Friday, December 17, 2010

Japanese Tea and Sweet Potatoes


In one of the most elegant and minimalist shopping plazas in Kyoto. a city of elegant and minimalist Zen architecture, a city known for its tea shops serving mochi, traditional sweet rice cakes, is Chaimon, a restaurant devoted to tea (cha) and sweet potatoes (imon).

My 20something daughter, Tina, and I were visiting Kyoto several years ago when we happened upon Chaimon. As soon we stepped inside, we noticed the two piles of sweet potatoes, one golden, the other purple, beside a grill, along with a display case of delicate petit fours. Tina and I were led to a table along the back wall and handed two menus. The table was edged in dark wood, with a square metal hot plate in the center. The menu was entirely in Japanese, and although I had studying nihongo for over a year, the only word I could make out was the ideogram for “tea.” There were no plastic models in the window and the couple of tiny pictures on the menu were for decoration rather than explanation.

When the server came to take our order, I indicated in my halting Japanese that I would have the same as the woman at the next table, although I wasn’t entirely sure what she was eating. Having already decided that she wanted a whole sweet potato, Tina led the server back to the front to make her choice. When the waiter asked what we wanted to drink, I answered tea, but had no idea how to reply to his follow-up question of which kind. I racked my brain but the only two types that came to mind were matcha, the bitter bright green powder used in tea ceremonies, and genmaicha, a low-caffeine green tea with roasted rice kernels. The waiter suggested sencha, a high-quality green tea, and reached under the table to turn on the heating element connected to the metal plate, which would keep our cast-iron teapot warm. To drive away the chill of the early spring evening, I also ordered a glass of  the lovely, fuschia-colored liquid I had seen on the counter, which turned out to be shochu, the Japanese equivalent of vodka. Although made with sweet potatoes, this shochu didn’t taste at all of the vegetable, but instead had the same roughness as other grain-based alcoholic beverages.

Waiting for our food to arrive, Tina and I noticed that the walls of the cozy jewelbox of a room, painted the color of garnets, were subtly adorned with sweet potatoes, painted a slightly darker shade of red-violet, an unexpected touch of humor.

The waiter set down a selection of delicate sweets in front of me: a small pile of candied, matchstick sweet potatoes, a scoop of off-white ice cream, and two little wagashi, the Japanese cakes usually made with beans but in this case, with sweet potatoes. One of the cakes was golden and topped with a fresh cherry blossom in honor of the season, the other dark pink; all were delicious. Tina’s single oval, purple sweet potato, carefully placed on the diagonal of a square, matte black plate, was more refined than any I have encountered before or since. I don’t know if this unusual café is still in business, but for me Chaimon encapsulates, as clearly as any Zen temple, the Japanese aesthetic, developed over the centuries in the ancient city of Kyoto.

Note: This piece first appeared in the travel blog: http://epicaro.com/hp_wpordpress/

Monday, July 12, 2010

Personal Branding?

I’m a sucker for quizzes and questionnaires, from the serious Myers-Briggs and silly ones on Facebook. The only problem is that I usually come up as a little of this and a little of that. Equal proclivities for being helpful and wanting to be in control, for being an artist and being an intellectual. Introvert and Extrovert. When it comes to fashion, I’m a mix of casual and romantic, bombshell and rocker, with a little gamine thrown in for good measure. My home is even harder to categorize although eclectic comes closest to describing my mix of classic modern Scandinavian, friends’ cast-offs, and Crate and Barrel furniture, accessorized by textiles from far-flung travels and dog paraphernalia.

So when I found “Style Statement,” a book with nine questionnaires that held the promise of distilling my style down to two words, I couldn’t resist. The questionnaires covered everything from body image to money issues, from dream travel destination (Easter Island) to what you would wear to the Oscars (strapless lavender silk gown).

