(no subject)
Please tell me it isn't true- Sushi Bistro can't be closed! Can it? Mats and I arranged to meet there for lunch yesterday at 11:30. Just as I was parking, the cell rang: Mats, in front of the very closed restaurant. Ah. We drove around looking for another sushi place, or eventually, any place- no less than four were closed for renovation. Which I suspect means "February sucks for business anyway, so we're sipping Coronas on a beach somewhere whilst overpaid contractors freshen the place up a li'l." In the end, we found a new sushi joint- in a nicely ironic touch, right across the street from the (closed!) Sushi Bistro. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't the same as my favourite joint... I've been going there for eight years at least.
After dropping Mats back at work, I drove across to Landsdowne and Bloor to check out the Value Village 50% off sale. Was it popular? My first clue was the full parking lot. I had to wedge the car in beside a parked transport. And indeed, the store was full of frenzied bargain hunters- a few ladies in nice boots and fancy coats, but mostly your less-upwardly-mobile shoppers were out in force. It got claustrophobic pretty fast. I grabbed a nice leather coat in a great shade of purple, to be cut up for corsets; two silk shirts ditto for embroidery; a green plaid wool car coat with toggle front for casual mid-season (sounds pretty fashionista, no?)- and best of all, a pair of brown shoes with a tapered toe box and low, curved heel, with open lacework on the vamp. All leather, Nine West brand, size 7.5- I didn't even bother to try them on, I knew they'd fit like they were cut for my feet. Not only do they, but they have a timeless look to them that would work for almost any period. And the final tally on this armload of swag? A hair less than twenty-two bucks, which wouldn't have gotten a look at any one of these items new in the store.
It was almost worth it to stand for half an hour in the great thrust of lineups aimed at the few harried cashiers: reminded me of the customs lineups at Heathrow, the airport which most reminds me of a Heironymous Bosch vision of hell.
Speaking of airports, I have yet to visit the new Terminal One at Pearson. I'd go see it just for the art- that's what I remember most about the newsreports went it opened. Hope the wall of cubes floating dreamily in clear liquid is in a non-flying-public area.
I haven't seen any of the new Sheppard line subway stations yet- significant oversight. And I'm craving, savouring the moment that I finally see the Jeanne-Claude and Christo exhibit currently on at the AGO; I won't be going to New York City to see the orange gates, so this really is the next best thing. I've loved the work since first hearing about it in year one at OCA, which was, ahem, in the late 70s. Interestingly, back then it was just Christo who got the press- for some reason the fact that his wife was co-creator on every single project was not noticed. Which probably drove them both crazy.
Mostly, I need to get back to making my own work. Gigs and paid projects are great, don't get me wrong. I'm one of the luckiest people I know, just to be able to make a living from doing art. But just making something for the sake of creation, not as a means to a cheque- a concentrated effort, a sustained flow of energy- that's what's missing as I putter about the new house, run errands, field agent inquiries.
What's on my mind? Gorgeous embroideries, wrought finely and sometimes in miniature, worked on silk and enriched with pearls. Jewelry, and unexpected adornments- beads and stones woven on wires with ribbons and tiny stark touches. Portraits, both photographic and in drawings. New fashion drawings for the portfolio, ever a work in progress. New clothes for myself, some pieces already cut and waiting.
Work for other people in various stages of thought and progress: concert program filler drawings for my old choir. Chapter header illustrations for my grandmother's latest cookbook. A tightened version of the text and graphic for Marina, once she approves the sketch from yesterday. Making the muslin shell for the fanciest of the costumes for the secret client's client. And the other costume, too, though that one isn't as pressing. Rresearching a particular year of a fancy doll for my design mentor, and repairing a piece of antique lace for her.
My life is never boring. Or, to be more precise, if ever I think I'm bored, it's because I've had a temporary but severe failure of imagination.
After dropping Mats back at work, I drove across to Landsdowne and Bloor to check out the Value Village 50% off sale. Was it popular? My first clue was the full parking lot. I had to wedge the car in beside a parked transport. And indeed, the store was full of frenzied bargain hunters- a few ladies in nice boots and fancy coats, but mostly your less-upwardly-mobile shoppers were out in force. It got claustrophobic pretty fast. I grabbed a nice leather coat in a great shade of purple, to be cut up for corsets; two silk shirts ditto for embroidery; a green plaid wool car coat with toggle front for casual mid-season (sounds pretty fashionista, no?)- and best of all, a pair of brown shoes with a tapered toe box and low, curved heel, with open lacework on the vamp. All leather, Nine West brand, size 7.5- I didn't even bother to try them on, I knew they'd fit like they were cut for my feet. Not only do they, but they have a timeless look to them that would work for almost any period. And the final tally on this armload of swag? A hair less than twenty-two bucks, which wouldn't have gotten a look at any one of these items new in the store.
It was almost worth it to stand for half an hour in the great thrust of lineups aimed at the few harried cashiers: reminded me of the customs lineups at Heathrow, the airport which most reminds me of a Heironymous Bosch vision of hell.
Speaking of airports, I have yet to visit the new Terminal One at Pearson. I'd go see it just for the art- that's what I remember most about the newsreports went it opened. Hope the wall of cubes floating dreamily in clear liquid is in a non-flying-public area.
I haven't seen any of the new Sheppard line subway stations yet- significant oversight. And I'm craving, savouring the moment that I finally see the Jeanne-Claude and Christo exhibit currently on at the AGO; I won't be going to New York City to see the orange gates, so this really is the next best thing. I've loved the work since first hearing about it in year one at OCA, which was, ahem, in the late 70s. Interestingly, back then it was just Christo who got the press- for some reason the fact that his wife was co-creator on every single project was not noticed. Which probably drove them both crazy.
Mostly, I need to get back to making my own work. Gigs and paid projects are great, don't get me wrong. I'm one of the luckiest people I know, just to be able to make a living from doing art. But just making something for the sake of creation, not as a means to a cheque- a concentrated effort, a sustained flow of energy- that's what's missing as I putter about the new house, run errands, field agent inquiries.
What's on my mind? Gorgeous embroideries, wrought finely and sometimes in miniature, worked on silk and enriched with pearls. Jewelry, and unexpected adornments- beads and stones woven on wires with ribbons and tiny stark touches. Portraits, both photographic and in drawings. New fashion drawings for the portfolio, ever a work in progress. New clothes for myself, some pieces already cut and waiting.
Work for other people in various stages of thought and progress: concert program filler drawings for my old choir. Chapter header illustrations for my grandmother's latest cookbook. A tightened version of the text and graphic for Marina, once she approves the sketch from yesterday. Making the muslin shell for the fanciest of the costumes for the secret client's client. And the other costume, too, though that one isn't as pressing. Rresearching a particular year of a fancy doll for my design mentor, and repairing a piece of antique lace for her.
My life is never boring. Or, to be more precise, if ever I think I'm bored, it's because I've had a temporary but severe failure of imagination.