Who do you hate more? Insurance or credit card companies?

It's a tough choice. I have always been a model debtor; meaning, I have no debt, pay all my balances in full, have a stellar credit report, do not live beyond my means and don't buy shit I can't afford. For this reason apparently, my friendly bank has decided to punish me by adding usurious foreign transaction fees for every instance in which I paid with my credit card while I was in Europe. This without my prior knowledge and for the first time ever.
That is, a bunch of American losers default on their payments and now the bank thinks its going to make those bucks back from responsible customers like me. They can kiss my ass, the motherfuckers. I already sent them a letter telling them I refuse to pay those charges, which amount to around $35.00 (and only because I decided to use as much cash as I could to avoid huge statements).
My loved ones think I am on a quixotic crusade that will only crush me in the end and destroy my credit rating, but I don't care. This Commerce Bank, which has an image of friendliness and convenience, cannot start playing rough with the likes of me. I'm not paying the fees, and I'm canceling the card and let them throw me in gaol, for all I care. Wasn't Obama going to pass a law curtailing the abuses of these leeches? There needs to be a massive popular backlash against these people.
As for insurance companies, that fucking hole of disaster called the Freelancer's Union, to which I pay around 400 bucks a month to make sure I'm not left out on the street if I ever get sick, (thanks to the majority of morons in this country who insist that national healthcare for all is communism), on top of charging 50 dollars a copay, it now turns out that it also requires a co-insurance, so I have to pay almost 80 bucks on top of everything. What the fuck is the point of insurance then? I wonder: if you are healthy, it's probably cheaper to pay for a private doctor in full, and not be hemorraghing almost 5000 bucks a year plus copays and coinsurances and cobullshit FOR NOTHING.
I'm telling you, we are being manhandled and abused by crooks and it nothing but our own fault for letting it happen.

My New Tia Clara

My dear aunt Clara, God bless her memory, was notorious for always getting names mixed up.
Connie Chung she called Chonnie Cung. She said she went to see the movie Henry V, but she called it Carlos V (a Mexican chocolate bar). She went to see a play called "A Rose of Two Aromas" and she called it "Aroma of Two Roses".
I used to kid her that it seemed more difficult to make that shit up than to remember it as it is.
Here are snippets of dialog I recently had with someone who will remain nameless, but who has usurped Tia Clara's penchant for cultural confusion.
1.
Me: That's Roger Daltrey from The Who.
New Tía Clara: Don't know him.
Me: He's rock and roll royalty. From The Who! One of Rock's most important bands ever.
New Tía Clara: What's the big deal? They only had a one hit wonder.
Me: What are you talking about?
New Tía Clara: That song "Take on me, take on me, take me on..."
Me: That's AHA. Not The Who.
2.
New Tia Clara: Michael Jackson is dead.
Me: Wow.
New Tía Clara: Wasn't he married to Liv Taylor?
Me: There is no Liv Taylor. Liz Taylor was his friend and she is like 85 years old.
New Tía Clara: The daughter of Elvis Presley, Liv Taylor. She is an actress and a model.
Me: That is Liv Tyler, the daughter of Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. Michael Jackson was married for about two minutes to Lisa Marie Presley, the daughter of Elvis Presley.
New Tía Clara: I'm not sure you are right.

Tía Clara, reincarnated.

Why Am I Not So Sad...

... about Michael Jackson? I really like his music up to Thriller. I think he was enormously talented and sadly exploited as a child. Some of his songs, pretty much everything from Off The Wall, are the best dance songs ever. Thriller is a fantastic record. As a child, he was amazing. Before he became a wax dummy out of a Vincent Price movie, he was a handsome, glorious young man.
What the hell happened?
Why the irrational need to erase traces of his blackness, something he should be proud of?
I can understand the fear and loathing of the homosexuality, but not of the blackness that gave him his soul.
What horrifying reserves of self-hatred did this guy have to want to change himself into Mr. Bizarro? Lighten the skin and straighten the hair and narrow the nose...
When I heard the news at Cannes, at the terrace bar at the Carlton, I felt nothing. I thought that maybe his creepiness and bizarreness upstaged his talent, which is very sad.
I also knew it was going to be a free for all a la Princess Di (except in this case there was something worth mourning). And these things disgust me. Like Magnificent Arepa said, most people spent years mocking him and now that he's gone everyone is bawling.
I'm not looking forward to the sad state of affairs in which he left his finances. I am not looking forward to the circus that's gonna be whatever is left of his staggering amount of money, still generating revenue every time one of his songs is played.
He seems to have been left to his own devices, which apart from his artistry, were not very sharp.
It's truly sad, but I feel nothing.

150 years in the slammer

Finally, Bernie Madoff got sentenced by judge Denny Chin to the maximum sentence of 150 years in prison for his huge Ponzi Scheme. Hopefully without possibility of parole. Hopefully in a maximum security prison, although this is unlikely, since all white collar criminals end up at so called country clubs. I think the sentence is fair. Other crooks that have bilked the people out of their money, like that Sanford guy should get the same. Make it forever.
Madoff's family must and should surrender all their lavish assets and live in shame for the rest of their lives.
A harpe un a shande.

