OXHEART Interview: Elaine Hargrove

Dear friends,

In case you were not aware, I am not just Miss Manhattan but also the Media Liaison for art, music, and performance collaborative OXHEART*. I am proud to say we are having our third show, CANVAS, this Saturday, January 19th, at the Brooklyn Lyceum in Park Slope. This show marks our first collaboration with the deliciously edgy Gowanus Circus, so be prepared for some phenomenal flights of fancy (fire! contortion! actual flying!) alongside some incredible artwork, rock and roll and, for the first time, a children's show and burlesque (don't worry, though, those shows are at different times, haha....click here for more information.) 

This time, I had the pleasure of interviewing one of our artists, Elaine Hargrove. I found Elaine's work addicting--as soon as I saw the images for the show, I knew I needed to see more. Any photographer can take someone's picture, but it takes a smart one and a strong one like Elaine to draw out their humanity in even the most mundane or ridiculous scenarios. Not to sound like a raving cheeseball, but her work spoke to me. I could hear the voices of her subjects and I just wanted them to keep talking to me forever. Get to know Elaine and her work below, and of course please come check them out at OXHEART this weekend. Stay updated with us on Facebook and Twitter as well. I hope to see you there!

Sincerely,

Miss M

Interview with Elaine Hargrove, OXHEART CANVAS Artist

Where are you from originally? Where do you live now? 

Originally from Boston, MA, I’m currently a resident of Brooklyn.

What inspires you? What draws you to photograph something?

When I’m making photographs what inspires me are details for better or worse. Details and surprises, and outward expression are beautiful. People and places with details. Some of the things I am most attracted to are handmade, natural, and unique.

On a recent first journey to Mexico I was taken aback at their unabashed use of glitter and loud colors on painted skulls and “folk art.” It was refreshing and delightful and playful to me but also addressed themes of life, death, family, and religion in terms that surpassed my language barrier. It was beautiful how richly these came together.

Some of the art had an unexpected dialog with the images that I am drawn to make, as a glutton for glitter, feathers, bursting color, and skin of natural human beings. The images I make, while fun and indulgent, are also multifaceted addressing themes of love, sexuality, culture, individuality, and passion. And the message is easily accessible.

How long have you been doing photography, and how did you first decide you wanted to get involved with it?

Photography became appealing to me junior year of high school. I found myself skipping academic classes in exchange for the magic and science of the darkroom. Watching an image appear out of water changed my life and enchanted me. As a kid I did lots of drawing, water painting, pastelling, sewing, molding, at home and doodling in church. Photography became something new and definitive in my creative process, and addictive.

Photography reflects life in the most literal language I can use and it’s incredible to me. The connections it creates for me to other people is sometimes uncanny. It inspires me to learn about the world and parts of life in a closer context.

What’s more, there is a hunt and chase for the stars to align and reveal a visual chemistry between people interacting or between my subject and myself as I become a fly on the wall. Sometimes it’s incredible and inspiring to create an interaction with a willing beautiful stranger and come up with something unpredictable.

What makes a good photograph, to you?

It’s hard to define a “good” photograph in our contemporary world flooded with imagery and the craft of photography opened to almost everyone with an interest. I guess a good photograph should be able to hold a viewer's attention for a bit and the artist's too.

What do hope your photographs will say to an audience?

In my current body of work and most of the work I’ve ever made, I want to communicate what’s left behind once you break down broad generalizations of people. I also want viewers to feel good and optimistic and like they can relate somehow to any subject in my portraits.

I tend to photograph "others" often. There are those of us under-represented or ill-represented in western media, i.e. people of color, and people of nontraditional sexual orientation. I aim to photograph them in a non-objectifying manner. I guess I try to see these “others” from the viewpoint of an “other” as an African-American bisexual woman. I don’t want to perpetuate stereotypes of “others” as being “at-risk”, “needy”, “problem cases” or even the extreme opposite position of being “culturally proud.” Between these two positions I tend to see a two-dimensional representation of people that are multidimensional.

