Amy Winehouse Dies at 27

Just recently Monsieur Redacteur and I were talking about Amy Winehouse - a French newspaper last week had a headline about Amy and how she only had a few months to join "The 27 Club". I didn't take it seriously because I had hope, as a fan of Amy's incredible voice, that she was going to clean up and come back with some amazing album. Sadly Amy Winehouse passed away in her Camden home, most likely from an overdose.

I don't want to write much more on the topic because what is there to say? I want to blame the tabloid culture, but they're only partially to blame. The tabloids exist for a reason. I want to blame those around her who failed to protect her and steer her course better, but I have known people who had that same knack Amy had for meeting the wrong man and a few like Amy seemed to meet too many of the wrong sort of men so that by the time something better came along the hope of being able to stay better was long gone. They all had a sort of fragility and no matter how much you want to help or how hard you try to help - sometimes people just stay lost.

Of all the Amy Winehouse songs I love, I suppose "Back to Black" will always be my favourite. It's a sad song, but it was obvious from the first listen that here was someone singing their heart out.

Here's a picture of Amy that does her justice. Not the famous Amy of the signature beehive and the tattoos. I look at this picture and think there's the girl who once thought everyone could sing so she didn't quite comprehend the talent she had. But for me, what I'll remember is that the first time I heard "Help Yourself" off Amy's first album "Frank", it was the first time I heard somebody sing like her.

Amy recorded a third album that wasn't released because of some of her troubles. I am going to hold on to hope that it's the amazing album I hoped she'd record because even though she's gone maybe this third album will be her last gift to her fans.

And I just want to say in closing; in the spirit of the song clip I'm going to post that no matter why she died or what problems she had there isn't another person in the world that could sing like Amy Winehouse could and not just because she had great pipes. Would it still be a great song if it were sung like a grocery list? "I die a hundred times", Amy sang, and you feel those hundred deaths.

Tonight Amy, Amy, Amy, I feel one hundred and one.

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Truman, the Brussel Sprout Who Could Talk

In my in Paris just next to the door I had three pictures taken by Irving Berlin that I tore out of three different old magazines. I framed them behind glass without a frame because I wanted to give them the feeling that they were taped up pictures on the wall - to recapture that teenage time when anything that mattered to me was given its own special place on the galleries of my bedroom wall (like my poster of New Kids on the Block).

I hung the pictures in a vertical row.

All three of these pictures meant something different to me. Magnani & Rossellini represented passion & truth; Capote the craft; and Saint Laurent beauty.

Finally seeing Infamous made me remember why - of all the writers there are pictures of, and even those who sat for portraits with Irving Penn (he did a haunting portrait of Anais Nin) - I put that picture of Capote behind glass so that it would be one of the last things that might catch my eye as I left my refuge. Truman Capote was not only an amazing writer, but he had a fascinating life.

Capote knew he wanted to be a writer by the time he was 11 years old. He lived in Monroeville, Alabama after his parents divorced and pretty much abandoned him. He was a close friend and neighbour to the future Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird), though as he cruelly points out in the movie when he's having a little fight with Lee that he wrote many books to her one.

After a difficult childhood that included his stepfather (from where he gets the Capote) was convicted of embezzlement and the family was forced to leave Park Avenue with nothing, Capote got a job in the art department of The New Yorker from which he was fired for angering Robert Frost. Still he considered the job more about becoming a writer than being a copyboy.

"I felt that either one was or wasn't a writer, and no combination of professors could influence the outcome. I still think I was correct, at least in my own case."

He had had some success with Breakfast At Tiffany's and was the toast of New York. He was friends with Babe Paley and Slim Keith (two of the most amazing women to ever walk the earth) and called them his "Swans".

And then came In Cold Blood and Capote's success seemed forever secured.

What neither the movie Capote or Infamous go into is that while Capote claimed every word in "In Cold Blood" was true, there were people who said that Capote's claim in itself was just one of the lies he was telling. True crime fiction was already a genre by the time Capote wrote the book, but its success (to the tune of $6 million in 1960's money as true crime writer James Olsen put it) made a major impact on the publishing industry.

"I recognized it as a work of art, but I know fakery when I see it," Olsen says. "Capote completely fabricated quotes and whole scenes... The book made something like $6 million in 1960s money, and nobody wanted to discuss anything wrong with a moneymaker like that in the publishing business."