Game Board

One of my favorite possessions is an old checkerboard made of linoleum squares. I've looked at it every morning for twenty years and thought that would make a great quilt---just four-patches in different contrast pairs.

I finally made a little table topper out of quarter-yard cuts of greens and browns from The Morris Workshop collection. I put a free pattern for it on my webpage so click here to download it. It's towards the bottom right on the home page as "Game Board." http://www.siputflash.com/

I thought I was pretty clever until I found this picture on eBay of what looks to be a double knit quilt top. Somebody else had the same idea!

The Plaid Fad

Plaids are quite popular in antique quilts. Here's a picture of a top with a woven and a printed plaid, probably from 1840-1860. I thought it was Queen Victoria who popularized plaids as symbolic of Scottish tradition during her reign that began in 1837. But I recently read a book about her uncle King George IV who visited Scotland in 1822 decked out in his tailor's idea of a regional costume.

According to biographer E.A. Smith in George IV (page 201):
The "King condescendingly donned what was supposed to be Highland costume…though the Highland dress was still strictly limited to the clans of the northern and western parts of Scotland it quickly became the fashion to adopt it as a mark of Scottish national pride."

Victoria and Albert probably heated up the fad for plaid in the 1840s but George's kilt explains why there are so many plaids in quilts before Victoria's reign.

Click here for more information about the history of tartan kilts.

Disclaimer: As in all internet sources (including this one) you never know how accurate any of it is.
http://www.your-kilt.com/history-of-the-kilt.html

And more thoughts on plaid…
http://aestheteslament.blogspot.com/2008_12_07_archive.html

A B C 1 2 3

Oh dears! Regards from the French Riviera, where our glamorous self is attending the advertising bachannal also known as the Cannes Lions. This year there are like 40% less people and like 60% less parties and it's kind of even more fun without the mobs.
I'm kind of taking a shining to the Cote d'Azur.
Yesterday, at the bar at the Carlton we sat a table away from Roger Daltrey, who can be considered Rock royalty and Bob Geldof, who can't, but he's cool too. The man who doesn't like Mondays has sold himself to the man apparently and was to give a talk to the creative folk at Cannes today. The news of poor Michael Jackson spread like wildfire. The demise of Farrah Fawcett (nemesis of my curly hair) was commented and then we were shocked and dismayed by rumours of the passing of Jeff Goldblum. And Ed McMahon, who should have died around 200 years ago. After a frantic internet search to find out about The Fly, it turns out it's a hoax (and indeed it sounded like one, but here anything is possible).
Going to the beach... talk to you later!

Untitled #1

Summer's here. The longest day has come and gone and all is wet, grey and grim in NYC, the fashion capital of the world, as we once knew it. The new guard is safely immune to the next elimination round. The power base has shifted and we can all rest easy that a new day has come.
That said, I have a deep and abiding apprehension of what waits around the corner. The standard that is now set by the likes of Rodarte,( no offense Anjo) Alexander Wang, Proenza Schouler, Marc Jacobs and others too obscure to mention make me feel the film was switched when I came back from the rest room. It started out as a clever , elegant comedy . There were some interesting and amusing characters and then suddenly it was another sequel of SAW. Blood, guts, unspeakably bad taste , no taste and a whole lot of screaming. Don't get me wrong , I love a bad movie that's good , but I don't like trash . The screen is crowded with a lot of trash .
I wonder what the shows will bring. Some great collections I'm sure. This recent award ceremony will likely inspire some of the newly knighted to raise their game, and that's going to be a good thing. Others will scramble to try to prove they are all that and more, which is usually a fatal path to tread. The old guard will hopefully come through with masterful collections proving that the praise belongs on their shoulders. They are the Outliers. They've done their time on 7th Ave. and have their acts together. There is still lots to be gained and brought to the table by their experience.
I think about the names which have taken a back seat of late. Names that commanded so much attention. What happened to Zac Posen? Really? Where did he go? Did Diddy do a dirty and Dis inherit him? Or did he have some untoward experience that has been muffled and stashed away by the press. And Marchesa? Is Mrs. Weinstein too busy to work? One would have expected Harvey to strong arm an award nomination for his bride. She's got a company that is every bit as good or better than Jason Wu. Where is Thom Browne? Let's be glad that that question can remain unanswered for the moment. Beyonce and the House of Dereon? JayZ certainly has the heft to force her down the public's throats....what's up with dat? Phat Baby....what happened to the mother of Fabulosity? Don't answer that, another blessing in disguise.
So there is a lot to ponder. I think the shows will be made up of competing contestants from the Fashion Show , Project Runway, the hosts like Isaac , Fern Mallis( yes I hear she's doing a collection....NOT) and Kelly Rowland's, The House of Butterick. I can't wait. The best thing is I won't be doing one and can sit back and enjoy the cavalcade of stars.