But after taking all the questionnaires and reading all the profiles, from authors Carrie McCarthy (“Refined Treasure”)  and Danielle LaPorte (“Sacred Dramatic”) to their clients (“Timeless Constructive,” “Genteel Vitality,” etc.), I still felt a bit lost. I re-read the explanations of the “foundation words,” which represent your 80% “core identity,” as opposed to your  20% “creative edge.” The second word came fairly quickly: allure, which in my mind includes playfulness and feminine mystery. But I couldn’t settle on a foundation word that encompasses my intellectual and creative sides, my practical, cut-to-the-chase directness, love of travel and propensity to nurture. Was I “Feminine” or “Sophisticate” or “Genuine”? Genuine Allure sounded pretentious while Feminine Allure seemed redundant.

 I like the description of “Elemental” as being interested in the mysteries of the universe, but I wasn’t sure that I could live up to the quality of making everyday life magical. “Elemental Allure” did have a nice ring to it, plus the dot com address was available. The authors encourage readers to use their style statement as a tool in everyday life, which led me to wonder what kind of enterprise I could launch as Elemental Allure? (Hand-carved wooden furniture and jewelry with raw gemstones came to mind.) How would my life, or just my wardrobe, change—if at all—were  I to adapt this as a motto of sorts? 

The idea that two words could make sense of my past, help me in winnowing out what no longer works in the present and choose more wisely in the future is incredibly seductive. And certainly for someone working in the design field, especially as a consultant, like the author and many of those profiled, a style statement could help differentiating oneself from the competition and develop a kind of brand identity. But for the rest of us, the idea that any person, even oneself, can be summed up in a single phrase, a personal brand if you will.  is just a little disturbing.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

The New Vampire

Remember Dracula, the Transylvanian villain who gradually drained young women, including the hero’s fiancé, of their life force, in the book by Bram Stoker? This vampire may have been wealthy, clever and suave as ancient nobility, but there was no question as to his basic nature: he was evil personified.

In contrast, Angel, the vampire star in the TV series by the same name, is the good guy. He’s not unblemished—he killed hundreds of men, women and children in earlier years—but he is repentant; he has been cursed—or blessed—with a soul. He struggles against his basic vampire nature to drink the blood of living humans and instead subsists on bottled pig blood, warmed in the microwave. He still kills, but this time it’s the undead whom he stakes to save individual humans. He is capable of genuine love, for his miracle son, for his beloved, for his friends, making him almost human.

Despite lacking breath and a pulse, Angel is hot. Tall, brunette, and handsome, with a buff body and a brooding nature, he is the strong, silent type, a man of action rather than words. Played by David Boreanaz, Angel is a knight without the armor, literally saving damsels in distress from the deadly attentions of vampires and demons, seeking nothing, not even gratitude, in return.

But Angel is only one example of this new breed of vampire. Edward, the heart-throb of the “Twilight” movies is another. Tall, handsome and fair, he is also a strong, silent type. He, too, has integrity, drinking only animal blood and killing only to protect his beloved Bella from another vampire. Bella pleads with Edward to turn her into a vampire so they can be together forever, but he refuses, unwilling to risk her immortal soul. Unlike other vampires who literally catch fire in sunlight, those in the “Twilight” series merely glitter.

In “Daybreaker,” Ethan Hawke plays Ed, a hemotologist turned vampire by the younger brother who can’t live without him. Although Ed says he can’t remember what it was like to be human, he dedicates his life to finding a cure for the bloodlust that is destroying both humans and vampires. Made in Australia, where the Earth’s ozone layer is dangerously thin, the movie also portrays an entire society for whom the sun is death, albeit not the comparatively slow demise from metastasized melanoma but  immediate immolation.

And then there are the vampire romance novels, such as the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by J.R. Ward. Here, too, the vampire males are strong, silent, types who form a bond with their beloved which can only be broken by death. Once a vampire has found his mate—which can take a century or more-- he will protect her with his life. If she dies, perhaps in childbirth or at the hands of an enemy, he is like as not to walk into the sunlight and certain death. Not only is he incapable of hurting his mate, he can’t cheat on her either. The female struggles to maintain her independence in the face of her mate’s protectiveness, but she recognizes that he’s hard-wired that way. Besides, between their chemistry and his stamina and size, the sex is out of this world.