Olsen admitted he was jealous of the money, but that while the book was superbly written, there were a lot of discrepancies. Even the investigator, Alvin Dewey said certain events never happened.

Capote survived any fallout from the allegations of fabricating things for his nonfiction book because of the skill he wrote it with and that I have always admired. He used his money to live life and that included his famous Black and White Ball. It was the biggest social event of the 1960's and the guestlist included Frank Sinatra, Mia Farrow, Lee Raziwell, Babe Paley, Norman Mailer, and 495 other stars, socialites, and important persons to whom Mr. Capote was acquainted.

But I also put up Capote as a cautionary tale (and perhaps I put up YSL for partly the same reason). Capote had a long and hard fall from his lofty perch that included drug abuse, losing most of his friends, and drinking until his brain literally shrank. He died of liver disease in 1984.

Lots of people I know who would like to be successful writers often comment to me that they think they have to suffer for their art. I hate this cliché because honestly, striving to become a successful author by your own definition is suffering enough for me. I want success, but I don't want it to cost more than I'm willing to pay. I'm a lot like Capote. I could see myself throwing a massive ball to celebrate my literary success (and could come up with 500 people to invite and would serve better champagne) and I share a trait with Truman in the sense that I am the person my friends all confide in but we are also vastly different. I am flattered that my friends turn to me. I keep their secrets to myself and try to help, even if it's just by listening.

Capote's book "Answered Prayers" took the confidence his friends and supporters gave him and aired them to the public. He slandered Tennesse Williams in print when their friendship went south. All one has to do is look at the facts of Capote's childhood and early life to see he had plenty of other things he could have written about and I suppose that's why I don't see my friends as fair game when it comes time to write. I have my own stories to tell, maybe I'm too self-centered to bother telling anyone else's?

"Breakfast at Tiffany's" will always be a beloved book for me (and the movie wasn't shabby either) and Capote always an inspiration because of the relentless determination he had when it came to being a writer. He was a small man, but he had big dreams and he went after them. Whenever I think of Capote as a child determinedly carrying around his dictionary and his note pad, I remember that younger version of me and the suffering I mentioned earlier seems to fade away a little under the fire that leaps up inside of me.

Infamous is a pretty good movie, not to take away from Philip Seymour Hoffman's acting, but it's better than Capote. Even if Gwenth Paltrow's part of the film involves having to listen to her sing and act badly in a dress that just seems too tight and anachronistic for the year it was supposed to be in the film.

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"Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"

In French "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" literally means "No, I Don't Regret Anything" in English, but it's a statement with many things to say. It can be comical in Mae West-y sort of way and mean, "Naw I don't regret a thing" or it can resonate with power and emotion as it did when Edith Piaf recorded the song written by Charles Dumont in 1960.

Piaf's voice set Dumon't words ablaze. The French Foreign Legion adopted it as their anthem when their resistance was broken during the Algerian War and it is still sung when they are on parade.

The song has been used in several movies, but by far the most famous use to date has to be as the "alarm clock" in Inception. The Hans Zimmer score is actually "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" using different times.

"All the music in the score is subdivisions and multiplications of the tempo of the Édith Piaf track. So I could slip into half-time; I could slip into a third of a time. Anything could go anywhere. At any moment I could drop into a different level of time." (Zimmer)

Throw in that Marion Cotillard played Edith Piaf in La môme (in this usage it means the waif rather than the sparrow) and Inception starts to make a little more sense. Especially since Cotillard's character's name is "Mal" which means bad in French...

But I didn't know much about the facts behind the song - even what I typed above before - until this very afternoon. I knew Piaf sang the song and that's about all I needed to know. It's one of the few songs that I never turned my nose up as a child when my grandmother would play it. It wasn't old people's music to me, not even then. I didn't get the deeper meaning or the now obvious pain mixed with courage and wisdom. That came later. And in bits and pieces.

When I left France for the US at the tender age of 10 armed with dreams and Madonna cassettes for the long flight to Boston from Paris and got a little homesick, I played a tape of Edith Piaf I recorded by holding up my cassette player close to the speaker of my grandparents record player. I wanted to listen to "La Vie En Rose", which always made me think the time my grandmother burned the madelines and she was so mad about it she shouted a string of expletives that it would be indecent to subject you to by typing here. My grandmother didn't swear and so of course I found it hilarious. My grandfather, who used such words with a great amount of skill and finesse in his "peppered" conversations thought it was as hilarious as I did. Eventually my grandmother had to laugh too because she rarely ever even said the word putain (which has soooo many meanings but fuck is one of them and we French use it more often than we'd probably admit).