La Fete de la Musique

Here's a country that still has a certain sense of community, after all. La Fete de la Musique is a day when all of France devotes itself to making music, listening, learning, dancing. All events are FREE. Money has nothing to do with it. Every neighborhood has different bands performing almost every style of music imaginable (with an unfortunate penchant for hard core electronica or truly awful dance music). Most bands are conformed of amateurs, and most suck. But the enthusiasm is undeniable, both of audience and performers. France is a country of great aficionados. Most of them may be constitutionally incapable of moving to the rhythm, but this does not intimidate them in the least. They are willing to learn and they have no sense of ridicule.
What moved me, for I was deeply moved, is that everybody gets together to make it happen and to enjoy it. For one day, you share something special with your neighbors, it's that simple. Very, very cool.
I was thinking, imagine if we did this in NY, or the whole of the US. One single, solitary day when it's not about money, but about connecting. Imagine all those talented people who would come out and play on the streets, and all those neighbors that would enjoy it.
I don't understand how a country like this is less constrained by money than we are. They do public projects for the benefit of the citizens and they do not begrudge them every cent they cost. The fabulous mayor of Paris has instituted the amazing bike rental program, still going on, the Paris Plages festival with beaches on the Seine every July. They open and pay for art centers in struggling neighborhoods. They give back.
We, who are supposed to have everything, are miserly. Even free events like Summerstage or Celebreate Brooklyn are always about asking for contributions, donations, sponsors.
So I suggest to Mayor Bloomberg, who is so keen on winning again, to check out what they do over here.

cfda

congratulations to the winners. it's a rags to royalty ascension for rodarte. they have come a long way, only the looks are the same only now with fancy styling.there should be a stylist of the year award, for they are the ones that give credibility to collections which on their own would be a bunch of pieces held together with thread and wires. i just don't see the brilliance or strength that such prestigious recognition implies by the most coveted of awards to the fashion community.alexander wang just flies right over my head or past it. it's the most flagrant , grandiose mediocrity. but hey, i'm just a sightless viewer. that is not to say he hasn't created some lovely things but it's a handful of bits not a body of work that says wow. the press must be nourished by specks of dust. proenza scouler is yet another example of burgeoning talent, but the accent is on burgeoning. to show accessories for a couple of seasons which have not shown their popularity or saleability or even a following of any size begs the question, what's up? it's a beauty pageant. the rest of them, marc jacobs, ralph as mr. poularity , well so what. smugness is the new substitute for humility and grace. i just don't see the point of it all .it's not a love fest i can appreciate. i'm just a bit of a sour puss cat, but i would wager that i speak for some who come away from this display as one of insipid political manipulation. it used to be a night of glamor and excitement. now it's just another night.

Hispanics are from Mars, everyone else is from Earth.

I have had it with the lack of respect, willful ignorance and condescension with which Hispanics are treated by the mainstream media in this country. To be fair, I think other minorities suffer that fate too, like Asians, who are even more ignored. But to watch the NBC segment about Hispanics in America was to cringe, and fluster in frustration at the stupidity, and the disrespect. As if Hispanics are only here to furnish the gringos with spicy food and a sense of rhythm. The reporter was astounded that Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem have won Oscars! That the guy who wrote the music for Brokeback Mountain is Hispanic (well, so was the director of photography, if you must know).
As Laura Martinez points out, where's the mention of writers, scientists, judges, politicians? Los fucking Angeles has a Hispanic mayor. But here's this putz marvelling over cafe con leche and Gloria Estefán (remember her from like 30 years ago?).
NBC should apologize to Hispanics and to me for making my blood boil.

Finally: One very good meal.

Thanks to Analia and Nicolas for recommending La Cave Gourmande, 1o Rue du General Brunet, 19eme (Metro Botzaris).

This is what we ate. It was all superb:

• Vichyssoise in a glass. It tasted of smoked bacon, of potato, of leeks, of cucumber. It had little croutons and also thin strips of fried leeks and potatoes. Amazing.

• White asparagus in a parmesan croute, with some sort of gentle sweet sorbet and a touch of balsamic. Excellent.

• "Toblerone" of lamb with BBQ sauce. The tenderest, tastiest lamb I've ever had shaped into little mounds like a Toblerone bar, sitting on a light puff pastry base with an amazing ratatouille on the side.

• Perfectly cooked Filet of Turbotin (fish) with a super subtle, elegant, light garlic cream sauce, smoked potato puree (genius) and the best fried parsley ever.

• Chocolate fondue with fruits. Simple, but the chocolate, out of this world.
• Almond torte with apples and saffron icecream. The cake was nice but a bit heavy, but the saffron icecream -- fantastic.

• One glass of excellent white wine from the house and one glass of rouge Vin de Pays D'Oc.

There is still good food in Paris at about 50 euros a pop.

Not that I am complaining or anything, BUT:

It's time to kvetch about France, Paris and the French. No visit here would be complete without a certain degree of exasperation, nes't pas?
Par example: There is always an extra bureaucratic step to everything. Free events are free, which is a wonderful thing. BUT. You still need to get a ticket for the free event. You still need to do the bureaucratic dance. Ces't comme ça.
More annoying: There is a mystery as to what metro ticket vending machines accept working credit cards. Some do, some don't and it's all very mystifying. Some machines only want cards with chips, others are more ecumenical. Seems that the more touristy the area, the more benevolent the machines.
BUT. Would it kill the Metro to have a machine that accepts bills, not only coins, and cards with and without chips? Would it kill the Metro to issue easy, convenient things like NY's Metrocards instead of annoying carnets of 10 loose tickets or a Navigo pass that requires your picture and the signature of Cardinal Richelieu?
It is the height of convenience to buy your train tickets online and just print them out in a machine at the station. In the very possible case that the machine does not accept your card, happily, you can also type in your confirmation number, BUT after you do so, it still asks you FOR THE FREAKING CARD IT WON'T ACCEPT.
So in the end you have to do everything analog anyway, like in the Ancien Regime.