Angel, Twilight, the Black Dagger Brotherhood books-- all can be seen as 21st century fairy tales for adult women who still long to be swept up in a protective embrace and passionate love-making by a male who is capable of committing for eternity.

And then there are the two television series "True Blood" and "Vampire Diaries"; the central plot line of both is two vampire males fighting for the attentions of the female lead. These stories explore the archetype of the sociopath-- charming one moment, sadistic the next-- and the possibility of redemption, by power of love, specifically the love of a good woman (be she human doppelganger or telepathic fey). In an era of terrorists and serial killers, these stories can also be seen as morality plays posing the question of what it means to be truly human.

But beyond the sex, love and violence, there is another layer to these narratives. Although we are manifestly at the top of this planet’s food chain, we don’t seem particularly comfortable there.  We want there to be other forms of intelligent life among us, whether alien visitors from outer space, demons from another dimension, soulful vampires from this one, or angels from the great beyond. Nor is this desire necessarily a reflection of a more secular culture: look at the  succubus and  incubus of the Middle Ages,  demons who took the blame for unlawful sexual encounters. Even the saints, who intercede with God on behalf of a particular individual, can be seen as another form of unseen but intelligent beings who keep us company. The fact that all of these beings are largely invisible means their existence cannot be disproved; it remains a leap of faith.

As science discovers more about the size of this universe and other daughter universes, perhaps our human need to not be alone, with or without our Maker, is intensifying. Perhaps we are looking for a more intelligent being who will not judge us, but who will save us from ourselves, not only as individual sinners but as a species. Perhaps these other beings can reverse environmental degradation and restore our planet to some semblance of Eden-- or at least unite us in a common cause.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Nude Heels

Nude is one of this season’s hottest trends. Nude not as in clothing optional, but nude as in (Caucasian) skin tones.  In other words, beige gussied up with names like oatmeal, flesh, and taupe, as well as spring’s perennial pinks and peaches. Not only is this palette “in,” but wearing heels in a color that matches your skin will make your legs look longer, at least according to best-selling fashion author Charla Krupp, quoted in an interview in “O” magazine. At 5”3”, I can use all the illusion I can get, so off I went in search of nude heels.

Surfing the fashion blogs turned up a pair of peep-toe stilettos by Giuseppe Zanotti in a patent leather pale pink that looked as though they would “make your legs go on forever,” as the description on TheShoeGoddess.com suggested. The only hitch was  that I’ve never mastered the peculiarly feminine art of walking in high heels. Mastering as in being able to walk down the street with my usual long strides in the delicate, sexy shoes my eyes are invariably drawn to. Despite the fact that I’ve ended up giving away or returning virtually every pair of high heels I’ve ever bought,  hope--or marketing-- springs eternal. Perhaps this time I would find a shoe that was sexy, comfortable and matched my legs. Surely, that was not too much to ask.

My first stop was the Nordstrom shoe department, primarily because of its generous return policy. I tried on two pairs of Cole Haan pumps with Nike Air heel pads, one with peep toes, the other closed, but the toe box in both felt too confining and the shade of beige was too yellow for my coloring. A pair of Athena Alexander leather slides in a cream color were fairly comfortable, but not vamp enough. And then I spotted the Nine West ankle strap pumps in a variety of colors, including a deep metallic blue and a pinky nude. The latter were the closest match to the color of my feet, and fairly comfortable, but the blue ones also tugged at my heart strings. I could imagine wearing them for a night out with black tights and a little black dress or even to work with black tights and a navy dress. In contrast, the nude heels would have to be worn with bare legs or pale fishnets and couldn’t go to work. I tried not to think about the fact that both pairs had three-inch heels, and put both on hold, heading off to the gym to ponder my choices.

The next day, I settled on the nude heels. My boyfriend suggested I wear them to an upcoming party. After prancing around my apartment for an hour in my new three-inch shoes, I felt my back noticeably relax when I removed them. I went back to the store to look for another pair, a lower-heeled, more comfortable one, but alas, the only one I found was a taupe snakeskin slingback with a kitten heel, which at $278, was several times the cost of the Nine West pair and out of my price range.