I sat in my room far away from the people I loved and no matter how grey it was "La Vie En Rose" made life beautiful and pink again. When the song was over and "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" would start to play I would listen to it and then I'd press stop and rewind the tape to the beginning.

Fast foward and I was 20 and I was in love and my boyfriend at the time, let's call him Le Premier and I had just broken up for the last time. The boy who took me around New York City and kissed me in front of the sign for the Rocky Horror Picture Show playing on Broadway and I were non plus - no more. I needed to get my mojo back.

That when I met Il Secondo. He was from the north of Italy and wore these perfectly tailored shirts that barely seemed to contain his sexiness. Together we drank bottles of wine and created pasta confections he said he would never be able to cook for anyone who was actually Italian. The wine was all Italian of course. But then one day I insisted we buy a bottle of good Bordeaux and this beautiful man who I built robots with during the day made me what he called "French pasta" (it was bacon and butter with parsley) at 2 in the morning using the electric plate in my lab and we ate and listened to Edith Piaf and laughed about his conceptions of the French and France (women sexy, men wimpy, wine not so good, food barely edible).

When "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" came on I asked him what he regretted and he said nothing. I pressed him further. Nope, still nothing, he insisted. I found it hard to believe. I regretted everything it seemed. When he asked me what I regretted I changed the topic. "Just that you won't admit Italy is inferior to France" I think I said.

Long after Il Secondo went to work at some think tank for geniuses taking his sexiness and shirts with him, I was just moving to New York. I moved into an apartment building with a few French neighbours and we made fast friends over trying to make perfect baguettes and find good wine for cheap. My neighbour Sophie was a really talented seamstress who was trying to start her own business and she loved the song. She played it on Sundays while we'd pin up whatever dress she was making or while she'd do me the favour of hemming my pants before I had to rush off to work in the morning. When I asked her what her favourite song was once during a late night wine fueled chat, her answer didn't surprise me. Sophie seemed like she regretted a lot sometimes. "It gives me hope," Sophie told me. And from that day I listened to it too whenever I needed some hope.

Two years later when my grandmother passed away from cancer I went with my iPod and listened to this song the first time I went to put flowers on her grave. I still had regrets, but I knew my grandmother didn't. She spent most of her life with a man who had loved her and understood how to make her happy and who brought out the very best in her during their lifetime together. She had an exciting life. She was an amazing woman. I played it for her, my grandmother because I not only loved her with all my heart, but because there was so much about her I hope to be one day. It became in my mind her anthem. It was what I was going to aspire to.

But today it's mine. I'm wiser now. It'll been six years since I came back to France in August and lost my grandmother. Becoming French again, as I vowed to do was not only hard it proved impossible. So I stopped giving a shit what mean French people said about un-Frenchness. I was un-French and proud. The timidness that kept me from living my new life to the fullest was gone.

My accent that once often called bizarre is now sometimes charmant (charming). My little faults are more easily dismissed as part of this charm by those who find my un-Frenchness refreshing. My slightly peculiar way of speaking French is seen by those who see some kindred streak in me as evidence of my (and by association their) cleverness.

When I listen to "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" these days I have to sing along. It's my anthem now. Maybe not the only anthem ("It's My Life", Talk Talk is another), but it means something to the me that has less regrets now and is still hopeful that one day instead of this beautiful song being my battle cry as I charge at the future it will instead be my eventual victory song.

This is for us Mémé.

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Movies, "Literally" - A Three Person Discussion

Whenever Monsieur Redacteur, Donald, and I get together we always have interesting conversations. Usually about good writers and good books. When I mention that my celebrity husband and musical soulmate John Cusack is going to be playing Edgar Allen Poe, the conversation gets a little nuts and because I'm a very fast typer, I start typing notes.

John Cusack as Edgar Allen Poe? Donald isn't impressed with the casting choice. He thinks a young Alec Guiness would have been a suitable choice to play Poe in James McTeigue's The Raven, but Cusack not so much. I disagree. I think Cusack gives good Poe and he's literary enough to lead me to believe he has actually read some Poe.

There's no trailer yet for the Poe movie, but here are some other movies with a literary theme we came up with and some of our wine addled discussion.