Le Grand Paris

I spent several hours today at the exhibition about the architectural contest for Sarkozy's self-aggrandizing project (every French leader since Napoleon has to have one) of the Parisian metropolis of the future (thanks Mimosa!).
9 or 10 (I lost count after a while) architectural firms presented projects, among them Richard Rogers, Jean Nouvel and Christian de Portzamparc. It was extraordinarily interesting to see how each team conceptualized and solved the problem. It was also inspiring to see how big you can dream to try to make life better for the citizens of a metropolis. Some projects seem undoable, or too vague, others, like Jean Nouvel's, spectacular, and cunningly likeable, but it was all heady food for thought.
For a more journalistic but shamefully incomplete article you can turn to the NY Times. Here you will read about my own Napoleonic suggestions:

1. Destroy the offensive Tour Montparnasse and rebuild something gorgeous in its stead. Jean Nouvel imagines a spectacular golden structure on the top, but I say it's throwing good money after bad. Dynamite the eyesore and do something fabulous, as befits the area and the city.

2. One of the studios proposes a redecoration and renovation of the Place des Fetes, a few blocks away from here and a perfect example of condescending, ugly public housing for the immigrant poor. I second that emotion. Raze this horror to the ground and build a livable, beautiful, community space.

3. Destroy the Les Halles shopping mall and put a new central market there again. As one walks in the heart of Paris, thinking that this seventies monstrosity used to be the amazing central market of this town, one feels like sending whoever is responsible for this mall to the guillotine. I imagine Les Halles became untenable, but what they did is unforgiveable. I am no fan of the Pompidour either, but I'm letting it live for the time being.

4. As in New York, je vous propose to curb, limit and discourage the use of private motor vehicles as much as possible. Cities with great densities and mostly flat terrain (particularly cities with many narrow streets) have no business allowing cars anymore. More bikes, better subway cars, electric buses, minitaxis and trams, and voilá.

As for the outskirts, most of the teams concurred that they are dangerously cut off from city life. Paris is surrounded by an ugly freeway that functions like a moat, a demarcation line. Even with trains going to the banlieue, the poorest suburbs are ugly and neglected (and bad enough to spark riots, remember?). Many of the architects reimagine the balance of power between the center of the city and the outskirts, Richard Rogers in particular. They propose to end the isolation of the suburbs and make them into part of the city. I am all for the abolition of suburbs everywhere and the creation of cities of different sizes, where, as one of the architects noted, life does not have to depend on the automobile.

There was a wonderful quote in one of the projects. I paraphrase:
A city is not about a place in space, it's about drama in time.
Exactly.
In all, the contest is a fascinating opportunity to dream, and an example of the kind of projects the government should support. Many major cities should think in terms of this kind of long term planning (Are you listening, Mexico City? New York?).

Iran: Imagine...

Imagine that the Iranian people would peacefully overthrow the Islamic government. That they would embrace reform, throw that evil little vantz down the drain where he belongs, and be the great country and great culture that they are. Wouldn't that be swell?
Be prepared, though, for painful disappointment.

Stupid Human Flu

My dear friends in Dijon tell me that they have a friend from Mexico who was invited to a wedding in France and then disinvited because the bride was afraid she would bring the porcine flu as a gift, even though said woman was going to spend 4-5 days in France before going to the wedding. When she protested, apparently the bride said that some guests threatened not to show up if she came.
Why does this remind me of Nazis?
My dear friends in Dijon also told me that when they told their friends they were hosting a Mexican friend chez them (meaning me), everybody worried about me bringing the flu, even though I live in New York and have spent the last 3 weeks in Europe.
It seems that stupidity is extremely contagious.

Thrift Shop Quilts

Zig Zag II top by Dorothy LeBoeuf, from Hawaiian shirts, batiks, linens, silks, solids.

Spool by LeeAnn Decker, 72" x 72", 100% thrift store fabric.

Housetop by Deb Rowden, 55 1/2" x 55 1/2" Recycled shirts and purchased plaids & stripes.

My friend Deb Rowden and I are obsessed with Thrift Shop Quilts. And we have a few pen pals including LeeAnn Decker and Dorothy LeBeouf. We define Thrift Shop Quilts pretty loosely. A Thrift Shop Quilt can be bought in a thrift shop. You can make one yourself out of fabrics you buy in a thrift shop, as LeeAnn often does. You can interpret a thrift shop design. Or you can just be inspired by the whole recycling idea---There are no pieces of fabric too small to save. Note Deb's quilt.
Check out Deb's website, particularly these two postings:
http://debrowden.blogspot.com/2009/06/thrift-shop-quilt-1-sweet-strips.html
http://debrowden.blogspot.com/2009/03/out-of-control.html

Her motto: "It's not trash it's found." If you make Thrift Shop Quilts or collect them, send us some photos (My email is bbrackman@sunflower.com). We'll post them.

