The work of Italian artist Mario Merz –– a leading figure of the Arte Povera –– is the subject of a retrospective at the Museum of Cycladic Art right now. It was in the late 60s that Merz started constructing his signature igloos out of metal, clay, wax, glass, burlap and branches with political or literary phrases scribbled upon them in neon. The idea of dedicating oneself to a single motif, exploring it to its seams and reinterpreting it a thousands times over, is so fascinating to me.
When I’m in the mood for fantasy fashion I go to The Room. It’s really the only place in Toronto where you feel like you’ve stepped into a walk-in cupboard at VOGUE or backstage at a runway show. The racks are close together and packed full of beautifully sequined Giambattista coats, shimmery Erdem capes, Comme shirts with a million pleats and Roksanda Ilincic gowns in eye popping hues. It’s a fun outing, no different in my mind to a visit to the AGO or the ROM. Fashion is art, fashion is theatre –– fashion is history.
I’m a big fan of graphic, monochromatic quilts, but in the right setting, even chintz quilts are charming. At Jan Marriott’s stall at the saturday Brickworks Market, I considered an antique 1920’s quilt covered in hand embroidered Dahlias once, but was very quickly put off by the thought of a million families and their cats curling up inside it. I do have my eye on these colouful, modern versions from A.P.C. though, and these monochromatic beauties are high on the list, too. There’s no curling up in quilts like these. This is art for the wall.
The thing about wearing a hat, is that you need to act like you’re not wearing one. An extravaganza such as this may get in the way of being able to do that . Someone like Carmen Miranda could have pulled it off, but the rest of us should stick to chapeaus that are a tad more wearable. That’s not to say that you cannot be imaginative, whimsical –– witty even –– in your choices. What matters, is regardless of size, colour and level of absurdity, that you are wearing the hat, rather than it’s wearing you.
“Some people need sequins,” said Edith Head. “Others don’t.” I used to need sequins like a ladybird needs her spots. These days, I wear them less, but when a collection this beautiful comes along, it makes me want to snap up every last piece. Delpozo is a dream –– a dream in which I’m wearing tulle and silk and pink sequins the size of loonies to take my children to school on a chilly Wednesday in October.
Years ago, Jason and I stayed in a tiny, dingy motel in Tijuana on our way back to L.A. from Baja California. Even though the place was so dodgy, there was something romantic about the whole experience. It was California! It was Summertime! We were barely 25! We sat in the room (too scared of getting mugged by a couple of bandidos to go out) and watched Bird Cage for the first time, and laughed harder than I’ve ever laughed in a film. By evening of the next day, we had checked into a quaint country inn in San Bernardino where we found clean running water and apple pie à la mode. Looking back, most of our trips have been a mix of simple guesthouses and huts on beaches combined with beautiful hotels with Frette robes and five star service. Being able to experience both ends of the spectrum is a privileged way to travel. Our tiny room at a backpackers hostel in San Francisco was as good a place to stay as the Fairmont on Nob Hill . It’s all about variety –– and attitude.
Chrysanthemum is one of my favourite picture stories. Sadly, I am less keen on the flower. I find all the mums sitting on trolleys in nurseries and corner shops, well, a bit mumsy looking. Of course, any flower in white is heaps better, and If this landed on my doorstep, I’d pop it in a mason jar and bring it to our thanksgiving table.
I’ve always loved the idea of a day bed –– a place to flop into with a mint julep and a trashy novel in hand. I think it’s only right to wear a silk kimono, chandelier earrings and a velvet turban when reclining on said daybed. And it really must be upholstered in something divine, like a schiaparelli pink velvet or a peacock blue satin brocade. Are you with me?
Last night, with both the little ones in bed, Iole and I sat in the dimmed light of her room talking about things. “Can I tell you something really, really important?” I said to her, as she sat in her bed peeling away the polish from her big toe. “When you think something nice about somebody, tell them.” In her rules to live by, Katie Couric says, “Don’t hoard compliments. Recognize someone’s talents and let them know. And if someone else says something nice about them, pass it on. It will make their day.” It bothers me when people are frugal with compliments, especially as a person’s day could so easily be lifted by a few kind words from a friend or stranger. “I love the red of your hair,” “those dance moves are the bomb,” “your kids are lucky to have a mum like you.” Years ago, at the cafe at Holt Renfrew I stopped a lady to compliment her on her coat. It was dove grey and long, with big, beautiful mink cuffs. “You are so elegant,” I said. She was clearly taken a back by the compliment. “No one has ever said that about me before. You just made my day.”
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