You can call me SL, this is about living.


limited edition Urban Swift Clyde Pumas by Hussein Chalayan
New Canaan, CT from my 2011 archive

November 12, 2011

Details

On a recent tour of Philip Johnson's Glass House, the guide pointed to a set of nesting ashtrays and a malachite box on the living room table. She told my group that no matter where Philip Johnson was in the house, if someone moved the ashtrays and box, he would walk over and move them back. I liked that story and made a point to store it in my memory. It gave me validation, I am the same way. Since I am not Philip Johnson, when I do similar things in my place, people look at me like I am crazy or uptight. I simply explain it as "everything has its place." Some people see the whole, I see the details.

After the tour, I sat waiting for my group to finish browsing the book selection when I spotted a visitor wearing an unexpected pair of sneakers. I had just finished watching "Bill Cunningham New York" and decided to channel my inner Bill. Since I was in a small town, inside a small shop, I decided to ask the man before crouching down and snapping away at his footwear. He obliged but instantly changed his posture and began posing with his feet. Similar to the way someone's face changes when they are aware they are being photographed. I coached him to be natural, but that never works.

Bill Cunningham's photo essays not only document the fashion of clothing, footwear, and accessories that are on trend in New York, his work shows other connections in his subjects as well. In one essay titled "X Factor" he comments:

"The look that dominates high fashion in New York is a long stretch of leg, ankle boots and a new posture. Every era has a defining stance, and at present, it is standing with your legs crossed, like a model or a dancer en pointe."

I can really appreciate that observation, and next time, I will be sure to ask the man with the Pumas to cross his legs.

archives: "After Bill Cunningham", Architecture, Art
interior of Murad Mosque (Murad Camii)
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

interior of Yeni Mosque (Yeni Camii), commonly called New Mosque
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

interior of Sultanahmet Mosque (Sultanahmet Camii), commonly called Blue Mosque
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

interior of Nusretiye Mosque (Nusretiye Camii)
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

interior of Süleymaniye Mosque (Süleymaniye Camii)
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

interior of Beyazit Mosque (Beyazit Camii)
Istanbul, Turkey from my 2011 archive

November 9, 2011

Domes

I cannot say exactly when I first fell in love with architecture, whether it happened through pictures in a book or in real life. I can say that it happened at an early age. Somewhere in my late teens, I was convinced I would one day live in a medieval castle somewhere in England. Not a Cinderella type castle, nor a haunted castle, but a happy bright one. And one with a manageable yard. I realize now that castles come with land, not yards. How that fairy tale manifested, I cannot recall.

During college, my friend and I spend a summer in Europe, two months studying Environmental Design in Italy and one month backpacking around other countries on the continent. As we walked around Florence on our first night in town, we rounded the corner past the Uffizi Gallery and were instantly dwarfed by the Duomo. Never have I felt so small. And never have I been silenced in that way, I am the chatty type. I stood there with my head up, mouth open, and stared. We both did. We looked at each other, waiting for the other to say something but neither of us did. There was nothing to say. The Duomo spoke for itself.

I spent that summer straining my neck and experiencing architectural feats one after another. Since that summer, it has been hard to match the architectural wonders of Italy in my travels, until Istanbul.* There is something very unique and special about cities like Florence and Istanbul where the city's history announces itself at every turn.

When you look at the Istanbul skyline, your eye pans from mosque to mosque to mosque. At a quick glance they look fairly similar to one another, except for Hagia Sophia who holds her own among them. Deservingly so, she has more than 1,000 years on the next oldest mosque in the city. What surprised me most about the mosques is how different the interiors varied. Each has its own identity.

Inside the mosques, I once again found myself standing with my head up, mouth open, and staring. This time I was not at a loss of words but wandered around only able to verbalize, "wow, wow, wow." Occasionally, I brought my gaze down to its normal position, fearful that I would bump into someone else, or worse, get pickpocketed. Unfortunately, that once happened to my sister here in New York City. It was actually my fault. As we walked down Madison Avenue one evening, I gestured for her to look upwards at a beautiful church. She did, and it cost her her wallet.

*Three weeks, three days, and 8,549 photos later, The Swede and I are home. We have been home now for several weeks, but what happened to those days, I do not know. Somehow they have slipped by.

archives: Architecture, Travel
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