Beyond that, I want viewers to feel good, and optimistic and like they can somehow relate to any subject or action taking place in my portraits.

I have a photograph of a heavyset Hispanic couple passionately embracing alone deep in the middle of the ocean. Though this simple representation is one I haven’t seen in our popular media, the response to this image across the board is that viewers are tickled and want to experience a similar moment in their own life, rather than rousing the standard issues of culture, body image, lot in life, etc.

When I do shoot “non-traditional people of color” I try not to perpetuate commonly idealized attributes but rather just appreciate individuality and in a way that keeps them connected to all of my subjects.

What do you like to do when you're not producing work?

When I’m not creating art, I do mindless tasks like house work, watch Netflix, stare at social media, cook veggie food if I happen to have shopped, spend time with loved ones, have a shot of tequila, plan the next trip, read a biography for inspiration, on a good day discover nooks and crannies of the city. I also bartend a lot.

What are your goals for your work in the future?

In 2012 I had my first two gallery shows, and I’m happy to say I recently began vending prints of my photos as well as original photo-themed stationary on the NYC streets and had some success with sales. It’s been a bit of a hurdle to get here as creating art comes more natural to me than presenting it. For me, it’s a process getting my work out there, and exposing it to the world but the response is rewarding even if simple. By the finish of 2013 I plan to have an early draft of my first photo book. I also have a plan of curating a summertime group photography exhibition in the works, an exciting and challenging first for me. I’m anxiously anticipating squeezing everything in.

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Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have: 2012 Edition

At the end of each year/beginning of each new year, every media outlet known to man does some type of Top X of the Year. I wanted to write about my favorite moments from 2012, but then I realized there were some I never actually wrote about! So here we go, the Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have 2012.

Corner Bistro
I found Corner Bistro on a request from ALiCo. We needed someplace cheap and low key to hang out with a large group of people. As I do with most things, I went to New York magazine to see what might fit our criteria, and found the aforementioned bar. By its own admission, it's been around since the earlier part of the century and is one of the last vestiges of the true Bohemian Greenwich Village, the now-mythic Greenwich Village teeming with starving artists who all became some kind of famous Kerouac-like figure. For me, it was an easy choice, not to mention $2 beers and $6 hamburgers (cash only), listed with those white pull-apart letters normally reserved for conferences at Radissons in middle America. Outside, its legendary neon red letters buzzed brightly on the corner of West 4th and Jane. Inside, under a haze of yellow light, we crammed into a black wooden booth in the back corner of the restaurant. A group of us ate and drank and bullshitted until we were asked to leave, not because we were especially rowdy but because we were taking up valuable table space. They put up no front of hospitality and, frankly, I liked them all the more for it. I wish I lived close by so it could be my neighborhood bar.

TBW's Party Van
It wasn't so much a real party van, the kind that normally includes a stripper pole and/or disco ball, but TBW's mother's minivan he had brought in from Queens for the night. After a rousing, glittery, gay Sunday night dance fest at Greenhouse with the likes of downtown celebrities Amanda Lepore and Ladyfag, TBW, TDS, myself, and a crew of TBW's bros crammed into the van and blasted loud-ass tunes while looking for our next destination. We tried some of those pretentious Chelsea clubs, but they rarely let in guys if they're not on the list, and TDS and I were not dressed up like off-duty hookers, so we were unsuccessful. Instead, we went to the Mexican taco truck on 14th and 8th. TBW swerved the wrong direction into oncoming traffic and pulled up right behind the cart. It was March and there was still a biting chill in the wind. TDS and I waited outside the car while the boys got tacos (they're TBW's fave). My hair was wet with sweat from dancing and quickly got cold. TDS and I huddled together tight for warmth, then back into the van it was for more tuneage and bouncing around the car like idiots on a Sunday night. TBW kept getting lost in the West Village, so we wound up at the Papaya Dog on 6th Avenue. While we were waiting for the boys to get their crazy-flavored juices, two dudes started a vogue-off just outside of the window, complete with drops, twirls, and god knows what else. It was 3am.

