Drawing by AGJ on Sketches for iPad
Never a dull moment.
The citizens of Maycomb
November 7, 2012
Obama’s victory feels like the defeat of the stubborn and willful ignorance Nelle Harper Lee outlined so beautifully in To Kill A Mockingbird.
Last night, the wish to limit the lives of all kinds of minorities (blacks, gays) as well as the majority (women) was struck down in the electoral court.
That stubbornness will persist. But, for now, Scout, Jem and Calpurnia couldn’t be more pleased.
Far and away
October 28, 2012
[M]y last big trip was two years ago. I did Holland, Germany, Austria and Hungry with my 82-year-old dad. We stayed in a hotel in Amsterdam, just down the street from Anne Frank’s hideout. I listened to the same church bell Anne used to mark time. I even recorded the tolling on my iPhone. In Budapest, I ran my hands over Nazi gunfire splattered across concrete walls. It felt like it had been put there last week. Budapest was an eye opener. Here it is again. — Alison
“It’s forints, not florins. That’s our currency.”
“Oh.” And here I thought we were entering the municipality of The Princess Bride. No matter. I still say there’s a fairy tale quality to Budapest. My imagination revs and roars ahead, gathering up the details, some charmed, most grim.
We’ve had three days to check out Hungary’s jewel-encrusted crowns, gilded shields and her vast collections of knights’ quivers and ogres’ torture racks. We’ve taken in several of her storybook castles perched atop hills so steep even the most modern buses huff and puff on the way up. The views go on for miles. And between breaks for milky coffee and marzipan balls (dipped in chocolate, of course), I’ve breezed past acres of gold-leafed tomes lining the walls of libraries and salons and read about the antics of kings with twirled moustaches and overstuffed bellies (Sigismund), and their consorts whose names bring to mind chiffon trains (Giselle) and royal conniption fits (Sissi). Many of the most beautiful coffee houses are named after these ladies. Like Paris and Istanbul, Budapest has a coffee culture reaching back several centuries.
Back in the sunshine — and, boy, is it intense in these parts — belle époque bronze maidens perched on top of neo-classical cupolas meet the wind gusts crossing central Europe with outstretched arms and heads held skyward. They’re the epitome fluttering elegance. Meanwhile, back on the ground toothless old women (the Romas, or Gypsies), bent at right angles from osteoporosis, limp along cobblestoned streets in search of their next meal. No, they’re not pushing poison apples, but neon whirly gigs (that kids would like if they didn’t run away crying from the gnarled hand holding them) and Woody Allen joke glasses (the dark-framed kind with the big plastic noses). At the end of the day, I imagine these decrepit vendors disappearing down back alleys to count their loose change and toss root vegetables into boiling vats for dinner. Potatoes are a staple, along with cabbage seasoned with vigorous shakes of paprika.
I wouldn’t be the first visitor to Budapest to sigh over the feeling of her faded glory, but pointing this out sounds peevish, like a cruel dismissal of everything she’s been through. I can’t keep track of the number of times the Hungarian capital has been destroyed, captured, ransacked and retaken (high school history must been brutal). Mementos of her roller coaster ride through history are in plain view, from the bullet-chipped edifices (the result of rounds of German machine gun fire from the end of WWII) and the God awful “Sovietsky” style cinder block housing units and desolate paved squares that are a reminder of synchronized marches, and eerie to cross on your own.
The Commies have been gone since 1990, but their willful ignorance of design and gloomy take on life persists in Hungary. It’s an ideology that stands in high contrast to the bursts of art nouveau grandeur that still exists in pockets that somehow escaped Allied bombing, and, later, Soviet thuggery. 
The turn of the century coffee houses in the art nouveau style and the Haussmann-esque wide boulevards explain why Budapest’s been called the “Paris of the East.” Gustave Eiffel (of Tower fame) even designed parts of Budapest’s zoo, the oldest in Europe. Here, one hippo is born every year, they say, because the beasts bathe in the thermal waters that bubble up from under the city.