Saturday night came and we arrived  in San Francisco’s Mission District. Once we were inside the party, I slipped on my nude heels. In the dim light, it took me a few minutes to find the right hole in the ankle strap. At first, I walked hesitantly but by the end of the evening, I was dancing in them. I felt not only taller, but also sexier and more confident. No one mentioned my shoes but one woman told my boyfriend, “Your girlfriend is hot.”

At the end of the party, I took off my magic slippers, releasing my foot from its arched position-- a position that mirrors the foot’s natural tensing at certain moments of bliss.  Perhaps that, rather than any leg lengthening, buttock lifting, or back arching, is the real reason for the allure of high heels.

As for me, I’ll wear these again indoors for a few hours, but I’m still looking for that sexy comfortable pair, the ones with the grace and delicacy of a Manolo Blahnik, the sexiness of a Christian Louboutin, and the comfort of Pumas. Those would truly be magic slippers.

Monday, March 1, 2010

The Lure of the Little Black Dress

“Wear more greens, blues, and purples—and less black,” reads the note I’d written in a bout of self-improvement. A former color consultant once suggested that I would feel less depressed if I wore less black. She was right. My face lights up when I wear turquoise and bright, grass green sets off my hazel eyes and brown hair. And the bright, clear colors of summer do make me happy, whether they’re on my bed, the wall or my feet. So why did I just buy another little black dress?

It’s not like I needed one; I already own several already. There’s the Nicole Miller, a classic LBD with ruched sides that I bought for my 50th birthday. There’s the dress I bought in London at the Goth-Glam chain, All Saints, that has gold threads subtly woven into its textured cotton fabric and a strappy neckline. It’s closest cousin, a shorter, more form-fitting black cotton knit that I found on sale in Berkeley, also has an unusual neckline, intricately cut out to highlight my décolletage.

Perhaps that is the theme of these dresses, as even the most demure, long-sleeved, knee-length, mock turtleneck LBD in my closet has an envelope opening between collar bone and cleavage. (I admit to being a tiny bit proud that at 53 my décolletage is still smooth and fair, the direct result of having spent my youth indoors reading rather than outdoors sunbathing.)

And then there are the two most outrageous ones: a cotton knit bandage dress and a fluttery-sleeved number with a deep scoop neckline in the front and an even deeper dip in the back, only slightly obscured by two sashes that keep the dress from falling open. (Actually the most surprising thing about this garment that I even bought a backless dress that reveals the long, faded scar from my scoliosis surgery.)


But none of this explains why I dropped more cash than I care to admit for another short, sexy, sleevelss cotton knit LBD? Was it because none of the others had this precise feeling of beachy casual? With its ropy halterneck above a keyhole opening, flattering draping, and just above the knees length, this dress is both soft and sporty—which makes sense as the boutique where I found it was inside a gym.

Was I hoping to show off arms toned (at some indefinite point in the future) by lifting weights and legs strong from stationary biking while obscuring the belly that only surgery can flatten? Or was I reacting to the fact that it was a medium rather than a large, proof that my new diet of whole grains and veggies was paying off? Was I responding to the subtle pressure of being told that it was the last one in the shop? Or was it something about the way it recalled the draped tunics of ancient Greece and Rome, of the Amazons or Diana the Huntress? All I know is that when the saleswoman held the garment up, I fell for it from across the room.

Clothing announces us to the world, whether we like it or not, whether we are even aware of it or not. There was a period when all I bought were long gowns that were perfect for the Renaissance Faire but totally out of place with my suburban housewife lifestyle. And yet those velvety creations moved and reflected something of the priestess, the artist, the time-traveler, the romantic in me. Similarly, the LBDs that I have acquired, all of which are perfect for travel and none of which are appropriate for teaching, carry a message to others and for me. Perhaps because my job is so consuming, I am unconsciously choosing to assert a different image on my own time. When I look in the mirror at the woman in the modern little black dress, I see a woman who revels in her sauciness, choosing rocker chic over rocking chair, a late-bloomer who devotes her weekends to exploring San Francisco’s alt culture scene, dancing with her boyfriend to a techno-beat.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Return of the Girdle

I have vivid memories of watching my two older teenage cousins getting ready for a night out. Their hair in rollers, they took turns sitting in front of the vanity mirror in their mother’s bedroom, applying concealer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Their bodies were encased in white nylon bras and white latex girdles, the latter extending from the waist to below the thighs, designed to hold in their voluptuous figures and hold up their nylon stockings.

