My Favourite Mistake

Her morning elegance, by Oren Lavie

He Said:

I need loud music to wake me up in the morning. I need the news in the background. I need the smell of coffee, burnt toast, corn flakes. I need the shower on full strength. I need to jog when I'm not hungover, I need to jog sometimes when I am. I need my morning routine, it sets the tone for my day, and if its off, the whole day is off kilter. I had a "friend" stay over once. Her idea. She needed silence. She needed breakfast in bed, hugs, cuddles. She needed to read newspapers and talk about the day ahead. She needed to go home and let me start my day my way. Mornings are not for romancing, they're prep time for life. I can't prep on someone else's schedule and somewhere in my mind sleepovers are for kids. I know its something I'm going to have to adjust at some point. Some point far far away. And I'm already pissed about it.

She Said:

She woke up as light poured in. The pillow smudged: a mascara stain. Not the only stain. Another one lay, a little further away. She knew it was wrong. To let him in, into the bed. The only place that remained white and safe and just for her. But he had made his way, slowly, somehow, past the defence, past the centre back and into the six-yard box. She stirred, trying not to wake him. But he could feel her. Instinctively, he knew she was regretting, questioning, could almost hear the wheels in her mind turning. He offered her his arm, protectively. She declined, politely. Tiptoed out, walking softly over his jeans and socks. In the bathroom, the sun grew stronger as the tap dripped. She stared into the mirror but while she tried to reason with herself, a smile spread, betraying her. Back in the room, she glanced down at him, wrapped up in her sheets, his beautiful face suited her wrought-iron bed. She slipped in beside him. He turned to her, stroking the small of her back. She fell asleep again, fell hard, fell fast. And it felt so good.

This is Why I'm Hot

For anyone who has read my contributions to this blog it should come as no surprise that I have a love of cartoons and all things cartoon related that borders on the juvenile, whatever, is juvenile, but that's the whole point of the genre. I get a huge kick out of mean-spirited, short animations, perhaps a throw back to all the Tom and Jerry episodes I watched as an impressionable young thing. Anyway, we are here to talk art, not psychoanalyze me (if you believed that last statement please leave your email address in the comment box, there are some Nigerian internet entrepreneurs dying to get in touch with you).

Have you ever played that psycho-pop game where you ask a person what animal they would be, and based on that you'd get a clue into their personality or how they view themselves or some such entertaining nonsense... course you have. Whenever I get stuck in a conversation I turn to these psych 101 questions (or make up some outrageous lie just to see if I can get away with it, it mostly depends on how curious I am about the person) and these things generally unfold in a "here's my answer, what's yours" kinda way, so my staple answer is a cat, as the Aristocats was the first Disney cartoon to move something in me, the jazz, those french accents, that wild adventure, ooooo... but also I love the mad arrogance of those contradictory creatures.

Cats are lazy, prowly, languid, fickle, independent and aloof. They are also warm, loving, affectionate, needy and made for pampering, nothing so unattractive as some neglected alley cat... ew. Cats run the gamut from cuddly little kittens that are so cute you want to eat them, to ferocious lions that fascinate and frighten, and yet, throughout that spectrum, always retain that same feline je ne sais quoi. This animation brings together my cat and cartoon lovin'. This would be the cat I would love to be; mad, bad, and gets what cat wants, even if you're bigger and stronger and think you're in the right. Totally bonkers I know, but a girl can dream.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.


"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Just Shoot

I went shooting recently. It was an empowering feeling to have that weapon cocked and loaded, waiting to be discharged, in my clumsy, shaking hands. I was super nervous as the instructor assured me through my protective headphones that I was not going to hurt myself or others in the process, but I kept imagining someone running right in front of the targets at the last minute and freaking out. After I finally got a grip, both on the gun and on my hysterical imagination, I actually enjoyed the few rounds I managed to get in, especially since I hit the target smack in the torso and head area almost every single time. The instructor pretended to be impressed and told me that I was a natural, but I think that's part of the shooting gallery package, they have to butter you up into thinking you're Dirty Harry so you get into the experience some more. Knowing that did not prevent me from secretly agreeing with him, or from getting a massive ego boost ripping through that paper target. It's such a power trip to aim, fire off a bullet, and hit your mark right between the eyes. I can see why men love to kill things, besides being testosterone saturated eedjits. I've had a new found admiration for guns, and all things gun related since.