Gloria
By sheer misadventure, I wound up covering the annual Jewish Women's Archive Luncheon for the Jewish Daily Forward at the Museum of Jewish Heritage way downtown in the Battery Park area. You could even see the Statue of Liberty from the dining room! At the luncheon, the legendary Letty Cottin Pogrebin and Gloria Steinem were being honored, alongside the amazing philanthropist Elizabeth Sackler and extraordinary writer Rebecca Traister (who later gave me great insight into being a writer. Thanks Rebecca!). In my days as a young feminist--I was in elementary school--I idolized Gloria Steinem for her contributions to women's liberation, like so many I'm sure did. I saw myself in her and did my best--rather, do my best still--to be a good person, not a good woman. Never, ever in my wildest dreams did I actually think I would meet her. But I did. I stood and waited patiently for my chance to say hello, admiring her. Though in her 70s, my does the woman have style: a minimalist black boatneck top to show off her glorious collarbone; chic, black wide-leg trousers and an armful of chunky gold bangles clanging on her slim arms. Tears welled up in my eyes and it was all I could do to hold them back and simply say hello and thank you.

Patrick
Patrick McDonald is a fashion world icon, a legend known as "The Dandy" for his perpetually creative take on menswear, including but not limited to everything from harem pants to yellow suits to fedoras and a completely endless list of thank god knows what else. Though he started in fashion as a model, he later became the assistant buyer at department store, nay, fashion palace Barneys, among other achievements. He, his signature dark hair, piercing eyes and ever-present mole and I had the pleasure of meeting at an art salon party at a photographer's studio in SoHo. Patrick, dressed to the nines as usual, was just on his way out when I stopped him to say hello. We exchanged pleasantries and then, like a magical gift from the fashion gods, he told me he loved my dress. Say what you will: call me vain, call me petty, call me a slave to fashion. But call me when a style deity tells you he likes your dress and then tell me how you feel. 

For a Good Time, Call...
Courtesy of Her Campus.com, the magazine for which I am the Style Editor, I was invited to the New York Premiere of the movie For a Good Time, Call.... Written by Lauren Miller (Seth Rogen's wife) and Katie Anne Naylon, the movie stars Miller and the ever-fabulous Ari Graynor as two girls who start a phone sex hotline. I'd rather you see the film, but I will tell you that that movie is everything I love about being a girl and none of the things I hate. No mushy crap love story, just something true and funny. However, I thought 'New York Premiere' meant 'Press Preview' and I dressed for the latter--luckily my shiny black pants and motorcycle boots translated into the atmosphere, even when I was walking past Elisabeth Moss in the lobby, and at the afterparty in the Meatpacking District. There I was with CN, my guest that night, sipping cocktails next to Justin Long, chit-chatting with Seth Rogen, watching Jonah Hill hit on my roommate and hearing her talk about Norwegian music with Paul Rudd. I hardly knew what to do with myself except have another cocktail and talk to more people, including Graynor herself. The whole evening was a completely wonderful surprise. And my goodness, if you're going to have a surprise evening, isn't it better if Paul Rudd is there?

Interview Russia
I don't remember exactly why, but CH and I did a photoshoot of his friend Krussia at the International Center of Photography Studios near midtown. CH asked me to style, and I came up with a sort of 1900s coal miner/boxer vibe, suspenders and all. The pictures came out beautifully, and when Interview Magazine Russia was doing a story on Krussia, they used our pictures! It was one of the best days of my summer, and I was so excited I swore repeatedly via text message to CH. It's not every day you get your work published in an international lifestyle magazine. If you like, you can check out the pictures, with the article entirely in Cyrillic, here. I know I say stuff like this all the time, but this is why I moved to New York. Sometimes you can be an overnight success, and other times every little step counts. After all, the little steps make a staircase, and they only keep going up. 

16 Hours

The hours between 6:30 pm Christmas Eve and 10:30 am Christmas day were perhaps the busiest yet most delightful 16 hours I have had in a while, if not for their grand company than for their sheer busyness alone. I love to be busy and I love to have a packed schedule, but it’s almost as if the holiday gods were on a bender this year. Back to back to back I went and I did and I Christmased. Maybe it’ll be a new tradition?