But back to the dark days of the war. Hungarians aren’t proud of the fact that they sided with the Nazis. Looking at the bullet marks around the city, my imagination doesn’t have to stretch that far to picture soldiers scampering back and forth across the streets and hiding behind walls to dodge the machine gun fire. The younger generation tisks and shakes their head at their ancestors’ pact with the Austrians and Germans. “Yes, they sided with them, although many switched and joined the Allies in the end,” they add. Of course, that didn’t protect the Jews. In 1944, Hungarian fascists from the Arrow Cross party herded up all the Jews they could find living in Budapest and lined them up along the edge of the Danube River. They shot them in a hail of gunfire and the bodies were carried away by the river’s strong current. Today, a bronze mishmash of men’s, women’s and children’s shoes and boots — many toppled over like they were quickly kicked off — are scattered along the quay as a memorial. It’s one of the most touching holocaust memorials I’ve ever seen.
Buried treasure
September 26, 2012
[A]s a genre, online anonymous comments drain the blood from my face and twist my heart into a knot.
But last night the blush returned to my countenance — no, my entire being — when I found this note tucked inside a book of short stories by Irwin Shaw.
On the last page of the story, “A Year to Learn the Language,” was this note written with a blunt-tipped pencil on stationary adorned with a nighttime Christmas scene:
You, who reserved this book before I had a chance to extend it (it is due tomorrow, Thursday, April 1st, 2010), what did you think of this story?
Wasn’t it great?
I think I have found a new favourite writer.
If you wish to share your thoughts, and if you’ve reached this point [page 354], please do so at patrickabois@gmail.com
I plan to read this story to my future wife, wherever she is.
And if you want, keep this in the book for the next person.
From one reader to the next,
Patrick
This is how life should be, but often isn’t.
Long live paper.♦
Life is beautiful
September 25, 2012
Our understanding of breast cancer shifted this week. Through genetic analysis, U.S. scientists working for the National Institute of Health’s Cancer Genome Atlas were able to identify four types of breast cancer. More specifically, they discovered that the most deadly form of breast cancer — the “Triple Negative” — acts a lot like ovarian cancer and a type of lung cancer. “[This] raises the possibility that there may be a common cause,” Dr. James Ingle of the Mayo Clinic told The New York Times. Ingle is one of 348 researchers who worked on the study. These new findings give doctors the green light to test ovarian-style cancer treatments on patients rather applying the routine class of drugs used for breast cancer, which haven’t always worked.
In one of my recent assignments, I interviewed a young woman who beat a “triple negative” diagnosis a year ago. Sarah Lucero lives in Los Angeles and is the Global Artistic Director for Stila Cosmetics. Through humour and tears she told me her story. (Photo by Winny Au)
[I]t first occurred to me that something was off in the summer of 2010. I was on a plane headed to Australia for a Stila press event, and when I lifted my makeup kit into the overhead bin I felt a pain in my right breast. My kit weighs a ton, so I figured I had pulled a muscle. I took an Advil and didn’t think anything of it. Two weeks into my trip, I was still popping pain pills.
When I got back to L.A., the pain hadn’t subsided, so I decided to go to the doctor. I had convinced myself I had a cyst that needed draining—it couldn’t be cancer. I was only 34.
The first doctor I saw didn’t think it was cancer either. “Breast cancer doesn’t hurt,” she said. A Google search by my husband returned similar results. Boy, were we relieved. I love my job and was way too busy to get sick.
Thankfully, the doctor who examined me advised me to get a mammogram. Her tone didn’t imply any sense of urgency, so I went in for a second appointment about a month later. After one mammogram and an ultrasound, I found out I had Stage 2 Ductal Breast Cancer.
I got that second opinion and all my treatments from Dr. Kristi Funk. When I told her what the first doctor had said (“Breast cancer doesn’t hurt”), she replied, “Yeah, but six per cent of breast cancers do hurt.” I was in that six per cent. It just goes to show that you have to trust your body, not the Internet. Also, always get a second opinion.
My first thought when I started chemotherapy was, “Oh, no. I’m going to lose my hair.” I had super-long bohemian beach hair that I’ve had since 10th grade. It had been a part of my identity for so long, and I cried when I lost it. So you can imagine how overjoyed I was when my client and friend Victoria Beckham and her hairstylist Ken Paves surprised me with a wig Ken had made. It looked better than my real hair! I got so many likes on Facebook from unsuspecting friends that I wanted to say, “Enough about the hair, people.”
My lashes fell out next, then my Brooke Shields brows. I cried some more. Finally, for peace of mind, I chose to lose both breasts and have all of my breast tissue surgically removed. I couldn’t face a relapse.