Adaptation - We all agreed that Charlie Kaufman is a genius and that this movie in particular proves it. Plus it has an amazing cast. Even Nicolas Cage is pretty good.

Providence - The film I've been asked most often if I've seen it and have since missed every subsequent showing of this film whenever its been playing in some of the smaller movie theaters here in Paris. Next time though, I'm gonna make it. I can't find a trailer online, but here's the IMDB page.

Total Eclipse - David Thwelis plays Veraline to Leo's Rimbaud. It's a pretty intense film about the duo about their love that ended when Verlaine shot Rimbaud (who survived but the relationship did not).

Capote - The best according to Donald, mostly because of Philip Seymour Hoffman's brilliance. I agree that PSH is a genius, but haven't see the other movie.

Infamous - Haven't seen it. He thinks Sandra Bullock was in it. That doesn't actually dissuade me because I don't mind Sandra Bullock. I think she has a sense of humour. Turns out to be a film about Capote. The dialogue is also apparently "quite snappy" and the movie has a more "flamboyant" Truman.

That one with Michael Douglas - The Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon.

The Squid and the Whale

Decontructing Harry. One of the few Woody films I haven't seen. Defintely putting it on the list.

Factotum - Bukowski. "He writes about writing."

The Shining.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

We all say in unison.



Howl

Sense and Sensibility. Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, and Alan Rickman.

The Producers (The one with Gene Wilder.)

Naked Lunch. Is it about writing? "There's a typewriter on the poster." "I have trouble with Naked Lunch." (C'mon boys. Its Burroughs directed by Cronenberg. And yes it's about writing.)

Barton Fink. "Oh yeah nice one. Nice one," Donald says.

Permanent Midnight. Ben Stiller plays a crack addict. And apparently a writer. Yeah, Ben Stiller. By the guy who wrote Alf. Monsieur Redacteur and Donald find that really disturbing. We have to see it.

I want to see I Capture the Castle based on Dodie Smith's novel.

On the Road comes out this year. "At least it's not Franco again," Donald says. The guy from Tron is playing Cassidy.

American Splendor.

"Yeah, I suppose Fear and Loathing is about a writer, but not exactly about the craft," says Monsieur Redacteur.

Storytelling according to Monsieur Redacteur says is a weird movie but it's also good.

Now this might seem like a short list, but we stayed up pretty late talking. Not too late because we need to go to do stuff today (even though it's raining cats and dogs) and Donald is off on the next leg of his adventure (the last time he was off on a similar adventure he hitchhiked to Dover, took a ferry to Calais, slept in a French tavern, took a train to Paris, took a train to Zurich, flew from Zurich to Istanbul, and finally arrived in Shanghai. This time he's come from England again, will go to Normandie, and then fly to Shanghai before he sets out to wander around China for a month.

Donald calls chez Ama one of his many homes and everyone needs a home away from home. Hopefully one day I'll find a home of my own.



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Superman isn't going to be flying around with Lois anymore...

I am shocked. Superman and Lois are quitsville. What is DC doing??? He's no longer American or with Lois because Lois has a new man in her life. I can't help picturing Supes flying around in his new blue body suit and red cape, listening to Cee-lo's "Fuck You" while trying to choose which girl from the endless line of Lois lookalikes (that will be queuing around the block of the Daily Planet) he's going to get over Lois with.

Apparently Superman is having a midlife crisis. Afterall Lois and Supes have been married 15 years. That's like 50 years to us who dwell in a non-comic book universe. Not to mention he's just lost his adoptive parents. Supes was always nostalgic about his roots and the new threads he's sporting for the revamp are a nod to his Kyrptonian ancestors.

Or it could just be that DC wants to cause a stir for the revamp issue coming out in September (#1) right before Comic Con? If you're going to this years Comic Con you're rather lucky. If the revamp is anywhere near as successful as the original you'll be seeing history in the making. I'm going to guess that this issue is going to be the best-seller of the year. I know I'm going to buy one and I'm not even that much of a Superman fan.

Here's Clark Superman all new and without his underoos. Honestly, I think he looks like Bruce Springsteen, if Bruce Springsteen were enough of a fan to wear a Superman t-shirt, but what do you think of the new look?

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Paris Days

I couldn't find my checkbook to write a check for my dog's lab work (she has a defective thyroid) and since I couldn't pay by bank card my only option was to go and pay it in person, in cash.

I woke up it was 10 in the morning and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was that the sky was a most unlovely shade of grey.