6:30 pm

DL arrives for dinner and we go out for my favorite Christmas eve treat, mediocre Chinese food. Fewer things taste like home to a nice Jewish girl on Christmas eve, and DL is a good sport who kindly obliges/indulges me. At a restaurant with a most politically incorrect name, we chopstick our way through dumplings, Mu Shu Chicken (he) and Scallops with Black Bean Sauce (me). Everything tastes the same and the post-meal pineapple comes from a can. Ah, Christmas. After a rousing discussion of the sociobiology and/or hierarchical necessity of how and why we eat, I realize I am having such a good time that I have become late for my next appointment.

9:30 pm

I meet RD and PS at RD’s apartment before we head off to the annual He’bro Jewbilee. He’bro puts on social events for gay Jewish gents, and their party this year is at the extravagant and highly-regarded XL, the largest gay club in New York, and housed in The Out hotel (referring to itself as “straight-friendly,” the hotel rooms have no closets. Get it?). I am writing an article about He’bro, and this event will be the cherry on top (more about this at another time…). Long story short, the event is marvelous, with fantastic music (Gaga, Rihanna, Whitney, do I really need to go on?), go-go boys Jewish and not Jewish with plastic Stars of David swinging from their necks, Jewish drag queens, and yes, even the straight Jewish guy who hits on me while I am resting my high-heeled feet. I smile politely but hobble away to get another drink. Nice try, bro. By the way, it’s excellent fun being a lady in a gay club with unisex bathrooms which discipline patrons to keep one person per stall thank you very much. What’s nice is that even while my feet are beginning to ache, a nice gent with a British accent who is not Jewish but is here for the boys says I look fabulous. Thank you sir! Somehow it gave me the spark I needed to hit the dance floor again. Later, seeing my evening mates have become…occupied, and my feet are nearly falling off, I tiptoe my way to a cab. Which is surprisingly easy to get in the middle of BFE Hell’s Kitchen on Christmas Eve.

2:30 am

Knowing that if I go home and put my head down I will in fact fall asleep and miss my 6 am flight, I go home, change my heels for motorcycle boots and hobble (yes, still—heels are powerful things, I tell you!) to my favorite diner down the street for breakfast? A midnight snack? I don’t know the name of the meal, but I know its purpose was to fill me with enough food that I passed out on the plane. A chicken quesadilla with waffle fries will do the trick, I think. Post-meal, I hobble home, change my shirt, shove a few more items in my suitcase, zip it up, say goodbye to my house, and head for the street.

4 am

Having just loaded my suitcase into a cab, which took a bit longer than I expected, actually, my phone rings. It’s Mother Dear. “Are you awake?” she asks. I am not only awake, but on my way to the airport. I am a jet-setting lady boss of my life and I feel tired but fabulous and on top of everything. I am too important to sleep! I joke to myself.

The airport is surprisingly busy and I thank Goddess for my foresight in checking in online. I arrive at the gate at 4:48 am, wrap my pink circle scarf around my face and simmer into a half-sleep, only to be awakened by the sound of my zone being called for boarding.

