I wish I had my heart again

What to have for our earworm when it’s Saint Patrick’s Day in Women’s History Month? Hmm.

Let’s have Sissel singing “Siúil A Rún” on The Chieftains’ Tears of Stone album. Sissel’s Norwegian, but the song is Irish. Plus: The Chieftains.

Actually, the song has made its way throughout the English-speaking folk world. Possibly because the theme of a young woman whose love is called away to war vowing to do whatever it takes to keep him safe is so universal.

The closing line of each verse translates to “may you go safely, my darling.”

It could have been sung in the Peloponnesian War, and they might be singing it in Ukraine even as you listen.

Yogalove

The Washington Post recently published a story indicating that practicing yoga “may reduce frailty, improve endurance in older adults.”

To which I reply, “Well, duh.”

One of the first things I noticed when I first started taking yoga lessons in the summer of 2020 was that it truly took my mind off all the mishigas at work (at least for 60 minutes). When you’re trying to not crash into the floor doing Warrior III, you are not thinking about that putz who’s the director of engineering.

But as I continued, I regained my flexibility. I also visibly improved my balance, my strength, my ability to hold a pose, my capacity to push my limits. I’ve also regained range of motion and stamina post-surgery on my knee to a remarkable degree. That wouldn’t have happened without yoga.

But here’s the key thing: having the right instructor makes all the difference. Way back in the last century I signed up to take yoga through Fairfax County. The instructor literally couldn’t access the county building. I cannot tell you how little patience I have with ineffectiveness, and therefore how not in the mood for yoga I felt when she decided to have the lesson on the lawn outside.

At a spa in England in 2000, I had three classes from a woman who was quite good, and one from a woman who was not. That was enough for me to give it a pass.

But when my current instructor began giving chair yoga classes via Zoom in July of 2020, it connected. Only I knew I wanted “real” yoga, and not halfway stuff. (Also, TBH, waiting for all the other women to faff about collecting their props and finding the right chair got up my nose, which is not the mood you want to be in for yoga. See above about not getting into the county building.) Not only does she know yoga, she knows how to teach. She can convey what to do, what it's good for and what the context is. 

From the very first private lesson, where my balance wobbled and my bending was limited, I have never regretted one second of yoga. We never go beyond my capabilities, but we have expanded them in the nearly three years.

So, yes, WaPo—strength, stamina, flexibility, focus. Despite my advanced years.

 

 

Not exactly lost

For a while, here in the People’s Republic, there was quite the epidemic of Left Bikes: two wheelers just abandoned in various places.

Naturally, I photographed them.

This was the one that fascinated me:

 

 

Haute couture

I was rudely interrupted by life in describing my trip to France last November. You may recall that my purpose was to see an exhibition of women war photographers at le musée de la Liberation de Paris. That was my main venture into culture vulturing.

Oh, yes—I hit museums and Roman ruins along the way in Provence, but the photos were my raison de voyager.

However, a couple of weeks before departure, I found out about another exhibition in Paris, at le musée des Arts Décoratifs: a retrospective on Elsa Schiaparelli. Well, I adore Schiap—her designs were out there long before the rest of haute couture thought about revving up for the Met Gala or Oscars night. She was part of the Surrealist movement, working with such luminaries as Man Ray, Jean Cocteau and Salvador Dalí; Schiaparelli mastered all elements of design—line, texture, fastenings, color, shoes, perfumes, jewelry. She “created” the color shocking pink, and “shocking” is a word frequently associated with her. Her career spanned the 20s through the 50s; her fashion business closed in 1954, although the House of Schiaparelli continued with her line of fragrances.

(Interestingly, the firm was acquired in 2007 by an Italian businessman, and in 2019, American designer Daniel Roseberry was appointed director. From what I saw in November, he’s exactly the right person to carry on the Schiaparelli ethos.)

So, here’s what I saw.

Schiaparelli started under the tutelage of Paul Poiret (whose fin de siècle fashions I also admire); here are some of his designs:

She specialized in knitwear, which incorporated a unique “double stitch” style popular with the Armenian refugees she employed.

I wonder what that “double stitch” thing was, and why it disappeared?

Here are some pieces from her collections in the 30s:

These are from her “butterfly” collection:

And her circus and commedia dell’arte years.

Now we’re getting into her Surrealist days. These are in collaboration with Jean Cocteau:

And Salvador Dalí.

One of their most famous pieces was this lobster dress; lobsters were for a while quite the Surrealist darling. (At one point the Duchess of Windsor modeled the dress for Cecil Beaton; this isn't that photo):

Oh, and this shoe hat:

This one isn’t as well known—his aphrodisiac vest:

Dalí also dabbled in speculative fashions:

The two also created this “tear” dress—with faux tears in the fabric and real, very careful ones in the veil.

Here's the quintessential Schiaparelli shocking pink:

I’ve got heaps more photos, but I think this is enough for one post. Stay tuned.