly.. time wasted. Is it really worth it? Perhaps I would be married now if i had just put in a bit more effort. That's what aunts would say about me behind their hands if it were the 1900's and I had lifted my skirts to chase after a croquet ball.
Are black and brown really... frown?
Blue and green? never be seen?
I squatted 80kgs today. That's my max squat so far. Wearing leggins with a hole in them and a Y back single. Sweat ran off my nose and through my unwashed hair. The guys at crossfit were stoked and cheered for me.
Maybe I just need to find.. my own kind :) start looking outside of Malibu.
:D
Following this comment, a discussion ensued about what would be our opposites (great theme for a party). I tried to pick mine and said, maybe a really thin, mousy, quiet little librarian type girl with glasses and dyed black hair, but really why and depressed and introverted and emo?
And my flatmate pipes up and says, no, yours would be Malibu Barbie.
And everyone including myself erupts into laughter.
She carries on: with bleached boofy perfect hair, tan-o-rexic, fake boobs, six inch pink heels, heaps of bling and a handbag dog, and just really Done Up.
This reveleation at first brings me pride.. I yam what I yam... and then when it sinks in a little further I realise, I really AM NOT ... a done up girl. All that wearing of grey sweatshirt material, singlets with built in bra's and sneakers, the absence of makeup, the long tangly hair.. and the appearance of not having looked in the mirror (somedays it's true) has obviously not been lost on anyone. Huh. Sometimes you realise how the world see's you, and it's strange.
So I have been thinking that perhaps I would give being a girl more of a nudge. Maybe. Although it does look like a lot of hard work and time.
So the guy from the party... who tracked me down and was very interested in me.
Well he was nice, I saw him a few times, we hung out and it was fun.
But one problem was, he was a bit smaller than me. Okay quite a bit.
This is not hard to achieve... I have an athletic figure that has also been described as 'amazonian': tall, broad shoulders, kinda strong looking. I love it and am happy in my body, but being around a smallER guy... sometimes the words 'big mama jumbo' would go through my head. No girl wants to feel like big mama jumbo. Ever.
I mentioned this hitch to a male friend of mine, he's the kind of guy who likes his women skinny, in make up and with breast implants, so I thought he'd understand.
He said 'no problem, just wear more dresses and some make up and do your hair'.
Like possibly he'd been trying to find a time to say that to me for awhile.
Well, I thought this was potentially good advice, so out I went, and dresses I bought.
The problem then, for someone such as myself who is not exactly The House of Style, is that I don't have all the things that go WITH dresses: belts...handbags and other things I don't even know about, no doubt.
So here I was last night rummaging through my unfailingly stylish cousins wardrobe and admiring her new buys, she is deliciously stylish, always, and has impeccable taste, her outfits are art, I am in constant admiration of her. And there amongst her new things was a brown stretch belt. I said, hey i might borrow this to go over my new dress? It's black and like this and like this with some white flecks.
And she screws up her lips and goes mmm Black and Brown is Frown.
I crack up. did you just say Frown?? I ask. Yeah, she says, black and brown is ... frown.
Oh. She's serious!
In mock horror I ask her 'is there anything ELSE i should know?'
and she immediately says 'blue and green should never be seen... unles it's blue jeans and a green top' she says succintly.
Wow. The things you didn't know you didn't know. I mean, there are SLOGANS?
I suddenly felt a sharp feeling in my chest, that picked last left out feeling, like somewhere along the line every female had been taken into a girls only club and taught how to accessorise, what necklines suited them, dressing for your season, and how to remember fashion rules using rhymes leaving me playing outside in a muddy puddle with a wooden sword and pulling the legs off crabs.
There are so many things about being a woman that I clearly don't understand, but the thing is, it isn't my fault!
Growing up I had exactly two types of clothes (barring nickers), the ones my brothers had grown out of, and the ones my mum made at home.