I arrive on the plane, in my seat, my carryon luggage stowed safely beneath my feet. The next step is to fall again into deep slumber, so up goes the circle scarf. Only to be brusquely disturbed by the droning voice of the stewardess who wants to know what patron belongs to a black and pink besequined backpack she has just removed from an overhead bin. “Is this yours? Is this yours?” she asks to everyone behind me and finally myself. I say no and replace said scarf. I am nearing sleep, so close I can touch it, despite the continued drone of said stewardess’s voice as it moves about the cabin. In a few moments I am used to the noise and slowly begin my sleep cycle, only to be prodded awake by the stewardess and asked again if this is, in fact, my bag. Yes, madam, I do in fact understand that it is entirely possible that I, a female who also happens to be dressed in black and pink, could be the owner of this sequined monstrosity. I was in fact just at a gay club where sequins are nothing if not the norm. But dear Goddess over my dead body would I ever, EVER own a backpack with the words ‘LOVE PINK’ written across the back of it like some corporate Victoria’s Secret slave and you have just prodded me awake to ask YET AGAIN if I own it while I am clearly, clearly sleeping! “IT’S NOT MINE,” I say firmly, distinctly and with just enough edge to make the woman teeter away looking for her next victim. I huddled back into my circle scarf and felt the tiniest tinge of regret, a freckle on the skin of my remark, if you will. I mean, the woman couldn’t know my distaste for corporate monogramming or that I haven’t slept in nearly 24 hours. I am not ever a person who speaks unkindly to those in service because I know first hand how difficult the job is. I mean, people are generally awful. Besides, it’s just so much easier to be nice. But honey, I said no once and I’ll be damned if some ugly backpack is going to come between me and the only three hours of sleep I’m going to get these next 48 hours. So with that, I wrap the scarf around my face again and drift asleep, happily undisturbed the rest of the flight.

8:45 am

In just a few minutes we will land. I will then get my bag, jump into Mother Dear’s faithful Cadillac and head home. Once home, I will unpack Best Friend’s Christmas present from my bag and wrap it up as prettily as I can on three hours of sleep (which, incidentally, happens to be pretty damn well if I do say so myself) and head to her house for Christmas breakfast at 10:30 am with her family like we do every year. In fact, this breakfast was the reason for my 6am flight in the first place. I was originally supposed to fly out at 9pm Christmas Eve, but had to change flights (with no extra charge, yay!) for the Jewbilee I was covering.

I will not sleep until about 2 pm that afternoon, 31 hours after I woke up the day before. And frankly, I don’t think I would have changed a thing. Except maybe for that damned stewardess.

December Snapshots

Sometimes in New York, one has the distinct pleasure of experiencing several lovely events in a short period of time and one, namely moi, is confronted with the dilemma of how share them all. Until now, when I present to you a series of short vignettes about some fabulous evenings of weeks past. 

Une Petite Crise

When we walked into Marie's Crisis, I had visions of that scene in The Birdcage where the magical Mrs. Coleman (Goldman?) appears and the entire dinner party, conservative Christian family and closeted drag couple alike, burst into "I Could Have Danced All Night," from My Fair Lady. Except instead of a smaller dinner party, there was a large crowd of people sitting, leaning, standing around the piano in the center of the room, behind which an older gentleman in a beanie and a hoodie made his choice of show tunes, handed out solos and directed the evenings vocal acrobatics with thick, wrinkled hands. Gay and straight people alike sang in perfect and not-so-perfect pitch, and some, like me, just sang loud because why not? My, er, untrained voice hid amongst the crowd. I was able to Fosse my way through "All That Jazz" with hands and hips the way I always wanted to on the long road trips north when I was stuck in the passenger's seat.  All my mother and I would listen to were show tunes because she hated my dirty punk music ("Turn off that acid rock!" she'd say) and Kander and Ebb or Cole Porter or Jule Styne were the only things we could agree on. Consequently, I have some entire soundtracks memorized without even trying. I even got to flex my muscles a little bit at Marie's with Anything Goes, Chicago, Gypsy, and Cabaret. A glass of wine and a dirty martini in, I added some choreography. Fun story: Marie's was a brothel when it first opened in the 1850s. So my choreo was hardly the strangest thing that had ever passed in front of the bar's dark red walls. 

Cowgirls on the Run

EPL decided on a whim to come in for her 25th birthday the same weekend EH and ALC had become available to play, so we all went out and had a lady night. You don't get much more lady than a restaurant called Cowgirl, decked out from floor to ceiling in heavy handed and utterly ridiculous cowgirl paraphernalia, be they pinup cowgirl drawings, longhorns tacked to the wall, or a lamp made of smiling ladies wearing stetsons. Not to mention a menu featuring good ol' ranch grub like chili, chicken fried steak, fajitas, and god knows what else. We drank sangria, talked about things you can't talk about in front of boys or people you don't know very well. After many a beverage at another bar, we tried to find a cover-free gay bar to go dancing in, but we were at a loss. Instead, around 2am, we headed to Solas in the East Village and danced until we shut the club down. Next day, over home fries and omelets at new brunch spot Tolani, chosen to avoid all of the weird-ass cold rain flying around, we all conferred with each other--is your entire body sore? Mine is, too! Totally worth it. 

