busy signals

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It is usually around this time of year that I have to make a choice…..bound myself in my home, working on everything I should be working on or break free of the chains my computer has on me and run outside, laughing and dancing recklessly while watching my freckles multiple.

Well, by my lack of posts I am sure you know which one I chose. 

If only I had a usb cord that could connect to my brain…….

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lac electrique

dress:spoon black label   belt:vintage   bag:bravebrownbag   shoes:nine west   glasses:club monaco

After one helluva may long, I can only seem to muster up the strength for this one lousy outfit post, taken while en route to a picnic with one of my favorite humans and little Snarls Barkley aka Ingaborga aka my dog aka the creature pictured next to me in dire need of a haircut .

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covet

Now this girl's closet i would love to raid

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the tie that binds

Checked out the opening of the Duncan de Kergommeaux and Eric Sze Lang Chan exhibit at the Ottawa Art Gallery last night.

While I am a huge fan of the OAG and their programming ( I did my first internship there as a malleable young graduate and continued working at the gallery for a few months there after), this show was not a highlight for me. 

Chan’s work usually strikes a chord with me. I love his obscene use of color. His graphics make me think of a dreamy utopia; contrasting progression, be it technological or urban structures with the fluidity of dreams and certain organic elements. 

 And de Kergommeaux is an artist who’s career has spanned the last 5 decades. His work tends to focus on process, perspective and abstraction. And while I think he is certainly a formative Canadian painter, there seemed to be a disconnect between the two artists showing their work together.

Yes, they are technically two different shows, with two different artist statements and two different themes within their work. However, when two shows open on the same day within the same space (especially a space like the OAG), I don’t think the viewer can help but want to find the link between them. At least I do. One has to ask themselves why the curator would choose these two artists and place them side by side. What’s the point?

The disconnect between the exhibits prevented me from grasping the full extent of each show individually. It felt like both artists, who’s individual work as I know it is full and has depth, only scratched the surface in this exhibit.

I definitely recommend checking out the show regardless, if only to prove me wrong. If anyone has a different prespective or can make the link for me, I’d love to hear! daretounravel@hotmail.com

Now on to the important stuff, this is what I wore:

dress:nokomis    denim bolero:preloved   belt|shoes|bracelet:vintage   purse:bravebrownbag

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scarlet letter

dress:divine   belt:vintage    shoes:ninewest  

Wearing red always makes me feel like sucking oysters splashed with vodka and smoking menthols for some reason….so that is EXACTLY what I did while wearing this

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workspace in your face

I am DYING for a better workspace. I think on top of being a part time whiner and procrastinator, I also freelance as a hater. I am tres jalous of these spaces. I swear I would get so much more done if only………

Spokes

Holy moly!

It’s been a week since my last post! I’m pretty sure I deserve 10 blogger spanks for that one!

Well, over the last while I have been working it; busy busy busy! I’ve walked miles through the city….from meeting to meeting, park dates, corner stores, chinatown and then some and you know what…all I have been wanting/thinking about is a bicycle.

One might say I have had the worst luck with bicycles. I have been hit by a car while riding, witnessed drunken brutes tear another apart; Prudence was stolen from me, Raven was vandalized, Olive was thrown in the garbage and Scarlet was frozen under a sheet of ice and buried by a dozen planks of wood that were supposed to be the makings of the homemade hottub that never came to be.

Perhaps me and bicycles were never meant to be in it for the long haul. Maybe I have cemented bad bike karma or something. I’ll admit, I’ve abandoned my past rides for weeks at a time, choosing 5 inch platforms and adding 20 minutes to my travel time over the quickness and convenience of my bike. And then there was that one time in Toronto, I was skipping down Queen St west with a belly full of bourbon when I saw the smallest mountain bike I have ever seen. It was white and rusty and we named it Bandit. At first I just wanted to see if I could even fit on it and then it turned into a 10 block joy ride followed by a series of mischievous bike tricks and taking it off some sweet jumps. The bike was never returned to where it was found and henceforth, my luck did not take a turn for the better.

I’m still on the lookout for my next great ride. I tend to like English 3-speeds of the ’50s through ’70s or the 10 speed dérailleur, with a bit of rust and a couple dents to deter the future bike thieves and troublemakers. If anyone knows of a bike for sale, shoot me an email.

As much as I love riding a good bike, I also love a good film with bike scenes. Here are my top 5:

1. Monkey Warfare 

One of my favorite Canadian-made movies e.v.e.r. Bike gangs, garbage picking and malakoff cocktails all in the familiar neighborhood of Parkdale in TO. Word.

2. Jules et Jim

The bike scene is like a picturesque vacation in France….sunny, musical, carefree and involves 2 men and an “impulsive” woman in a love triangle. J’taime. 

3. B.I.K.E

Two filmmakers try to infiltrate the Black Label Bicycle Club. 

4. Life is Beautiful

I think most of this movie happens with someone on a bike. So beautiful and heartbreaking.

5. Rushmore

“You’re telling me he ran over your bicycle?”

“My former bicycle, yes.”

“What kind of person would do such a thing?”

“I’m not sure. Men do strange things in war.”

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the short and sweet co.

…goes a little something like this: this is what I wore today…

This is what I would have liked to wear:

This is the Spring|Summer 2010 collection by Todd Lynn, one of the most exciting and watched fashion designers in Britain. Not only was he up for the British Fashion Awards Menswear Designer of the Year Award and this collection marks the seventh collection under his name, but, and here’s the kicker, he is from Smith Falls, ONT. Yes! This is some serious home-grown Canadian talent right here!