Skivvy's featured heavily in my wardrobe, faded from years of use, in red, navy blue and forest green. As did track pants. Good, hard wearing, comfortable, practical clothes. I can remember tracking items of clothing as the passed from the folded pile in the hot water cupboard that belonged to my oldest brother, and then to the pile that belonged to my second oldest brother, and then finally! to my pile. Because I of course, wanted nothing more than to be my brothers.
Mum kept my hair short, boy short, once I had a rats tail. So short dad accused her of trying to make me a lesbian (multiple issues revealed by that little interaction). And then, when my parents divorced, I lived mostly with my dad. I was eleven. I lived with my dad, and two older brothers. I can't tell you how little they knew about being a girl, let alone dressing like one.
MY dad, was the man INFAMOUS for his choice of practicality over style.. no, not even style, over APPEARANCE. Dad is the man in the funny fluffy hat. Dad was the man who wore sandals and socks (it is an awesome combination, one must admit they deeply know this) but not just ANY socks, knee high, ribbed, folded down at the top, white or light pink or mint green 'business' socks and not just ANY sandals, brown Roman sandals. Dad is the man who now wears every day seeing glasses that are large round ovals that nearly join in the middle, they are somewhere between an owl, an old lady, the 80's and a made scientist. They are truly laughable. When he got these I actually had to intervene and tell him that they looked ridiculous (but in softer terms) because I didn't want people judging my dad as a crazy old bat!!
After considering this for several days my dad said to me: i listened to what you said, and you may well be right, but i have given you lots of good advice in your life that you haven't taken, and I am going to keep wearing the glasses. And so it was. is. People looked at my dad, for many of the wrong reasons.
Where was I?
Oh so yes. A girl. I think I ought to be more like a girl. Only, it seems like such a lot of hard work and frankly.. time wasted. Is it really worth it? Perhaps I would be married now if i had just put in a bit more effort. That's what aunts would say about me behind their hands if it were the 1900's and I had lifted my skirts to chase after a croquet ball.
Are black and brown really... frown?
Blue and green? never be seen?
I squatted 80kgs today. That's my max squat so far. Wearing leggins with a hole in them and a Y back single. Sweat ran off my nose and through my unwashed hair. The guys at crossfit were stoked and cheered for me.
Maybe I just need to find.. my own kind :) start looking outside of Malibu.
:D
I wish i wrote this...
You know the sound tracks to your life?
This is one of mine right now...
I just smudge my 'hot coral' nail polish posting this...
Swinging in the backyard
Pull up in your fast car
Whistling my name
Open up a beer
And you say get over here
And play a video game
I'm in his favorite sun dress
Watching me get undressed
Take that body downtown
I say you the bestest
Lean in for a big kiss
Put his favorite perfume on
Go play a video game
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
Singing in the old bars
Swinging with the old stars
Living for the fame
Kissing in the blue dark
Playing pool and wild darts
And video games
He holds me in his big arms
Drunk and I am seeing stars
This is all I think of
Watching all our friends fall
In and out of Old Paul's
This is my idea of fun
Playing video games
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu9V3Phfsf8&ob=av2n
This is one of mine right now...
I just smudge my 'hot coral' nail polish posting this...
Swinging in the backyard
Pull up in your fast car
Whistling my name
Open up a beer
And you say get over here
And play a video game
I'm in his favorite sun dress
Watching me get undressed
Take that body downtown
I say you the bestest
Lean in for a big kiss
Put his favorite perfume on
Go play a video game
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
Singing in the old bars
Swinging with the old stars
Living for the fame
Kissing in the blue dark
Playing pool and wild darts
And video games
He holds me in his big arms
Drunk and I am seeing stars
This is all I think of
Watching all our friends fall
In and out of Old Paul's
This is my idea of fun
Playing video games
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
Everything I do
I tell you all the time
Heaven is a place on earth with you
Tell me all the things you want to do
I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?
It's better than I ever even knew
They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you
Baby now you do
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu9V3Phfsf8&ob=av2n
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