By the time I was a teenager, pantyhose had superceded stockings, bras were being burned and the girdle had gone the way of the buggy whip. Not that I had much to hold in-- or up, for that matter; my figure was more Twiggy than Marilyn Monroe.

Fast forward a few decades to the return of the girdle. It started with control top stockings and then control top panties, with lycra substituting for the latex of yore. And then Spanxx came along with a well-publicized line of items to smooth and shape, targeted directly to the women of my generation. The same women who had escaped having to wear girdles at 16 were now at 36 or 46 or 56 buying the lighter-weight, more comfortable but still confining modern equivalents, a.k.a. “shapewear.”.

Certainly, there are times and places when one would want to have all of one’s “jiggly bits,” as Bridget Jones described them, smoothed and shaped, especially if being photographed is on the agenda. If you’re walking down the red carpet or down the aisle, or attending a high school reunion, then shapewear and false eyelashes make sense. But aside from these rare occasions, why would anyone want to wear tight “bike shorts” or a “long-line” undergarment that extends from just under the bust to a few inches above the knees.

A bra is one thing, providing embellishment as well as support. And a corset, while too confining for my taste, can be lovely enough to wear on its own, as seen in the recent designer fashion shows. But, really, how sensual is a layer of nylon and lycra against the skin? And how sexy is it to slip off a dress, and then have peel off the tight girdle beneath. Of course, since we live in a visual culture where image is paramount and the firm thighs, flat abs and pert buttocks of a teenage athlete are the ideal, who can blame us women for wanting at least the illusion of a Barbie body?

Blocked

Blocked, that's what I am. Blocked as in writer's block. The words that used to flow through me onto the page, the screen, have slowed to a trickle. No longer does the perfect sentence percolate up to the surface of my consciousness as I drive down the highway. No poems, however illogical, come to me in dreams. The days and nights of losing myself in the rhythm of language, when time and space collapse until only the words on the screen and my hands on the keyboard exist-- these are no more.

As one who came to the craft through journalism, I was trained to produce, on deadline, no matter what. Writer's block was never an option. Now, I teach writing, but no longer write, illustrating that horrible cliché that those who can't, teach. Although I have had my work published for several decades, I barely even journal. Of course, as an English teacher, I do still write: emails, lists, and, every couple of months, a new syllabus or three, not to mention corrections and comments on several dozen student papers each week.

I could blame the block on my day job, on my commute, on my dog, on my resolution to get in shape, all of which take time. Yet I have hours to spend watching "Angel" and "True Blood" on DVD or reading fashion magazines and browsing such shopping sites as Pixie Market. I even have material to work on: three different book projects, all on serious topics, all of which strike me as far too depressing. If I were to pick up any one of these again, the angst would drain me more than teaching four hours straight.

Perhaps the problem is that I am basically happy with my life by the sea. I have largely laid to rest the torments of the past and have little interest in digging them up again. Does one have to be tortured to create?

Actually, I'm a little embarrassed that what captures my attention now are colors and shapes: the sculptural folds of a garment, the play of light on the ocean outside my windows, the fun of pulling together a costume, the challenge of creating an apartment home that feels cozy rather than cramped. But compared to war, recession, health care reform, the fiscal nightmare in
Sacramento-- not to mention global warming-- my fascinations seem too, well, trivial. Frivolous.

If I could, I would write a book that was light and playful, warm and charming, one that would make a reader smile or even laugh, although I have no idea what the topic would be. The year I learned to party? But while I wait for inspiration, I'll just keep blogging