Breast cancer takes away all of your feminine attributes: your hair, your curves, your facial accents, your period. For a long time, the mirror is not your friend. Staring into it, you don’t even see you. I especially avoided looking at myself on days when I felt good. I wanted the feeling to last. And on bad days, I adopted the mantra: “I’m going to be rebuilt by my doctors, and when I am, I’ll be healthy and more beautiful than ever.” That brought me a level of acceptance I never knew I could achieve.
[pullquote]When I told Dr. Funk what another doctor had told me (“Breast cancer doesn’t hurt”), she replied, “Yeah, but six per cent of breast cancers do hurt.” I was in that six per cent. [/pullquote]
As women, we all lose something along the way— whether it’s colour or lustre — from age or sickness. To me makeup is not just for vanity; it’s to make us feel good about who we are at every stage of life. That attitude gives us so much more mileage than trying to look a certain way or wasting energy fighting change. To me, self-acceptance is the true definition of beauty.
For an entire year, I used every ounce of strength, willpower and positivity to fight this disease, but doctors couldn’t tell me why I had cancer. Dr. Funk sequenced my genes to see if my cancer was genetic because that would determine the best treatment for me. The results showed I wasn’t remotely at risk for the disease — despite my grandmother dying from breast cancer, I didn’t carry the genes — nor was estrogen feeding my tumour. The origin of my cancer is still a mystery
I didn’t tell many people about my health crisis. However, I did confide in one or two people at Stila, including the wonderful Deanna Kangas, our CEO, who introduced me to Dr. Funk. I’m sure others suspected something was up because my schedule and my appearance changed.
To protect my positive energy, I chose to keep my cancer largely private. I found it difficult to tell those close to me because I didn’t want them to worry. Also, I didn’t want to answer questions each day about how I was doing. Most of the time, I didn’t know how I felt or even what to say. Some people asked me whether I was going to freeze my eggs or if I planned on having children someday; those things were especially hard to hear and process. I insisted on going to work most days with my game face on.
Cancer is such an isolating disease. It messes with everything: your chemistry, memory, emotions and physical strength. I slowly learned to accept my limitations—my “new normal,” as I called it. I drew strength from my husband and my mom. They were my rocks. They sat with me through every chemo session and came to every appointment, and watched movies on the iPad while I slept.
When I went to work, like I said, I kept quiet about everything because I didn’t want to be put under a spotlight. My job as a makeup artist is to make others shine. Every day, I help women feel beautiful on the outside and the inside, whether it’s by recommending a product or showing them a quick tip. That, in turn, helped me to accept that I looked different and that I should use makeup to enhance what I had, instead of mourning what I’d lost.
I may work in an industry that’s all about surfaces, but I learned that it’s not what you see in the mirror that matters; it’s more, so much more. In the mirror, I see resilience.♦
(A version of this was published in the September 2012 issue of Glow Magazine).
Hot off the press
August 31, 2012
The lines in this drawing are actually clumps of pulled wool caught in fishing line.
Drawing stares
Despite itself, the computer age has given rise to a more intense engagement with objects. Miles Davis on vinyl, homemade scrapbooks assembled with a medieval attention to detail, and libraries of real books stacked in such unexpected places as abandoned phone booths and mailboxes are just some of the tangibles we’ve insisted on having and holding in the aftermath of the digital killing fields. Now add to that the humble pen on paper, which gets a thumbs-up from hipsters, for its control and organic touch as well as its singularity of purpose.
Italian architect Emilia Serra and designer Andrea Mancuso have literally walked into this trend toward object engagement. In Analogia, a series of textile installations, they recreate the old school appeal of loose pen sketches. First unveiled during 2011’s London Design Week, and most recently seen this spring at Salone del Mobile in Milan, Analogia #003 shows a white room set up with a table, a planter and a modern lamp. The archetypal shapes have been sketched out using pulled clumps of inky black Merino wool, woven within a web of transparent fishing line that criss-crosses the space like graph paper.
The idea was first hand drawn and then laid out to scale using 3‑D software. On site, the designers reproduced every detail of the original by applying the wool to the ethereal framework, at once sketching and realizing their imagined furnishings. In a final act of engagement, the designers walked through their sketch, ducking beneath the lines and pointing out the shadows cast by the different strokes. Solid ideas, it seems, really can spring to life out of thin air.
Published in Azure Magazine, Jul/Aug 2012.
heartsick
August 28, 2012
I’m heartsick for my friends, Danny and Alanna Cavanagh, who lost their brother, Shawn, this week.
Republican control
August 22, 2012
Big government has no place in the lives of Americans.
Unless you’re a woman.