It's Flag Day

Document & Reproduction: Civil War Anthem

The document print is the original print on which a reproduction is based. One of my favorite places to find old prints is in quilt tops that have been ruined by some well-meaning quilter. I don't have any regrets about taking the tops apart. The worst was a top someone had repaired with a hot melt glue gun---lots of plastic glue.

In another badly handled old top pictured here I found the flag print copied for Civil War Anthem, a Moda reproduction collection Terry Thompson and I did several years ago. The document print is in blue and white at the top. The reproduction is the monochrome print below it.

To the right is the piece I took the original print out of. Somebody in the 1960s or 1970s decided to quilt this top from the 1830-1850 era. She used a yellow wool blanket for batting and backed it with a bright blue floral calico. She fortunately gave up before shredding all the old fabrics. When the top came into my hands I removed all the quilting and tossed out the thick blanket and fading 20th-century print. I've saved the old pieces and they've been the source for several reproduction prints.

Don't forget to put out your flag today!

Heading towards the finish line.

Unzipped. More like Undone. That's what this feels like. I feel undone. Every hour or so my mood swings like a pendulum. I can go from lightness to total blackness in a NY nano-second. That's probably the hardest thing for me and those around me. No one including me knows which mood I'm in or about to get knocked out of. Kind of like the book we read in high school, Lisa Bright and Dark.
This is Fluff, peaceful or postal. Knowing and accepting reality is like swallowing the bitterest pill. If I could just hang onto one feeling and proceed from that the days would have a rhythm that would carry me through. Instead, there's a cacophony of emotions, and a beating of drums in my head that does nothing but interrupt my thoughts and actions. Spasms of action and hardest of all spasms of grief. Ok , so that's the heavy part.
On a lighter note, I feel pretty good in the midst of preparing my farewell. There's so much to do, finish and loose ends to tie up that I don't have lots of time to sit and brood. Mostly, at night I find myself going over the near and distant past or first thing when I awake. But the bulk of each day is spent finishing orders , taking care of tons of details and trying to get everything in order for the end of July. To that end I am slowly and steadily moving.
There will be a certain degree of fallout , but that is a fact of life. Not every package will be tied with a pretty bow, but I will do my best to do my best. Wish me luck.

Paris Pictures

"Them Jews" Finally Doing Something Right

If indeed they are guilty of keeping this stupid fuck from wasting the President's time.
As always, every scoundrel's P.R. nugget: blame it on the Jews.

Food for Thought

I have to agree with my French friend Nicolas: The food is better in New York. In restaurants, that is.
The bread, the butter, the cheese, the cream, the pastries, the charcuterie: all of that is better here. (The cherries too).
But to eat well in restaurants in Paris you have to pay a lot of money. Bistro food gets pretty repetitive and heavy after a few days (hear me complaining). We've been to decent restaurants where we've paid an average of 30 euros per person and the food is no great shakes. For $42 in New York you can eat a better meal. Perhaps not three courses, but much better quality.
Silver lining: today I bought 4 cans of cold 1664 beer for 1 euro each. Voila!
In NY you can eat really well all kinds of food for less. And that's all she wrote.

The Lincoln Museum Quilt

Last year Gayle Curry wrote me an email saying she and her DAR group had decided to make a quilt from the pattern that Deb Rowden and I did for our book The Lincoln Museum Quilt. She continued:

"As you know, these things take on a life of their own and after a few phone calls we've been invited to display our quilt in Sacramento at the CALIFORNIA MUSEUM for History, Women and the Arts in conjunction with their Library of Congress exhibit honoring the anniversary of Lincoln's birthday. I've exhausted all resources in my area and checked on the internet; I'm unable to find enough fabrics. Our quilt, like yours is plaids and stripes. Do you have any idea where else to look? We're especially needing the lighter and medium fabrics."

I did a web search for her and couldn't find a really good source of woven plaids and stripes in the lighter shades. Fabric follows fashion and wovens are not as popular now as they were three or four years ago. Well, don't tell Moda, but we told her to go to the thrift store and buy used clothing. Men's shirts, in particular, have a lot of great plaids and stripes in the lighter colors.

They finished the quilt. It will hang at the Museum in Sacramento for the summer. With Malice Toward None: Abraham Lincoln Bicentennial Exhibit will be up from June 24th through August 29th. For more click here:
http://www.californiamuseum.org/visit/events

To read more about the pattern book click here:
https://www.pickledishstore.com/productDetail.php?PID=945

And check out Deb's blog for a similar quilt from the mid 19th century.

http://debrowden.blogspot.com/2009/06/1800s-thrift.html

Henri Cartier Bresson...

...I'm not. But one can try.

The Boulevard of Broken Dreams

The Meaning of Life Revisited

Do you remember that scene in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life where the waiter offers the fat guy an after dinner mint? Well, I am just about to explode, like that.

Off with their heads!

A Very French Poodle

How many lives does a cat have?