The weather here is merde. I would expect more sympathy since it's July and I live in what is supposedly an area of France that is supposed to have seasons, which the last time I checked included one with a much hotter average temperature and sun and is known as "summer", but according to friends in County Tyrone in Nothern Ireland, London, Amsterdam, and Barcelona I am merely suffering the same grey and rain along with everyone else.

I rarely get to just to flâner the day away, sadly, but I do find moments to take my seemingly pointless strolls even if it's just strolling in the direction of the next place I have to be. Today was a difficult day. I went for a little dig through some vintage clothing and then strolled down the boulevard Rochechouart towards Pigalle for the purpose of finding some sneakers, and then I strolled on towards the Castorama at Place de Clichy because it seemed a more efficient option than going to the Leroy Merlin at the Pompidou.
There I was paying for my chalkboard paint and all the other little odds and ends I needed to realise my chalkboard project for my Home Improvement Week, and the bank card gets declined. Not because there isn't plenty of money, but because BNP PARIBAS SUCKS. Three days ago they called offering all kinds of cards and advantages and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah - and now despite having the money I've just been humiliated at a hardware store during the mad rush hour when all the workers come to buy their supplies. MERCI FUCKING BEAUCOUP BNP PARIBAS.

I am forced to dig out everything I packed into bags and put it back on the counter. Once the money was withdrawn in cash and the purchases were paid for I decided to pay BNP Paribas a little visit.

Now there are ways to get things done in France and I'm going to explain to you one method. This method entails having on a nice outfit. If you know you look acceptable, then march right the hell into the place where you have decided to unleash your wrath, but it must be done in the "proper" way. Descartes was from France and we French have never forgotten it, so there is in theory, a proper way to do just about everything. Sometimes there are many proper ways to do the same task depending on the number of people you talk to, but don't get confused. The concept of there being a proper way to do everything is just the way it is for most French people.

So begin by being excessively polite. If the person tries to be more polite than you, don't let them. Apologise for not being polite enough. Here's an example:

Sales Associate: But Madame, I apologise for any inconvenience.
You: And I apologise to you Sir for having to come here and bring this to your attention.

Apologise for not being polite enough and self-depricate yourself in a way that suggest you think you're the problem, but not really.

You: It must be me. Maybe I didn't use my card properly. I've only been banking with you for six years.

When the person catches on to your sarcasm, then you unleash just un petit peu of your fury.

You: Wait a minute, I have been banking with you for six years, and how is it I have this problem?

Now raising your voice is a very, very serious thing to do in France. It means you want to draw attention to yourself and the situation you're in. Today the sales associate at BNP Paribas said to me after I unleashed just the tiny, tiniest bit of my fury, "Calmez-vous Madame", which is the last attempt in such a situation that the sales associate has to make you look ridiculous. If you allow the sales associate to make you look ridiculous (even if there is no one else around), you lose. If you manage to make the sales associate look either ridiculous, stupid, impolite, or like they're not fooling you one bit then you win.

I won. I don't always, but today I did. I got him to admit that my problem was something that at his level he couldn't do anything to help me about and I immediately apologised for forcing him to admit it. He then arranged an appointment with the bank's manager and I did the last step - I asked him to tell his manager that I came in with a problem and that the manager should be prepared to address my concerns at our appointment.

Why do you do this? For starters it means he has to mention it to his manager because if you mention it to his manager first that sales associate is going to have a problem and you want the manager to know because he'll be more inclined to give you what you want. In my case I want them to reconfigure my account to the way I want it. If the manager is a smart guy and wants to keep my business, he'll be willing to meet me at least halfway if I give him the head's up that I expect him to review my account and give me an answer the day we meet. Secondly it shows the sales associate you mean business so since that is "my bank" I'll likely see him in the future and when I'm polite and show no hint of what transpired, it is in the French mentality to show a lot of graciousness towards the person who was in the right but isn't going to point out a previous mistake.

I marched out of the bank feeling like a million euros, which of course even if I had at that moment I couldn't have withdrawn because BNP Paribas sucks.

From there I sort of lost my stride though. I took a bus when I could have walked 3 minutes to the Metro I needed to take and the clock was ticking. If I didn't make it to this place I had to take my dog's centrifuged blood sample by 5 o'clock it might be no good. I stayed on the bus when I could have gotten off at yet another stop, but finally on the third attempt I got off at Gare St. Lazare and took the Line 3 to Metro Temple.