 I read somewhere that Lynn’s inspiration for this collection was Tin Han, a famous Tuareg heroine and spiritual leader who founded a legendary kingdom in the Ahaggar mountains. Nomadic Romance.

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monday's musique

jeans:gap   tank:american apparel   vest:zara   shoes:nine west   clutch:kimchi blue  sunglasses:armani   belt,accessories:vintage

Rainy Saturday mornings call for nothing more than horoscopes, scones fromThe Scone Witch and a trip to Wallacks.

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so

jeans:gap   tank:american apparel   vest:zara   shoes:nine west   clutch:kimchi blue  sunglasses:armani   belt,accessories:vintage

Il y a une forêt derrière notre maison

I am tragically in love with the Toronto band Timber Timbre. Please understand.


I have been obsessing over their music for almost 2 years with no intention of stopping. The music freezes you dead in your tracks. It is haunting and spooky and otherworldly. Every time anyone brings this band up in conversation (or lets face it, music in general), I can’t help but start (literally) shouting their praises and ordering everyone in earshot to listen to them.


Unfortunately, I had to  miss their latest concert in Ottawa last Friday and, just my luck, they are going on an international tour for the next few months so there is no chance I will be able to catch a show anytime soon. However, my charming and thoughtful friend, who we will call J to protect his identity ;) went to the show and got me their latest release on vinyl. And I melt. Ah-may-zing. I have been listening to the album on repeat for the last few days fantasizing about how music could sound like this…….


Taylor Kirk must have locked himself inside an abandoned oratory for months, starving and dehydrated, his voice like broken-in leather after being left out in the rain, limitless in his pursuit of perfecting that melancholy cry.
Maybe he went running into a wheat field in the middle of the prairies, armed with nothing but a violin, a guitar and a gun and in the night he would howl and purr his lyrics, both tempting and warning nearby coyotes.
Or perhaps he sat in a recording studio with the rest of the producers and musicians and everybody else and forced them all to sit in the same room, trapped in their own individual wooden cages, sharing stories of childhood and heartbreak and ghost stories and sweaty summer nights. No one was allowed out their cage until the record sounded like hope and despair.


Best gift ever.

for storytellers and dreamers

I have spent the last week satisfying a huge creative burst I’ve had. I think I’ve painted, cut, bleached, torn, pasted, wrote and burnt more things this week than I have in a LONG time. 

Backstory: I once used to consider myself an artist. I was completely inspird by literature, couture shows, modge podge, conceptual art and quilts.

I didn’t have a focus on one specific medium; I was never trying to perfect a craft, it was more like an experiment with substances and a release for myself than it was my aim to become a career-artist or anything like that. I don’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t collaging, sketching, making clothes and jewelry, lighting things on fire and taking photos of the damage or running a muck in the city slapping elaborate stickers on any surface that would stick.

It was completely innate. And as easy as it came, easily it went.

In the last 2 years I have almost entirely stopped creating any art. My focus seemed to take a drastic shift towards commercialism, perfection and making things beautiful. But I appreciate art for the opposite reasons. I love destruction,  chaos and the void when things are purposely left incomplete. The kind of art I like to surround myself with is that which evokes anger and pity or makes my heart race or my head ache. I get tired and frustrated looking at things that only offer a semblance of beauty.

Luckily for me, my phase of seeking out perfection has seen its last day. And while this creative high lasts, I will be locked in the house and creating destruction until I go blind. 

I am constantly inspired by the brand Rodarte and its designing sisters Kate and Laura Mulleavy. Season after season, they take clothing to a level of artistic creation that is genius. Fabric, metal and paper are transformed into conceptual pieces that look like they belong in fiction. 

Because this couture is for dreamers and storytellers. 

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other things that go bump in the night

dress:value village   leather jacket:aunt olive’s   shoes:nine west   belt:club monaco   bag:adrienne vittadini studio 

a history of monsters

“There is no such thing as evil. The concept of evil is a crutch…To perceive something as “evil” is to imagine that object, that person, is not a part of me. He’s something else…”


I just finished reading a book called Das Energi by Paul Williams, which is where I pulled the above quote from. Published in the 70’s, Das Energi is a quick read essentially about hippie spiritualism (disclaimer: definately not a read for everyone. I usually scoff at this sort of peace, love and happiness, new-age self help, but for some reason I started reading this book and it just struck a cord.)
Now this post is not about cosmic humanism or anything that may blow your mind, man, but rather the quote above got me thinking about my lifelong search for monsters and ghosts.


When I was younger, I was determined to write the greatest ghost story of all time; the only thing stopping me was to be scared to death. I told myself, “once, just once I need to interact with a ghost, run from a real monster or fear for my soul, then the story would come pouring out of me”.


I spent the better part of my youth hosting seances in my basement, playing with Ouija boards, watching horror movies that spanned the eras of film and sneaking out late at night to find demonic adventures. But to no avail, I was left untouched and unafraid. 
Frustration swept over me every time I would sit under the cedar tree in my backyard, pen to paper, ready to write. But I had nothing to write about. I tried to imagine myself as the narrators in the real-life ghost stories I read. I would close my eyes and pretend to be running from half man-half animal creatures or how it would feel to be woken from my sleep by closet door mysteriously slamming shut. Yet, still I was left in a state of still feeling safe and safety does not spur tales of fright.


As years went by and I got older, my pursue for monsters faded as certain elements of real life started to become scarier than any ghoul or ghost I could conjure up in my mind. 


I still love to try to scare myself. I may have forgone the Ouiji boards and the spells but I still like to run around forests at night, watch every horror movie I can and imagine the reason my apartment creeks and cracks is because its haunted not just old. I guess I can only explain it as it keeps my heart racing and forever looking over one shoulder.
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