Taylor Mac

Even as someone ravenous for drag, I find myself unqualified to talk about the magic that is Taylor Mac. I had the pleasure of seeing the internationally acclaimed drag entertainer at Joe's Pub, tucked inside the newly renovated and legendary Public Theatre in the East Village. In a new series of one-hour shows he is workshopping, Mac uses his gorgeous, classically trained pipes to share re-tooled songs from every decade of music since the 1800s. In outrageous, outlandish costumes designed by the delicious Machine Dazzle (including a hat made from an entire box of Christmas ornaments), Mac is utterly bewitching, funny, and absolutely fabulous. Excuse me, sir--did you just perform a rock piano rendition of Silver Bells? Are you downing chocolate panna cotta in one bite and tossing arugula on your forehead betwixt songs? Will my life be lacking a certain amount of glitter until I see absolutely every single one of your 24 shows in the series (to be performed all at once, in one 24-hour period) as an ode to imperfection? Could doing so possibly lead to an overdose of brilliance and would it in fact be the most lovely way to die? Yes to all. 

The L.A. Story, Part III

In light of the miserable New York weather this week, I am going to post one last blog about California. It has been almost a month since I’ve seen a sunset or left the house without wearing socks. I hate wearing socks.

Much is right with the world now that I have seen this.

I only had to wear socks a little bit in California, though. On Saturday, when KL picked me up at the hotel, I had actually overdressed for the weather, my cardigan and leather jacket too much for the 70-some-odd degree weather. It had been three days and I still didn’t know how to dress for the city. No matter. KL had been kind enough to take me out to fulfill one of my life goals: putting my hands in Marilyn Monroe’s handprints in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Now I’m fully aware of my anti-tourist demagoguery, but this was a special occasion! And Grauman’s is much smaller in person than the sprawling postcards on which it usually appears. But tucked neatly to the left side of the entrance, there she was. There’s a big glass bead on the ‘i’ in Marilyn because she hoped the studio would let her leave a diamond in there. Fearing it would get stolen, they let her put a rhinestone instead…which, in a matter of days, was itself stolen. So they put in a glass bead to fill the place, and it’s been there for 60 some-odd years now. There were other celebrity signatures there, but I didn’t really care, nor could I really handle it—that area of L.A. is like Times Square, claustrophobically seething with tourists (I guess much like myself). Besides, Marilyn was the goal. After I got my picture (rather, happily, a series of them because KL went to film school!), we left to have lunch at a rather “California” restaurant called Aroma and, to my delight, up to see the Hollywood sign.

Before we get to that, though, fun fact: did you know the parking meters in L.A. take credit cards? KL informs me it's quite the plastic town. Obviously, in more ways than one. KL is a film producer, so he has to sort through a lot of garbage and has learned a few things about the city. For example, a screenplay isn't really worth anything--it's just ink on paper. But it's everything that's attached to it--potential, money, etc.--that make it worth something. L.A., he says, is a town that continually makes something out of nothing. The city itself was just a desert before people found a way to bring water to it. It wasn't worth anything. And now it's worth so much. Technically, anyway. Like the screenplay.