I have mixed emotions about crystal art. I get that the big names, Baccarat, Daum, and all the other important factories out there I'm too uncultured to bother remembering right now hired household names to do limited edition runs, or reinterpreted famous art pieces in glass, both beautiful and delicate, making it even more precious. A lot of it I could appreciate for it's practical value, pedestrian that I am, gorgeous chunky ashtrays, or jaw-dropping vintage chandeliers dripping colored crystals, mmmm, but the vases, the statues and lately the jewelery, its all a bit.. not for me. This gun however. This gun is a thing of such exquisite beauty. Its weighty without being heavy. Its comfortingly solid in the hand and yet, endlessly streamlined and easy on the eye. You give it mad respect for being such a statement of lethal power, but its only opaque glass, its so easy to chip, or break, or shatter, so deliciously fragile. This gun is an enigma you look forward to encountering instead of being annoyed by.


"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Enough is Enough

You can't have too much of a good thing... Especially when its wicked funny animation (grin). I never know when to stop pushing my luck, even when all the warning signs have been there, I sometimes truly can't see it coming. Other times, I'm on the flip-side, putting up with something unbearable in a bright and cheerful manner until quite suddenly my patience snaps and I stalk off, never to be heard from again, leaving the (quite rightly) bewildered person on the receiving end of this cold fury in a state of shock and awe that would make the US army proud.

So which one are you, the long suffering about to explode plaything, or the kid who is oblivious to the s*** storm that's about to hit the fan? What is your point of no return? And how good does it feel to finally do SOMETHING about it?

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Intimacy

Elinor Carucci's Intimacy

He Said:

She wants to know what's on my mind. I hate that. Most of the time it's nothing I want to share. I like her feet. They are so pretty, so clean, so different than mine. I will avoid the "what's on your mind" conversation in any way I can, and painting her toes is a pleasant distraction. I'm doing a bad job but she doesn't care, by now she knows me well enough to know I focus when I'm stalling. I love that she lets it go. I love that I will muck up her feet and she lets me. I love the closeness between us that needs no words.

She Said:

No. No. No. And I'm not just saying this because I'm on the cusp of marriage. But seriously. I know intimacy is a beautiful state to achieve. Overcoming the fear that if someone knew everything there was to know, they would leave is, a gift and not one everyone will receive. But there should be a point at which two people remain separate beings and not morph into one. Moments like a trip to the beauty salon. I cherish the time when I go alone and get lost in trashy magazines, or other times when I go with my girlfriends for a good gossip. At no stage have I felt the need to include my other half in these little rituals. And I highly doubt that will change. Sharing coffee and the papers in bed on Sunday morning: beautiful. Having your man give you a pedicure: (I don't care how you dress it up) creepy. Really, no.

Snake Charmer

Scott Campbell

I love tattoo art. I watched Miami Ink and LA Ink in an almost trance like manner to see what the artists would come up with next, and the various reasons that would drive people to make that kind of permananet statement on their own bodies. People would walk in randomly off the street and approach the tattoo artist with a very vague idea of a piece they wanted to commission in order to commemorate a special occasion, or to honor a loved one, and based on this flimsiest of information, these talented men and women would come up with something that would express in picture form what many of these people failed to articulate in words. I love tattoo art when its used in other mediums; clothes, shoes, canvas, and of course the mad art this guy is doing. My friend actually went to a show of his in a gallery in London and she said that in real life all this intricate laser cut work is done on actual dollar bills, so not only is it beautiful, it's tiny.

In a completely unrelated matter, I used to know (what does that mean anyway, just because someone is not in your life anymore doesn't mean you cease to "know" them, even though you might wish it to be the case, its just a linguistic freudian slip) a smooth bastard who stated, without irony, that it was simply in his nature to be a snake, and thus, he couldn't help it if those who were around him got bitten every once in a while. I love snakes. I love their sinewy, surprisingly hard muscles. I love the slinky way they move. I love their effortless elegance, and I love the way they coil themselves around things even though they sometimes squeeze the life out of them in the process. I am, however, aware that they are not one of God's most intelligent creatures, and their unfriendly me-against-the-prey-mentality sets them up for a solitary existence. Naturally, the easiest way to handle a snake that might hurt you with its bite is to get its fangs removed, and no matter how sexy slithering reptiles are, there are friendlier, more useful animals out there you can actually cuddle.

Seeing this bad-ass gorgeous cobra jump out from the dollar bill, tattoos and Mr. Snake came together, and while some people will commit to a piece of art living on their skin for life, some feckless eedjits can't even commit to a logical thought process. Skin 'em and slap 'em onto a pair of stilettos I say.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"