I was shocked to see that the Marché du Temple, a long Parisian monument to the much rarer indoor markets was under massive construction. Just the iron skeleton of her beautiful Art Nouveau bones remained. The rest was picked clean. I snapped pictures of her poorly attended funeral. (Sorry, but this is my eulogy to a building I loved even when the only thing they sold in her market was horrible leather jackets that looked like they should have been worn by IRA goons in 1970.)

But what I do love about Paris, despite my many, many complaints is that just when something heartbreaking happens to her; she shows you she's got plenty of other charms on her Cartier bracelet. Today that was the place I had to go today. The whole point of it really.

In the Marais behind a door I can't even remember was a one of the greatest courtyards I have seen in Paris to date. Not in the best shape mind you, but wow none the less.

The clinic was on the second floor off the grand escalier. I walked up well-worn stone steps (that were rounded towards their centers) through real stone walls with archways and little hidden stairwells that spiraled up towards the roof after passing through a cobbled courtyard with a table and chairs and two rows of single story ateliers with metal facades and great windows that were painted white for privacy (or to save money on curtains).

The woman was so nice! She thanked me for coming all the way and had a beautiful smile. I told her I thought the building was beautiful and she told me,"yes because it's not young like the other buildings in this quarter". I snapped pictures on my way down of the best bits.

I didn't take any of the courtyard because someone came in and I felt like I might invade someone's privacy.

I decided as I pushed open the door back on to the street to pass by La Fougasse on rue du Bretagne because they have two things I love there: fougasse-inspired pizza bread and pain des morts, a bread from a region of Corsica that is a dark bread roll with nuts and raisins and as they say "tres apprecie des vivants" - much appreciated by the living. It's the only place I've ever found it in Paris and it's really delicious if you layer thin slices of jambon sec and tomato between two butter slathered pieces. This is exactly what I was thinking of when I strolled up the street.

But then out of the corner of my eye I saw a tiny little shop. Close inspection proved it to be an atelier des relieures, a bookmaking shop. I started writing down information when a nice lady opened the door and started telling me everything about what taking a course there was like - how I'd learn every aspect of the art (in France bookmaking is still considered a métier - a craft) and how she would guide me every step of the way so I would have a beautiful book I made with my own two hands.

After the catastrophic attempt to make River Song's Tardis notebook from Doctor Who that made me think momentarily of the Hindenberg - I'm really considering taking the class. Not only is the woman fantastic, but she has an infectious amount of enthusiasm. Plus I could make the Tardis notebook in leather. I have until September to decide because she's off for the holidays, so I promised I'd call her and she made me promise I'd stop by even just to watch and I wished her a bonnes vacances - good vacation.

I was back on the scent of La Fougasse and my beloved bread, but sadly it was closed for the summer. I was starving since I didn't eat a thing all day so I considered walking to Arts et Metier to have Chinese food (some of the best Northern Chinese cuisine restaurants in Paris are around here), but in the end I had a lamb kebab on rue de Rosiers that was so massive I couldn't finish it.

I stalled about heading home by going to a few vintage shops and a few kitchen shops.

La Chienne was pretty happy to see me and that helped. Plus the day wasn't boring. It could have been worse.

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The Home Improvement Wish List (with a dose of reality)...

This is my wish list. Originally it was the list I made if money were no object, but then things got a bit unrealistic. Afterall I rent, so why would I bother with the bigger things? Too much time and money. Plus I don't want to get too comfortable in case it gives me the perfect excuse to stop being serious about my house hunt. Then there were the things I wanted to do, but French rental law says you have to return any rental back as you were given it. So for example if I painted a yellow wall blue theoretically I'd have to paint it the same shade of yellow again or else the landlord could bill me for the cost. Crazy right?

So I've crossed some things off the list and though even now I know some of the things that could be done probably won't be. That's why it's home improvement "week". I know myself well enough to know that I always get so very inspired to do things like this, spend a buttload of money, and then get either bored by my own ideas because they're not so brilliant afterall or I don't have the talent necessary to do what I wanted to do. I'm working on this horrible habit of mine but as it would require me to be more realistic about my own limitations and not just impulsively do whatever pops into my head it will probably never change. What can I say? I have my head dans les nuages - in the clouds. I'm trying to do what Thoreau suggested and build a foundation under my castle in the clouds.

