These days of summer.
Who wants to think?
Let's look at some art.
thinking about felt
Elsa Schiaparelli (French, born Italy, 1890–1973). Coat (detail), spring 1939. Multicolored pieced felted wool. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Ruth Ford, 2002 (2002.479.4).
Follow your nose.
Have been having many thoughts and conversations about
instinct.
How our initial gut reactions to any given situation
end up being right.
Learning to trust ourselves is not only wise,
but it can protect against so many harms and ills.
It's a sad time, these days.
Dogs not drugs.
instinct.
How our initial gut reactions to any given situation
end up being right.
Learning to trust ourselves is not only wise,
but it can protect against so many harms and ills.
It's a sad time, these days.
Dogs not drugs.
New York by storm
Caught some sleet on Second Avenue,
some purple heat lightning in Washington Square Park,
Some muggy hot hot heat on Grand,
had a fresh tomato,
perfectly al dente pasta,
a sad French movie.
Pouring but absolutely pouring.
Stay tuned for images and lightning video....
Good night.
C.
some purple heat lightning in Washington Square Park,
Some muggy hot hot heat on Grand,
had a fresh tomato,
perfectly al dente pasta,
a sad French movie.
Pouring but absolutely pouring.
Stay tuned for images and lightning video....
Good night.
C.
Prada, the joke's on you
For a girl with curly hair, these hot sticky days in New York Citycan wreak havoc.
Never a day goes by when this curly haired girl feels,
to say the least,
pulled together.
So, thank you Mrs. Prada,
for showing yet another look I can pull off.
Curly, frizzy, awful.
I feel like I started this trend a few years back,
when I moved to New York City and learned the real meaning of
humidity.
And now I can feel that people are actually jealous of my 'do.
Suckers.
The Benton League
Lilly taught me how to play canasta in high school.
Her mother taught her how to play.
Hence the Benton League.
I've taught friends to play,
and it breeds a sort of competitive spirit people didn't know they had.
I didn't know I had,
and have,
until I pick up those decks of cards.
We used to play every Sunday under Lilly's lemon trees,
we'd bake brownies from a box,
and order crap pizza.
We'd sing songs and create rituals that we still perform to this day.
Like we used to always say, while shuffling 108 cards...
It's a nice day, for a clambake.
The rules are not so simple,
but once you know them
a whole world of strategy and thoughtfulness opens up.
No game is ever the same,
but you learn tricks, and how to spot certain things.
You begin to get a feeling for the deck,
and what's coming up,
and what your opponent is holding,
though you can never know,
and sometimes she'll surprise you
with a Sneaky Pete (a Benton League=ism)
and you're stuck with all the points in your hand.
Or sometimes you luck out,
and pick up a juicy pot
and sweep the score and the game's almost over.
Though there's always time for an upset.
Never the same game twice,
but a ritual that builds over time,
filled with meaning, and friendship,
creating a bond to another person that is unlike any other thing.
An innocence and a timeless well of creation and thought.
We are accused of being old ladies,
which we like.
So we started a club, O.L.I.T.
Old Ladies in Training.
We smoke a lot of cigarettes,
and drum our fingers,
sing opera and ignore phone calls.
The neighbors must think us mad.
But we care not.
Her mother taught her how to play.
Hence the Benton League.
I've taught friends to play,
and it breeds a sort of competitive spirit people didn't know they had.
I didn't know I had,
and have,
until I pick up those decks of cards.
We used to play every Sunday under Lilly's lemon trees,we'd bake brownies from a box,
and order crap pizza.
We'd sing songs and create rituals that we still perform to this day.
Like we used to always say, while shuffling 108 cards...
It's a nice day, for a clambake.
The rules are not so simple,
but once you know them
a whole world of strategy and thoughtfulness opens up.
No game is ever the same,
but you learn tricks, and how to spot certain things.
You begin to get a feeling for the deck,
and what's coming up,
and what your opponent is holding,
though you can never know,
and sometimes she'll surprise you
with a Sneaky Pete (a Benton League=ism)
and you're stuck with all the points in your hand.
Or sometimes you luck out,
and pick up a juicy pot
and sweep the score and the game's almost over.
Though there's always time for an upset.
Never the same game twice,
but a ritual that builds over time,
filled with meaning, and friendship,
creating a bond to another person that is unlike any other thing.
An innocence and a timeless well of creation and thought.
We are accused of being old ladies,
which we like.
So we started a club, O.L.I.T.
Old Ladies in Training.
