A Must-See Film

A few words about Pina if I can stop myself from gushing once I get started. This is a remarkably beautiful film -- by Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire) -- that I've wanted to watch since just missing it when we were in Paris  last summer. When I saw that it was on at Vancouver's Fifth Avenue cinema, the plan for seeing The Artist were scuppered as we snatched the opportunity to see the 3D film about German choreographer Pina Bausch on a large screen with good sound.

From the moment we slipped our 3D glasses on and merged with the film's front-row audience watching a dance production on a large stage, we were meserized. Pina's ballet theatre is astonishingly beautiful, a marvellous bland of wit, luxurious praise of the body's sinuously athletic and aesthetic potential, with an uplifting and insistent joy tinged with just enough awareness of life's shadows to keep it pulsing with drama.

Besides the dance, though, is the provocatively loving way that Wenders' camera lingers on the various dancers' faces as they take turns in the film's punctuation by cameo-portraits -- their words, spoken in a wide variety of international languages, then translated into English sub-titles for us. Clips of Pina working with her troupe also appear as emphasis throughout. The respect she has for her corps and the wide range of ages and body types represented make the film a profound meditation on the body that changes my view of ballet and, especially, of contemporary dance, makes me want to get out and see more. If you've been thinking at all about beauty and aging and the body and portraits, this film will captivate you with its commentary, some of it verbalized, but primarily there in visual richness.

And the settings! Wenders stages various dances in a wide range of urban settings so they interrupt urban life with their compelling lyricism. We occupy the privileged space of the camera eye, swooping to follow the dancers' movements in arresting architectural venues -- beautiful, beautiful spaces -- and in surprisingly expansive outdoor locations -- along the edge, for example, of an immense quarry.

The simple -- and exquisitely effective -- props are another element to marvel at, as when, in one scene, a dancer squeezes herself beautifully, riskily, between the legs of a dining chair -- and then is followed by another dancer who continues to pursue her as she threads herself through the seat of that chair and the one that yet another dancer is stacking on top of it. And this continues as the stack achieves 3 chairs high and the tower-building dancer pulls over another chair, climbing on it to reach high enough to add yet another, the threading carrying on magically below him.

Or the male dancer on whose outstretched arms and shoulders are balanced, by another, 3 to 4-foot branches, 7 or 8 of them wobbling precariously as he moves carefully against a backdrop of filmy curtains on which is projected imagery of moving water so that dancer fades into the background as we watch the branches floating along in a stream. . .

So beautiful. If you hear that it's appearing soon anywhere near you, try your best to see this film. I can't imagine anyone regretting it.

tonight we're off to see Vancouver Opera's Barber of Seville in a production that is apparently taking its lead from "that wascally wabbit" -- a nod to the music's association, in many of our ears, with  Looney Tunes Rabbit of Seville. So we're off to scare up some gyoza to keep the tummy from growling in competition with the singers. . . .

Seen or heard of Pina? I'd love to hear your impressions either way. Or if you were ever fortunate enough to see Pina Bausch's Tanztheatre in live action. . .

Looking at Ourselves . . .

Interesting the variety of conversations going on around the question of our looks as we confront them from various perspectives in middle age (I'm getting to the outer edges of "middle age" with my 60th birthday looming next year, but I'm still clinging to that definition -- one step at a time, right?).

Lisa at AmidPrivilege writes honestly and thoughtfully about the move from Pretty to Fierce after being spurred to think about the issue after Duchesse's piece on how Plain might dress to be Attractive (and, for better or for worse, we're talking about physical attractiveness, acknowledging, I hope and believe, that there are certainly other elements we find attractive in a person: wit, generosity, warmth, humour, intelligence, etc.).

I did some musing of my own here in my last post about the value of, and discomfort in, gazing at my own reflection, constructing my own self-representation, wondering at the age I see in my face through the camera lens, in the mirror. And coincidentally, IndigoAlison finds herself "whinging" (but she really isn't, much) about her aging image, and Hostess Lesley frets a bit about a photo of what she calls a "fat moment" but which her readers will see as a wonderful image of a happy, elegant, attractive woman with her aged mother, both obviously celebrating their love and good fortune.

