The Marchesa Luisa Casati by Augustus John 1919

THE TINY BUBBLES ARE BETTER THAN THE BIG ONES

Opening a new blog seems rather like opening a bottle of champagne. It makes one feel fizzy. I never imagined myself writing a blog--the word itself gives me shivers--but I find myself in concert with those who find contemporary life somewhat lacking in originality and imagination--the sheer quotidienne bother of progress, the multi-tasking (another shivery word), the chillingly rapid encroachment on our privacy.

Let's celebrate the past! Let's celebrate the personalities, the design and and the fashion and intrigues of 20th century Paris, Venice, London and Berlin--and let's not stop there--let's go further backwards and revisit the France of Louis XIV, XV and XVI--and their extraordinary influence on the way we live and decorate today. Just ponder this for a few moments, and then think about taking a short trip with Casanova through the streets of 18th century Venice. All in good time, mes petits choux.

I've always been enthralled with the spirits of lost places, the decoration, the music, literature, couture and wit
(How Dorothy Parker would have skewered Political Correctness!). Of course it all begins with those larger than life--or sometimes smaller than life-- personalities who wait and languish in the past unless we summon them. Today we are inundated with copies of those originals, copies which are, with notable exceptions, unremarkable. Where are Cecil Beaton and Pauline de Rothschild, may I ask, when we need them? Where is the new Diaghelev or Nijinsky? Vreeland? And where the hell is Josephine Baker?I just give thanks for Michael Feinstein.

We shall never live in the Paris of the 1920's. We shall never gaze into the eyes of our lover in a cafe in Montmartre as wild new creative forces are unleashed around us. Picasso will not sketch our head on the back of a napkin as he did my godmother's, nor will we stop by for tea with Madeleine Castaing. And believe me, there are no White Russian Princes driving taxis--at least in New York.

And England! It appears that our chances have slipped away to be a Vionnet-robed or Savile Row dressed guest at an English country house weekend, during which someone much like Hercule Poiret will arrive at the last moment to solve the murder of our host and save us from the gallows! Sigh. All gone now. But not in our hearts and imaginations.

Allora--No more sad cellos. Times are hard now. We must bang on. I call not for latte, but for splits of Veuve Clicquot or Billecart-Saumon! (Much better to have a few sips of the real thing than lots of plonk). Slip into your kimono or dressing gown and assume a languorous position on your lit de repos (or Mies' leather lounge) and let's see where we go from here.

Cheers!

Amanda

June 14, 2009

SUI GENERIS: GRETA GARGO

"The story of my life is about back entrances, side doors, secret elevators, and other ways of getting in and out of places so people won't bother me."
Posted by BOHEMIAN CONTESSA at 8:12 AM

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