We smoke a lot of cigarettes,
and drum our fingers,
sing opera and ignore phone calls.
The neighbors must think us mad.
But we care not.
"SMALL-CRAFT WARNINGS, BLOCK ISLAND TO HATTERAS-- WHATEVER THAT MEANS."
Making the most of the summer days.
This week included an exploration of Block Island, RI on a borrowed bike.
For a small island you can really work up an appetite biking back and forth.
New England seems similar to California in it's laid back style.
No one seems to mind much of anything,
or perhaps we're all just on holiday.
There is an appreciation for the outdoors that I don't experience when I'm in California,
it's not something that's taken for granted as much.
I like New England style. I've been wearing moccasins every day.
Though I think that harkens back to the days when my hippy older sister accused me of being preppy, and got me The Preppy Handbook for Christmas one year.
Thanks. It came in handy.
I said I wouldn't leave the island until I heard a rooster crow.
I got my wish when our bikes cruised upon Ol' McDonald's Farm.
This week included an exploration of Block Island, RI on a borrowed bike.
For a small island you can really work up an appetite biking back and forth.
New England seems similar to California in it's laid back style.
No one seems to mind much of anything,
or perhaps we're all just on holiday.
There is an appreciation for the outdoors that I don't experience when I'm in California,
it's not something that's taken for granted as much.
I like New England style. I've been wearing moccasins every day.
Though I think that harkens back to the days when my hippy older sister accused me of being preppy, and got me The Preppy Handbook for Christmas one year.
Thanks. It came in handy.
I said I wouldn't leave the island until I heard a rooster crow.
I got my wish when our bikes cruised upon Ol' McDonald's Farm.
Almond/Sarah Ruhl.
"The Almond" Hairstyle of 1979.Sarah Ruhl is a playwright, and she deserves a shout out from notesontone as she is the inspiration and contributor of the title of this blog, "Would anyone care for an almond?" This line was lifted from one of her plays - either "The Clean House," "Eurydice," "Late: A Cowboy Song," or "Melancholy Play." You see I just kinda opened the book I have of her plays and this was the first line I read and didn't note which piece it came from. Silly me, I do apologize. I also recommend reading all of these plays and seeing them if possible.
From "Melancholy Play"
14. Joan, Tilly, Frank, Lorenzo and Frances the Almond
Tilly:
We're all here with a common purpose.
To get Frances back.
Lorenzo:
(to Frank) You again.
Frank:
Let's be friends, Lorenzo, for the sake of Frances.
(Turning towards the almond) This is my sister?
Joan:
I'm afraid so.
Frank:
Can I hold her?
Joan:
Of course.
Joan hands Frank the almond.
Frank:
Frances!
Tilly:
Do you recognize her?
Frank:
I think so.
Joan:
Frances.
I'd rather be an almond with you
than be a person with me.
Tell me how to be an almond.
Tell me, tell me, tell me.
I'll be quiet.
Tilly:
Can you hear anything?
Joan:
No.
dad style.
My father. What a guy.
A writer, a photographer, a car afficionado.
And damn handsome.
He inspires me with his photography, which is why
I've started this blog out with photos he took of my mother,
and here are some photos of him.
Always swaggering with style.
dad. 1950s style (ed. note- he's the kid, not the creepy dude)
dad. 1960s. what is he doing?
dad at mcsorleys. 1970s style. 
dad's sweet ride. 80s style.
dad. 1940s style. pre-stache. 
mom style.
My mom was and is a babe.
She has taught me so much.
The value of being resourceful (something I've yet to master),
how to cook, to appreciate art, to be a strong woman,
and, most of all, how to have style.
See how cute she is in these wonderful photos taken by my father.
honeymoon style.
mom style. 60s.
mom style. 70s.This is somewhere in Paris. I love the yellow shirt and yellow taxis.
mom style. 80s.
mom in malibu.
photos by my father.independence.
Hi.
Here is a blog. It is made up of things that inspire me, things I see, things I think.
Photography, writers, colors, interiors, fashion, cheese, friends, New York.
Here are some photos I took during a wonderful 4th of July weekend in Woodstock.
Thank you to Anna and her mom!
Here is a blog. It is made up of things that inspire me, things I see, things I think.
Photography, writers, colors, interiors, fashion, cheese, friends, New York.
Here are some photos I took during a wonderful 4th of July weekend in Woodstock.
Thank you to Anna and her mom!
Bethany by the pool
Anna in the pool.
Chanterelles from the woods.
Le petit fille avec marshmallow flambe.
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