I'm following the various overlapping conversations with avid interest as well as with some frustration about the limitations of the medium that hosts them. Glad that we're sharing our thoughts and revelations and sense of loss and also reassurances about wisdom gained. Disappointed, too, though, that the conversation tends to erupt in bursts but to peter out in a few days because, understandably, we can't be back and forth checking for responses, building on them, challenging each other constructively. I realize how fortunate I have been in the graduate school seminars I've participated in, especially, and I wish sometimes for sustained cohesive discussions in which a topic could build momentum and rigor.  Is that just me?

And, in a demonstration of what I'm talking about, I play dilettante, introducing my reservations and then abandoning further (or rigorous) consideration of them, simply because I have much to do and I've used up my blogging time for the day. I'm leaving you with this treasured shot of two of my maternal aunts, perhaps in their early 20s, both wearing coats they would have made themselves as they were very talented seamstresses. I downloaded the photo from a Facebook Family Heritage group one of my cousins recently established and although it's been scanned from an old photo and is clearly limited, digitally, I love it. Both aunts are gone now, Eileen, on the right, having passed away last year at 90.  And here's me, 60 next year, studying my face in the mirror, in photographs, and peering at my aunts' young selves to find myself there as well.

We're off to see Wim Wenders' Pina this evening, should all go as planned, and then tomorrow we have tickets to The Barber of Seville. Hope you're up to something fun this weekend or, at the very least, have some lovely restorative quiet time.
Meanwhile, you know I always love to hear your response to my muddled thinking. . .

Reflections and Snapshots

 A regular feature of What I Wore post discussions, particularly among we Women of a Certain Age, is the discomfort we feel in taking, posing for, and posting photos of ourselves. Not only do we confront our own unhappiness with the reality of our looks, but even if we feel good about how we look, how we've styled our Outfits Of The Day (OOTD), we then feel awkward about our temerity in broadcasting it to the world.

 I've written before about those social expectations that deemed it unwomanly to take up public space. A long tradition has women posed by artists for (primarily) male viewing pleasure, although this tradition has increasingly been challenged over the past century or two.

 I've also written about my own tiny part in challenging the tradition by commissioning an artist friend to paint my nude portrait as a gift for my husband

 Nonetheless, I continue to feel utterly squeamish, foolishly narcissistic as I play with mirror and camera. Yet I'm fascinated with my representation, fascinated by my aging face, fascinated by all those likenesses and experiences I trace in it. And much as I enjoy the more polished examples of Style writ large posted on various blogs regularly, and collectively seen on sites such as Patti's wonderful Visible Monday, I'm perhaps even more interested in seeing our vulnerabilities, our playful self-posings. I love, for example, this post by Mardel, her intelligent honesty as present as her obvious wit. I've just met (thanks to Terri for the tip) the extravagantly sartorial Melanie  whose post on One Face Six Ways brilliantly exemplifies self-portrait play.

Much as I'm interested in clothing, fashion, and style for their own sake, I'm keen to see examples in which we bloggers tweak the OOTD genre for our own purposes, as an exploration and an expression of our selves. Rumpled pants and all.

Thoughts?

I put my new shoes on -- Thanks Mr. Nutini. . .

Do you know this song?
Very cheerful and perfect for us shoe-lovers

I thought of it the other morning as I pulled on my new Fluevog brogues (Encourage Connies, in case you want deets), bought with May's trip to Paris in mind, and broke them in walking to work. First time I'd put them on since buying them, and I was a bit nervous about the 40-minute walk each way -- nary a blister!

Not quite as happy with the rest of the outfit which the photographs reveal as considerably more rumpled than I realized. Not sure why I couldn't spot that in the mirror, but perhaps I was busily thinking about frame and focus overall.

Those GAP cords are looking just a little too comfortable, aren't they? And the tunic (Sandwich), ditto, even under the cashmere cardi.

But I threw on my coat & fedora, wrapped a cuddle of a cashmere scarf around my neck and enjoyed the walk, happily ignorant of just how rumpled I looked until I got home and checked the photos.

For more polish than you'll see here, then, head over to Patti's Visible Monday crowd -- they'll show you how it's done. Also read Mardel's charming and stylish post on her life without a full-length mirror, exploring her style through its photographed moments. Her snapshots display considerably more finesse than mine do, but our sentiments are similar.

What about you? How do you feel when a photograph reveals that the style you felt inside was belied by the look projected on the outside? Do you shrug it off or shrink in mortification? Do tell. . . (as for me, life's too short for worrying about what's already done, especially if all we're talking is wrinkles and rumples -- but those pants have got to go!)

Wedding plans . . .