1. Remove the hideous textured wallpaper where it is peeling and lifting and has already been torn off by my curiosity to see how easy it would be to get it off and then paint the walls with simple white paint but the kind that can easily be washed to save time on future housework.
2. Once and for all turn the useless wall into a chalkboard, though not the magnetic kind because the magnetic paint sold in France isn't strong enough for what I'd use it for like holding up photos and papers.
3. Put up shelves for extra storage space in the kitchen; hang gridwall for pots, pans, and other kitchen tools; put up shelves for my spice collection and for all the various glass and stemware I have (which is a lot).
4. Lower the kitchen counter by 30 cm so that my arms aren't exhausted from having to stand on my tip toes to chop things.  I can't do this obviously because my landlord would probably not like it. In fact if I could do whatever I wanted, I'd rip it out entirely and replace it with an antique industrial workbench with a shelf especially for storing wine and bottles of water. I love this one I found on Australian secondhand shop's website. I'd have the wooden butcher block top retored and find great bottle holders for that shelf underneath. I'd of course save one of the bottle spaces for my rolling pin.
5. I would stain all the bookshelves (about 66 meters worth) with walnut oil until they looked old and as well-loved as the books on their shelves.
6. Restore my Art Deco 1930's oak dining table, repair the wobbles, and sadly replace my Mategot chairs with something more comfortable.
7. Find a sofa on the cheap, buy mosquito netting, a tarp, some rope, an old coffee table, and make lots of throw pillows in order to create a small outdoor living room on the terrace and possibly could fall asleep on the sofa under the stars and trees on a nice warm summer night.
8. Finish hanging up the framed artwork I have and find enough little bits of artwork to frame and hang up all over the bathroom in lieu of wallpaper or turn the toilet room into a chalkboard.
9. Find the perfect rugs for the dining room/living room.
10. Build a platform for my bed but on huge wheels so I can move it when I want more space in the bedroom and then push it back under the skylight at night so I can count stars as I fall asleep.
11. Buy antique clothing armoires and another antique armoire for the bathroom to keep the towels and linens.
12. Find some old boxes I can stack on top of the armoires for my shoes a bit like these I found on eBay along with my hatboxes.
13. To make a great funky patchwork quilt for the bed.
14. To install a light in the hall that has a switch before I kill myself. Also to get rid of the five switches already in the hall that have no purpose whatsoever.
15. Put wood floors downstairs.  Obviously not cheap to do, although I think my landlord wouldn't object...
16. Knock down the wall in the bedoom and reconfigure the walls of the bathroom and treat the space like a loft.
17. Use the high ceilings to create a storage crawl space.  I probably could have done this, but since I'm only planning to be here another year it's not worth the effort anymore.
18. Put in a small wood burning fireplace.
19. Add more windows.

Tomorrow I'm off to cross #2 and hopefully #3 off my list this week. Once I get to the Emmaus sale, Sunday the house might look entirely different. Stand by for updates!



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Elizabeth "Lee" Miller, Man Ray, and The Surrealists

Elizabeth "Lee" Miller is often called a photographer, but in reality she was so much more. Not only was she a famed war correspondant for Condé Nast's American Vogue during a time when women went to war as nurses, but she was also a Muse, innovator, and visionary.

"I keep saying to everyone, "I didn't waste a minute, all my life - I had a wonderful time," but I know, myself, now that if I had it over again I'd be even more free with my ideas, with my body, and my affections".

Lee Miller to Roland Penrose, September 9, 1947

Many of Lee' minutes were astounding ones. One minute in New York she decides to step off a sidewalk and is rescued from being hit by an oncoming car by an editor at Vogue. The next minute she's a celebrity - a top model. The next minute her career as a model is over all because of one of her photographs appearing in an ad for feminine hygiene products (Kotex).

Streichen, the photographer from whom Lee was learning the foundation for what would be her real contribution to the craft of photography - what he called "faking" -his term for using interventions such as shading, marking, and other manipulations of the negative to capture the truth.  Since she had already announced her intentions to become a photographer, Lee decided to go to photography school, but the discipline needed didn't suit her. She was a star who had a stable of lovers and wanted to go back to the life she'd seen in Paris. So Streichen offered to make up for his masculine accident by introducing Lee to Man Ray and Lee left for Europe.

