"Jazz"

Jazz by Essie

It could’ve been a liver cleanser, a strawberry tofu pudding. A Chinatown plastic bag. A wispy, watered down tea-rose. Come to think of it, this color is as far from my feeling of Jazz as the chalky taste of old Halva. 

I was leaning towards the nudes, skincolor, possibly anticipating the onset of Spring  when you are reminded of the fact that peoples have limbs once they become exposed again.

It was certainly a poor choice.  My winter chaffed cuticles dry and sore, might’ve been better downplayed by a dark color. Raw skin against a very faintly mauve neutral beckoned a bright dress. I went with a retro-teal one and bright coral lipstick. Think Tupperware parties and Floridian tedium antidote.

Jazz is the type of color that when I see on a tall, svelte, carelessly chic woman wear, I think it’s divine, but in reality does nothing for me. I bought a V-neck sweater in a dull blush color of that palette this winter. Had I not worn it with bright red lipstick I would’ve looked positively jaundiced and about to expire of consumption. One of those Victorian maladies.

I normally slide into neutral mode when I am trying to emulate effortlessness, demure or understated. Visual antonyms of my inner traits, just to keep me in check. As usual, it backfires. This pale color creased and started to look crackly very soon after it dried out.

Nude, monochromatic, fleshtones, seamless blending with the rest of the finger and hand. Polished enough to look like it was there by design, but non-challant enough for full blasé effect. “The beige of conformity” making an appearance at the extreme ends of my stumpy limbs. 

Elegance doesn’t belong here, but I sure like to steal a small helping of it.

"Cute as a Button"

Feb 15^th, 2014

“CUTE AS A BUTTON”:  Mattel, Watermelon bubble gum, unfathomable in nature shade of pink.

I thought of redoing the picture given the fuzzy nature of my out of focus hand, but then warmed up to the self-effacement hinted by it. The color is still visible and that’s what matters.

I was hoping to dispel winter blues with this one, my back hurts from shoveling snow and we are expecting even more tonight.

It also reminds me of the Barbie doll in a box that came so neatly nestled in my parents’ suitcase when they traveled abroad and brought me imported toys that smelled of otherness and turned the eyes of the kids in my building.

Girly more than feminine.

This is the episode that marked my week: I came out of the shower to find my son removing a box of medicine I keep in my bedside table. I chided him for invading my things, my privacy. He questioned me:

T: What do you keep in that box? Sexy stuff?

K: Like what?

T: I dunno. Like placenta that you rub all over your body in front of the mirror.

Things we come up with when we know of a concept (sexy) but can’t quite break it down yet. So we just grab whatever props are around, the word placenta, in this case, to start assembling something of a construct.

I haven’t dreamt in a while and that concerns me, I like to keep that muscle active.

Got sold out of Morrisey/Smith Tribute concert at the Bell House. I thought it was the perfect Valentine’s antidote. But New York still surprises me with its myriad of afficionados that assault my Friday night plans and drive me to procure Saturday morning manicures for a pick me up.

Heaven knows I am miserable now.

But miserable and unfathomable pink don't mesh too well.