As I mentioned last post, my son and daughter-in-law are here for the weekend to talk wedding plans. So that's been joyous. A few tricky things to iron out, but nothing's stressful at this stage since we're still months away. We do wish we'd lined up better tides for that particular afternoon -- there won't be much beach for the actual ceremony.  Still, there will be good will and much ingenuity, and we're confident solutions will be found, substitutions can be made. 

The possibility of rain makes us nervous, but only momentarily. We'll have some covered areas in the (canvas) wings -- tarping the pergola, slinging another tarp from tall trees over the small dance floor we're having built on the patio. We can all crowd inside if it pours and that will be part of the day's memories. 

Island logistics are trickier: all food, plates, glasses, rental chairs, beverages require transport from town so we've hired a small barge service. Ferries that day will be busy already with summer crowds so we're trying to get an alternative chartered. We hope most guests will enjoy the novelty of the 15-minute walk from ferry to our home, but we'll probably have to line up some borrowed transport from a kindly neighbour or two. We've already had kindly neighbours lend us accommodation for those guests who shouldn't have to stay at a hotel in town, the bride's family especially. 

But we did this eight years ago for our eldest daughter's wedding, albeit with a smaller guest list, and it all worked out brilliantly.  Key to the success, we think, was our daughter and son-in-law's decision to base the event around our classic summer entertaining staple, the gourmet sausage! We have an artisan sausage maker in town and a variety of their sausages, barbequed and served up in a very good bun with a stellar array of supporting condiments makes the lowly hot dog into an easy yet delicious meal that sets the tone for celebratory yet casual fun. 3 or 4 salads round the meal out and ensure enough vegetarian fare.  A few kegs of beer, some good bubbly and wines chosen by the sommelier bride, and it's a party. When the dancing crowd works up an appetite again late in the evening, pots of chili with more of the buns will provide the energy to keep that party going.

But that's all months and months away. Once we'd got the rough outlines sketched yesterday afternoon, Joey (my future DIL) and I got to the really serious business: looking at shoes for the wedding. We even set up a Pinterest board here. Have a peek.

Our plans for today, though, are much more sombre as we'll be attending an island memorial for our good friend and wonderful neighbour, Mike. I know this will be a difficult and tearful event, but also a profound and moving demonstration of Mike's importance in our community, as well as of our community's closeness. And I'm so moved (and proud, quite honestly, as a mother) that my son and DIL took precious weekend time and drove the considerable distance to honour Mike by coming to the memorial. Their company gives me comfort in our loss, but also I think it augurs well for their marriage that their life together includes honouring others through community. 

My fingers stutter on the keyboard, having followed my wandering mind to the place where an easy conclusion seems unlikely, inappropriate. Please pardon them for failing at the task. . . Life's bigness must occasionally sprawl off the edges of these narrow blog columns . . . perhaps sprawl right into your comments on my messy post. . . . 

Spring Colours . . .

 I've crammed ever so many hours of work into the last four days, wanting to free up time for my son and future daughter-in-law's visit this weekend. Today's usually my work-at-home today, but instead I'm getting my hair done this afternoon after meeting my husband in town for lunch. ("In town" is islander talk for the big world the ferry takes us to, where people where actual shoes instead of Helly Hanson boots . . . ).

 So having squeezed an hour's run into my morning, I have to rush through a shower, dress, and catch that ferry. Not much time for blogging, although I did post some mystery recommendations over at my Reading Blog.

 If I had time to write more, I'd probably just be complaining about the dismal grey weather and how very busy I am, which is boring, right? So it's much better that I just share these pictures of astonishingly charming hellebores basking in last week's brilliant sunshine.

 A spring bag in that green? Or shoes? A scarf?

 It might smell skunky, the Hellebore foetidus, but it's pale green blooms are the bomb!

 Although its purple cousins and neighbours offer a dramatic contrast, creamy stamens against that boldly regal shade.

 And there are more, darker blooms to come . . .

That's it. I'd better dash, but I have a What I Wore post lined up (featuring a new pair of Paris walking shoes). Hope your weekend is shaping up nicely. Are you worrying about that hour will lose when Spring springs forward on Sunday or will you surrender it happily in favour of longer light in the evening?

They call her mellow yellow (quite rightly!)

 All this delectable buttery yellow, mirroring the sunlight

sending its delightful fragrance

 out on the spring air . . .

 I'd say a big thank you is in order!

Take a bow, Ms. Mahonia. . . .