Over so many years this cat has done one thing and one thing only: design. Granted, it's taken different forms but the essence has been consistently the same. From a fledgling kitty with 1 good idea to a full grown force with multiple collections yearly. From cutting out pieces on the kitchen table to a staff of 8. With accounts in some of the greatest stores in this town and cities across the country. This is only to say, I've had a career and made my mark. My success has always been more critical than financial, but I've been able to do as I please and live a life I only dreamed so long ago.
There have been ups and downs throughout, some more dramatic , others just benign. Through each shift my resolve never wavered. I have been an optimist in the most dire circumstances. I just never considered anything in life or business that might be big enough to blow my little house down. But the whole idea of one's house being blown down is a bit of a cop out. That's putting the blame on outside forces and not a decision made from within. Houses of this sort tend to implode.
In the recent months it seems like business slowed to a halt. A marked drop in client traffic coupled with stores cutting back budgets created a malaise that developed into a form of paralysis. Quite rapidly, life as I once knew it was altered. Off days outnumbered on days. A sense of earth slipping out from under me was becoming a constant. Optimism started to erode and a cloud of frustration and anger took it's place. I still wouldn't let myself think that things could end, that the house might come down around me. The election of President Obama was a balm for a brief moment, though I'm a realist and know that these circumstances which affect us all won't change overnight. I did hope that there would be a more rapid return to activity in the marketplace. That was wishful thinking.
Though I took a hard look at the situation at Christmas I backed away from taking THE STEP.
I just wasn't emotionally ready I guess. Too much of my identity(secret identity)was tied up in the identity of the collection. It had been that way for so long , I just couldn't separate myself without feeling like I was cutting out my own heart . Fortunately, I've gotten past that and now am able to distinguish me from it. If the company ceases to exist in it's present form doesn't mean that I cease to exist.
That was a gargantuan hurdle for me. When you're somewhat insecure by nature and you have something that people look up to or in turn respect you because of this thing that you do , it's frightening to let go. It's like falling off a tower. My tower shielded me and brought me a degree of respect and notoriety. It also brought pleasure and satisfaction to countless people . The decision to close up shop is the hardest thing I've ever done. But that's exactly what I'm doing.
So how many lives does a cat really have? I can't answer that. Crossing an invisible line from what I've known to a place that is at the moment dark is taking all I have inside. There's a mix of excitement and fear. Relief and crushing sadness, but on a good day a fair amount of hope.
It's that hope that gets me from yesterday to today and onto tomorrow. I've had a great run. I've made some pointless mistakes but all together it's been an unregrettable experience. I've been so fortunate to have had this rare opportunity to make a difference in peoples lives. That's what fashion can do. A designer is more a doctor than just creator. She or he gives a person something from the inside out. A good designer makes the client more confident, more beautiful and most of all feel their best. That's what I tried to do each day.
Now to wind it down and plot my next move. However many lives I've had , I'm now onto the next. If this one is half as interesting and exciting as the last I'm in for a hell of a ride.

Strawberry Thief

Strawberry Thief by Georgann Eglinski

William Morris, the English designer who was one of the founders of the Arts & Crafts movement, is famous for his tapestries and wallpaper patterns, intricate interpretations of his garden. The Strawberry Thief, a thrush stealing fruit, is one of his best loved. His daughter May recalled he told the gardeners not to scare away the birds as he loved to watch them enjoying their ill gotten gains.

I've simplified the image of one bird for appliqué. A pattern sheet for an 18" mini-quilt or pillow is available from Star books. Click here:
https://www.pickledishstore.com/categories.php?CID=102

Sensitive Material

My friend Barry just sent me a picture of me in the process of eating a porra. Since it looks almost pornographic, you'll have to take my word for it.

SOS Racisme

Ah, the old country, with their old fashioned ways... Coming back yesterday night in the last Metro, we sat across a guy who looked like he could have been from Pakistan or Bangladesh. A French man sat next to him. He looked like a fourth rate Alain Delon and sported a coif similar to Anton Chigurgh in No Country for Old Men (we should have known this meant bad news).
Alain Delon was apparently leaning hard against the immigrant on purpose. Immigrant tried to figure what to do about this aggressive intrusion on his space. Finally, as Alain pushed him noticeably harder, the immigrant politely asked him to stick to his space. Alain Delon reacted instantly with enormous hostility. What I could interpret from quickfire French and body language was, what is your problem; you don't think there's enough space? You want a fight? (The Paris Metro seems to have been designed with the likes of Coco Chanel in mind. Unless you are elfin, it's too close for comfort even when half empty.)
At first I thought it was a case of sexual harassment, but then it was obvious that it was worse: a case of pure and simple racist provocation, subtle and cowardly.
The argument escalated relatively mildly, considering the affront, with us thinking they were going to start pulling on each other any minute now, but the immigrant knew better and the French guy stood up and left at the next station, perhaps because there were too many people around. He knew on whom to pick. I bet he wouldn't have dared do it to a less mild-mannered foreigner.
I wish I could have intervened, but I simply don't have the French for a fight. I guess that the word motherfucker is universally understood by now, but it all happened too fast. The outrage came in a slow build up, moments later. The immigrant looked at us for confirmation that he was in the right and we exchanged looks of disgust and solidarity. He muttered under his breath: raciste.
It was appalling.
In my 16 years living in the US, the only time I ever witnessed openly racist behavior was on the night of 9/11, when some hoods were telling a shwarma vendor on McDougal St. to pack up and leave.
Now, before we go any further, I wish to state the obvious, which is that racism is absolutely everywhere; as natural a part of the human condition as breathing. However, I believe that in the US it has evolved into something more underground, more cautious.
Many Americans have embraced total pluralism in their personal lives. Not to bring up more of the obvious, but we only need to say three words: Barack Hussein Obama. Not only is he the President, but he is a living example of what I am talking about, which is extremely common in the US, a person with a plurality of ancestries.
Those Americans who are not as pluralistic, have learned to disguise their prejudices. They have learned to live with the fact that we are part of a truly pluralistic society, whether they like it or not. Political correctness, for better or for worse, is the standard American response to racism, pure hypocrisy disguised as good intentions, yet it's better than nothing. In America, we can credit the formidable Dr. King and the brave people of the civil rights movement for a revolution in thought, that as far as it is from being total or perfect, is one of the greatest advances for progress in the history of that country, and of the world. Of course Europe is full of well-meaning people who find racism aberrant and intolerable. But its history is different and Europe still has a long way to go.