But, to the Hollywood sign. Something people forget to tell you about L.A., or maybe forgot to tell me about L.A., was how beautiful the hills are. I've never been in an environment like that before, one that's so distinctly urban and still so natural. Up near the Hollywood sign, the road twists and turns past one-of-a-kind homes slouching into the hillside and opens up into this open, green area where all you can see is green, dotted with the occasional house. There are deep valleys and dirt and fields and the air is so crisp and cool I could really just stay there forever. The letters in the sign shone bright white on the green hillside, just hanging out. No big, we're only just one of the great American landmarks, la di da. I tell KL he should ask a girl to marry him up there, but for him it's far too cliche--like asking someone to marry you on top of the Empire State Building--and I can understand that. I don't really want to leave. I just want to sit up there and breathe some more of that air (as I'm sure you know, we don't have too many hillsides in New York!), but KL is a busy man and has other places to be. It's all for the best, though, because maybe if I spent too long there I wouldn't want to go back. But I didn't, so I do. 

**

The view from the photo shoot loft!

Monday morning brought an early rise as the Affinitas ladies picked me up and took me to our shooting location, a gorgeous loft on the seventh floor of a building close to downtown. Looking out the windows, you could see all across the city, and when the sun set, it oozed lavender, melon, and yellow across the sky and through the panes of glass. I forgot how much I missed sunsets. The entire day was a blast, working with the photographer, makeup artist, and marketing team to get everything set up. I picked out the different lingerie and jewelry ensembles that will appear in an upcoming catalog, which is incredibly exciting! 

That night, I reconnected with RH, a dear friend from college. We hadn't seen each other in years and had barely spoken, but somehow it all fell away. I guess that's how you tell who your real friends are--when time can pass and it never matters. RH took me to lovely Santa Monica (where I think I would like to live if I lived in L.A.), which reminds me so much of Fort Lauderdale Beach but with less tourists and better weather. We walked up and down

Santa Monica Pier

Santa Monica Pier at night, sort of L.A.'s answer to Coney Island but not at all dirty, chatting about life and the universe and family and progress and personal growth. Neon lights from the rides slashed through the dark night sky while our shoes click-clacked on the aged wooden boardwalk. The sea was silent and dark, scary and endless but in a beautiful, uncertain way. We found a lovely little restaurant called The Misfit, where we dined on small plates (I still cannot get the bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with goat cheese out of my mind. RH, if you're reading this, please go back and eat them all the time for me.) and interesting cocktails and talked and talked. RH effervesces--L.A. agrees with him, and it shows. Far more than the cold and grey of Pittsburgh where we went to school. 

One of my favorite things in the world is seeing someone's city from their point of view. "Take me where you go!" I say with a bright smile on my face to my friends. You get to see a part of them you might never see otherwise, a part that is love for a place you don't know and can't duplicate on your own. But seeing them love it makes you love it too. So for all the things that people say about L.A., I have to say I liked it quite a lot. But then again, I had excellent hosts. I only wish all visitors to L.A. the same experience. 

The L.A. Story, Part II

I have not had the privilege of traveling many places by myself, much less those that require a car, but my gander about downtown L.A. my second day in town was just delightful. Stationed in Little Tokyo, I had Japanese food for breakfast (also dinner the night before…and dinner later that night. I swear I've never eaten so much rice in my life.) and then took a walk around the area. The Japanese Village Plaza was right next to my hotel, done up in red and white lanterns, dotted with Japanese restaurants, and sprinkled with stores vending Japanese paraphernalia. So it was a little touristy, but I decided to embrace it because, really, I had no other choice! But it was a delight to roll up to a restaurant at around noon (yeah, breakfast at noon, I'm still a New Yorker at heart) and order Chicken Donburi, prefaced by green tea and miso soup. A couple from France next to me took pictures of their food as I sipped my earthy-and-wonderful-tasting tea. Seriously, I asked myself, why don't I drink proper green tea more often?

Innards warmed, I took to the street again to explore. To my delight, the Japanese American National Museum was free that day (thank you, Target!), and I decided why not have a bit of culture today? I explored the awesome street art installation on the inside, decked out in amazing pencil illustrations by Albert Reyes. I learned it was a part of the Giant Robot Biennale, the museum's third so far. Named of course for Eric Nakamura's famed "Asian American pop culture juggernaut," the Biennale featured a variety of vinyl toy sculptures, and works from a variety of pop artists. I was also quite taken with stunning watercolors and drawings by Rob Sato and teeny tiny sculptures by Sean Chao. There was even an awesome sticker vending machine where you could get stickers showing the works of artists in the show. The rooms of the Biennale were exploding with color in toy, painting, and sculpture form. 

