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.

 

Gratitude Monday: a little help from my friends

Last Wednesday I had my six-week check-in with the surgeon. I’m evidently in the “top 10%” of patients WRT recovery. I’ve achieved 0-degree extension, and I can bend to 132 degrees (which is apparently two degrees further than he got in the OR). He was impressed that I’m walking between 5K and 6K steps per day.

He’s very pleased with his work.

Here’s the thing, though—I’m thinking I wouldn’t be this far along without a lot of support. I have an amazing physical therapist. The exercises I’m doing now are different from the ones I did before the surgery; they’re tough and they wear me out. But I can see how they’re helping me make progress.

My yoga instructor is also instrumental in my recovery. My lessons have fallen on PT days, and there’ve been times when I was heading for 4pm and thinking my body could not do one more thing. But each time, after the lesson, I felt so much better. Last week I got to camel, and I swear I am going to someday achieve child’s pose.

My friend the Gift Fairy has been amazing—taking me to the hospital, picking me up from the hospital, lending me a camp bed so I didn’t have to climb stairs the first couple of nights, dropping off frozen dinners and individual ice cream cups, checking up on me every day or two, lending me a bunch of Agatha Christie novels, taking me to PT when my yoga instructor couldn’t…and so much more.

People lent me a cane and a walker, offered to stay with me or have me stay with them, sent good thoughts, put in a word in high places, send me beautiful flowers—I was surrounded by comfort and encouragement. How could I not thrive?

And that’s my gratitude for today. It’s a big one.