Georgia Tulips

Tulip by LeeAnn Decker 62" x 72"

The tulip quilt with its 16-inch blocks was inspired by a quilt on the cover of Anita Zaleski Weinraub's Georgia Quilts. The cover quilt top was made by Annie Parham Howard in Morgan County in 1960.

That quilt is truly inspirational. I did the quilt below in Kaffe Fassett's stripes and Dorothy LeBoeuf did a smaller version with the checked binding. There's a pattern for mine on page 123 of my 2008 book Making History: Quilts & Fabric 1890-1970.

Slow Food

Time for our general observations of some mystifying aspects of French culture:
Once you enter a restaurant, it will take you hours to get out. It doesn't matter if you were thinking of just having a fast crepe, a croque or a salad. It will take forever. The reason is not what all tourists think it is; namely, rudeness. It's a system of food delivery that probably stretches back to the ancien regime. Marie Antoinette probably said "let them it cake" when somebody asked for the check. The check doesn't come until you ask for it. Asking for it is difficult as waiters tend to disappear or ignore you for long stretches of time. Having been to Spain recently, although similar, there they are happy to take your money* faster.
1. There are fewer waiters in Parisian restaurants than there should be per capita. The humbler the restaurant, the fewer waiters on hand. It dawned on me that if you go to Taillevent, there must be a waiter for every one of your limbs and your five senses. But that is not my case. My observations are based on "cheap" places.
2. The waiter/ess may or may not acknowledge that you have arrived and sat on a table outside (this happens indoors too). Once the waiter acknowledges you, they act as if they don't know that you are there to eat. Perhaps they think your feet are tired or you sat down to ponder the meaning of life. Perhaps they think you just want to have coffee or a beverage, in which case, they will not bother bringing the menu. This is not a system about efficiency, but about personal freedom and choice, as dictated by the tenets of the French Revolution. Therefore, it is up to you to ask for it, since under no circumstance will the waiter have the menu on hand as they approach your table. As they go in search of your menu, they stop at every table along the way to inquire if others have decided, if they have finished, would they like some coffee, dessert anyone, etc. Before they bring you your menu, they finish all the chores that they set themselves to do along the way. The same happens with your meal and the same happens with the check. We have calculated that unless you eat a sandwich or a crepe on the street, the average lunch or dinner in Paris can't possibly take less than an hour. Not that we are in a rush, but idle people with time on their hands and a wandering spirit (i.e. tourists) have things to do too.
And please, do not take this as criticism. I, for one, do not always appreciate the well oiled machine that is service in New York restaurants, where everybody seems to be on the timer of an explosive device which will detonate in approximately 25 minutes, from soup to nuts. I'm just trying to understand the underlying essence of the Proustian lunch.
* The check dilemma also has me pondering whether the French have an issue with money. Perhaps they think it's vulgar to bring it up. To wit: We searched for activities at the Louvre we could engage on in an effort to improve our halting French. On their website, they list absolutely everything there is to know about the lectures, conferences and workshops available. Everything, that is, except the price. The price probably lies in some unfathomable recess where nobody who possesses an ounce of logic would think to look. We even went to the museum in person and could not find the prices listed at the information desk next to the box office. I guess money is not the most important thing in their minds. Time is not of the essence; it is as fluid and as long and as leisurely as all the tomes that Proust devoted to searching for it.
This is not necessarily bad. Indeed, it can be enormously delightful and charming, but coming from New York, it takes a little adjusting to.

Lacroix Redux

Well the good news is that Christian Lacroix's Couture house is under bankruptcy protection, our equivalent of Chapter 11. The bad news is whether this comes at a time too close to preparing and showing the Fall couture collection. This is a difficult situation fraught with obstacles both legal and financial. Though he's sworn to give his all, "200%" to use his words, he hopefully will be able to manage all. That is just what is so amazing, inspiring and incredible about the designer and the man.
If you look critically at him and his contribution these past 25 years , you will see what I would consider the perfect designer. The focus and the essence of Lacroix are the clothes. Always and only the clothes. Yes, Absolutely Fabulous made him a household name and a mega- watt superstar like Manolo and Chanel in the lore sense of the word. But that deification was for entertainment value and not of his doing. He has always remained behind the scenes and has let the myriad collections , whether his own or others like Pucci speak for themselves. At the end of the day if the clothes have no legs of their own it doesn't matter how much you try to do the talking for them.