Once in Paris, Lee made her way to Man Ray's studio at 31 bis rue Campagne-Première only to learn that Man Ray had left for the summer from the concierge. Upset by the news, Lee crossed the Boulevard Raspail  and sat down at the corner cafe to have a Pernod with the owner and then she met Man Ray.

"He kind of rose up through the floor at the top of the circular staircase. He looked like a bull, with an extraordinary torso and very dark eyebrows and dark hair. I told him boldly that I was his new student. He said he didn't take students, and that anyway he was leaving Paris for his holiday. I said, I know, I'm going with you - and I did".

In the twenties to be "done" by Man Ray meant you were somebody and he lived a luxurious lifestyle. He and the former "Madame Man Ray" as Kiki de Montparnasse was called by French society had split up the year before and so Man Ray was free to take his new American student who had a thing for older men to Biarritz for the summer. Before becoming "Lee Miller" she would first become the next Madame Man Ray.

And what fun she must have had. Man Ray who was the only photographer than André Breton considered a "Surrealist",was completely in love with Lee, and was living the high life of fast cars and snappy dressing. Then came the stock market crash and suddenly no one could afford to have their portrait "done" by Man Ray anymore and he sunk into depression.

Then one day Lee turned on the light and discover the process she and Man Ray (who was furious that Lee had "ruined" the negatives of Madamoiselle Solidor, but would later take credit for its discovery) would call solarization.

When Lee wanted her own studio, Man Ray helped her find one not too far away from his own. They spent their days in Man Ray's studio and their nights chez Lee. Then Lee fell in love with Aziz Eloui Bey and though she had to be discreet with Aziz because he was married, everyone in Montparnasse knew Lee had left Man Ray and Man Ray wasn't happy to have lost the women he loved. Later her and Aziz would marry.

It took many years for Lee to find her way. Her war photography is for me the pinnacle of her career as a "photographer". Instead of returning to the US and safety, she decided to photograph the war and its aftermath - images that would haunt her for the rest of her life. After the war she returned to Farley Farm and discovering she was pregnant with Roland Penrose's child, she divorced Aziz.

The rest of Lee's life was plagued with troubles. She suffered from clinical depression and post traumatic stress disorder and took to drinking heavily. During the 50's and 60's her and Roland's Farley Farm became an artistic mecca and was visited by Picasso, Man Ray, Henry Moore, and Max Ernst (to name a few). Lee gave up the studio for the kitchen and became a success gourmet cook. She died of complications due to cancer in 1977.

Her son has kept Farley Farm and the Penrose-Miller collection accessible to the public. Lee's legacy lives on. I would need more than just my fingers and toes to count the number of people I know - women, photographers, men, fashion designers, writers - who have been influenced by either her work or her life. For my part I discovered Lee Miller through my grandmother who once mentioned to me when I was working in fashion by taking pictures of details on vintage clothing to inspire the designer I was working for that there had been an "American lady who started by doing the same thing and ended up being a Muse for Cocteau named Lee Miller". Years later I remembered her name and  read Carolyn Burke's biography "On Both Sides of the Camera" - which I can't remember if I bought it or got it off a friend who has forgotten I have it and whom I have forgotten lent it. The reason why is because it was bought and stamped from Shakespeare & Co. and I would never let them stamp a book I bought there (they stamp it so you can't return it), but at the same time I wrote something in pencil on one of the pages, which I wouldn't do if I was borrowing a book...so it's a mystery.

Here's what I wrote on page 245 after the words "Lee was fearless, she had the soul of an adventurer," Charles Roux remarked fifty years later - still amazed at her (Lee's) transformation into "a reporter of a kind we no longer have." Lee wrote as she lived, inventing her own brand of first-person journalism. "The muse of artistic Paris, the beauty among beauties", Charles Roux reflected, "had become a writer"."

12h14, Ligne 2, Paris

It is impossible to say with words the deep felt joy I feel upon reading this snippet of text. Though I am not a great beauty; I am a plain thing and I haven't Lee's abundance of talent in so many things. But I have a-"mused" myself and finally after knowing so long I would get to it but never when. I have become a writer. The greatest agony of my life has ended at long last. I am glad I subconciously had the foresight to buy myself some Chanel earlier in the day as I haven't the time to do it tomorrow."

(The reader needs to know that once upon a time I celebrated my life by buying something from the Chanel on rue Cambon and then having champagne at the Ritz on Place Vendome when things were really good or simply window shopping and walking around the Place Vendome when things weren't so good.)

Buchenwald.

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