through my clothes
japanese girls still tend to sow their wild fashion oats before they settle down with a mate and disappear, if not into the shadows, into a chanel suit. but kawakubo started out making clothes, in the seventies, she said, for a woman "who is not swayed by what her husband thinks." (she was then deep into her black period, and her devotees were known in tokyo as "the crows.") two decades later, and shortly after her own wedding, to adrian joffe—a south african-born student of asian culture ten years her junior, who is the president of comme des garcons international—she told an interview from elle that "one's lifestyle should not be affected by the formality of marriage." [...]
from the beginning of her career, she has insisted that the only way to know her is "through my clothes." her employees, including joffe, treat her with a gingerly deference that seems to be a mixture of awe for her talent and forbearance with her moods. [...]
each of the [guerilla] stores is an ephemeral installation that opens without fanfare and closes after a year. their decorating budgets are less than the price of some handbags at gucci and prada, and original fixtures, including raw cinder block and peeling wallpaper, are left as they are found. brecht might have approved the poetic clothes and the poletarian mise en scene, if not the insurrectionary conceit. "but the word 'guerilla' as rei understands it isn't political," joffe says. "it refers to a small group of like-minded spirits at odds with the majority. she's fascinated by the amish, for example, and the orthodox jews."
- judith thurman, "the misfit: rei kawakubo," new yorker july 4, 2005
posted July 17, 2005 in printdepths of many marvelous moments
billy couldn't read tralfamadorian, of course, but he could at least see how the books were laid out—in brief clumps of symbols separated by stars. billy commented that the clumps might be telegrams.
"exactly," said the voice.
"they are telegrams?"
"there are no telegrams on tralfamadore. but you're right: each clump of symbols is a brief, urgent message—describing a situation, a scene. we tralfamadorians read them all at once, not one after the other. there isn't any particular relationship between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. there is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. what we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time."
- sf, p 84
posted July 17, 2005 in printthe amber of this moment
"welcome aboard, mr. pilgrim," said the loudspeaker. "any questions?"
billy licked his lips, thought a while, inquired at last: "why me?"
"that is a very earthling question to ask, mr. pilgrim. why you? why us for that matter? why anything? because this moment simply is. have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?"
"yes." billy, in fact, had a paperweight in his office which was a blob of polished amber with three ladybugs embedded in it.
"well, here we are, mr. pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. there is no why."
- sf, p 73
posted July 17, 2005 in printnot very moist
he went home for a nap after lunch. he was under doctor's orders to take a nap every day. the doctor hoped that this would relieve a complaint that billy had: every so often, for no apparent reason, billy pilgrim would find himself weeping. nobody had ever caught bily doing it. only the doctor knew. it was an extremely quiet thing billy did, and not very moist.
- sf, p 59
posted July 17, 2005 in printfrom things she found in gift shops
billy wasn't a catholic, even though he grew up with a ghastly crucifix on the wall. his father had no religion. his mother was a substitute organist for several churches around town. she took billy with her whenever she played, taught him to play a little, too. she said she was going to join a church as soon as she decided which one was right.
she never did decide. she did develop a terrific hankering for a crucifix, though. and she bought one from a santa fe gift shop during a trip the little family made out West during the great depression. like so many, americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.
and the crucifix went up on the wall of billy pilgrim.
- kurt vonnegut, jr., slaughterhouse-five p 36
posted July 17, 2005 in print