Years ago, when I was just a kitten I had the pleasure of meeting him twice. The first meeting was a complete accident. At that time I was between jobs( translation: jobless and broke) . Thanks to the generosity of a very close friend who was neither jobless or broke , I found myself shuttling back and forth to Europe acting as a second pair of eyes, searching out fabrics for multiple collections he designed. To be destitute in all the major cities in France , Italy and Germany beat turn style jumping and 1 slice of pizza a day in this town. It was particularly pleasant when you factor in travelling business class, staying at 5 star hotels and ending grueling days at fabric shows in night clubs and discotheques til 3 and 4 in the morning. Just some background for you.

So on one of these trips I completely forgot that France had decided that Americans needed visas to enter the country. No one at Kennedy asked for one so it came as a rude shock when I landed and could not enter any part of Paris beyond a holding area. After hours of my best friend at home arranging through his family in Germany to get me a visa to pass through Paris and head for Germany, I eventually got out of the annoying airport and onto the fun that was awaiting me. As I waited to be set free or sent back from whence I'd just come they let me sit at a departure gate and sweat it out. This was right when Lacroix had just left Patou to open his own house. As I sat sweating two men sat down directly across from me. When I looked up I immediately recognized them both. Locked in conversation was the man , THE MAN and his business partner, whose name I think is Jean-Jaques Picart. So I just stared in wonder and waited for the right moment to interrupt them and play stage door Kitty. Well, if I said he couldn't have been more charming , gracious and kind listening to me gush, I'd be lying. I gushed and he accepted it with humility and sweetness. He went a step further asking my name , where I was coming from, what I did and where I was headed. This gave me a chance to share my pathetic, silly tale. He tried not to laugh but I could see his grin was fighting a guffaw. It was one of those Haute moments when the planets align and having the opportunity moments before probable deportation to make chit chat with Christian Lacroix. It sure as hell worked for me and I dare say it would have worked for you, too!

Let's jump ahead about 6 years. Now with a collection of my own, though still cash challenged , I'm back in Paris with the gang and we're tooling down the boulevard of dreams in a cream colored convertible Mercedes. You see, my friend continued to become more and more successful and continued to treat me like a king. He'd recently met Christian in Italy and had been invited to drop by the House when next he'd be in Paris. So he says over the blasting radio, "Let's go see Lacroix". At that moment,try as I might, I couldn't come up with a better option so off we went......to see the King. It sounds crazy, but I'm not making this up.....we went to go hang with Christian Lacroix at his couture house.

We were announced and directed to a very comfortable sitting room . The one with all that cool furniture designed by two hot decorators at that time, Garouste and something or other. White couches with bold contrasting black trim. After a few moments in bounds Monsieur Lacroix like a large puppy. He greeted my friend warmly and introduced himself to the 2 of us. When we sat down a person came in with a tray of 4 glasses and an iced bottle of Vodka!!! As Christian was filling the glasses he looked up at me and said something that knocked me over. He asked me if we'd met years before and wasn't it at Charles de Gaulle airport as I was waiting to be deported. I admit I was blown away. He filled my glass again because at that moment I did my first of several shots with the Master. It was too much. He actually remembered me and my predicament after so many years and so many triumphs .

The whole visit was so interesting because he is so interested. He wanted to know all that each of us were doing. How are lives and careers were developing and if we were finding satisfaction in the web that is fashion. Lacroix was exceedingly practical, candid and humble. No bullshit only straight forward talk; engaging and engaged. We were beside ourselves by his humanity.
When we said our goodbyes and headed outside to what was becoming a beautiful Paris dusk, he came to the door and wished us all well and thanked us for the visit and timely diversion.
He was so lovely and I've never forgotten his kindness. It is in such short supply in this business and in the world. I say a prayer that what happens is for the best and that he and his marvelous house are spared. But no matter the outcome he will be fine.

It's who he is , not what.

Profit...eroles

They looked iffy, but once we took a bite, we were in heaven. The chocolate was unbelievable, the vanilla ice cream sublime and the choux pastry amazing.

Our Paris 'Hood

Rue de Belleville. Not one tourist around. Except moi. A plaque in a building nearby commemorates the place where Edith Piaf was born. Those are the neighborhood's credentials.

The corner bar. The enthusiasm of the jazz/bossa combo is charming, and the singer is a sweetheart, though utterly out of tune. They play American standards with great devotion. A drunk couple dances wildly, with no sense of rhythm whatsoever, but with too much abandon. It's quite annoying. And it looks like it's gonna end badly. She crashes to the ground on cue with the end of the song. Everybody claps. A fat French guy attempts to sing Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, by Otis Redding, with no sense of shame or decorum (or melody or tune). They are clueless, but they love the music with a passion.


Apparently, some things never go out of fashion.

Weird metro station from the 30's at the Place des Fetes. No one bothers to beautify it for the working class.



Two tough little customers.