"Go for Broke" Emblem on the monument

Upstairs, I also learned about the history of the Japanese people settling in America--their triumphs and tribulations, the culture they created for themselves in America and, sadly, about Japanese internment during World War II. An older gentleman took a group of young girls on a tour of the museum just in front of me, and I listened as he explained the plight of the Japanese with great emotional intensity. It's something we don't really learn enough about when we study American history. Not everything about America is butterflies and rainbows. One part of this story that really resonated with me was that of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team (among others), the segregated portion of the military made of second-generation Japanese Americans, rescuing Holocaust survivors despite their questioned American loyalty after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Their motto was "Go for Broke," as in give it all you've got, and they did, not only proving their loyalty (and showing the government how wrong they were) but far surpassing expectations. I bought a magnet with the "Go for Broke" emblem on it and it's now on my fridge. Incidentally, the "Go for Broke" monument is just outside the museum, too. What a pleasant surprise, stumbling into a museum like this on a Saturday! And for free! 

And then, right next door, as if a gift from the culture gods, was the MOCA Geffen (aka The Geffen Contemporary at MOCA). MOCA Geffen is a contemporary art space that was once a former police car warehouse, revamped by none other than Frank Gehry. It has a variety of nooks and crannies for housing artwork, this time the large exhibition, "Blues for Smoke," which featured only work inspired by blues music and the culture of the blues. Not only were there fantastic pieces on view (Basquiat, photos by Roy DeCarava and Mark Morrisroe, Zoe Leonard's installation of a long line of blue suitcases) but music to listen to as if to give every piece of artwork a context beyond just the floating white walls. I walked around the 24,000-square-foot space with dreamy, wide-eyes, like a teenager stumbling upon the dressing room of her favorite pop star. Seeing this exhibition felt like that tiny moment when you exhale after a sigh and everything feels lighter. I am completely, unapologetically, an art junkie and "Blues for Smoke" was my cocaine.

Floating in my delicious art-coma, I returned briefly to my hotel room to drop off some museum goodies I had procured and found a bookstore not too far from my hotel called The Last Bookstore, featuring not only used books, but records, too! It seemed like my kind of joint. Having brought less reading material than was actually necessary, I realized today would be the only day I would have to make sure I didn't just sit and twiddle my thumbs on the almost 6-hour flight back to New York. Walking to the store, even though it was still light out, I was unsettled--absolutely nobody walks around the streets of downtown L.A. on the weekend, apparently. Though it did make for nice picture taking of some of the buildings around (the Los Angeles Times building and City Hall among them). Walking down Spring Street (ha, we have one of those in New York, too!), it looked like if you took a snap of Manhattan, set a pastel watercolor sunset behind it, cleaned up the streets 'til they sparkled, and took all the people off of it. How strange to walk down a street decked out in lovely buildings with not a person walking in front of them! But I arrived at the bookstore eventually (with the help of a French gentleman who ran a cafe), and was instantly in love. Enormous glass windows painted with 'The Last Bookstore' in gold let me know I was in the right place, as did the shelves upon shelves of books and CDs and records bathed in golden light. White columns held everything up, grungy vintage furniture strategically placed nearby. Raunchy romance paperbacks sat side by side with football stories and pulp novels, DVDs arranged by color. I laughed at myself a little--this is a place I would find. After much deciding on books, however, I settled on An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin (yes, the Steve Martin) and The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson. By that time, though, it had gotten dark--would it be safe to walk back to my hotel? I asked the clerk and was pleasantly told to just walk straight up Spring to 1st, as to avoid "the apocalypse" of a not-so-nice area. I did as I was bidden, stopping first for a hot beverage to warm my chilly bones on the way home. 

And that was only the first part of my day. 

Though I didn't feel like I had particularly done much that day, I was pretty beat so it was off to the hotel again for a disco nap. Followed by, you guessed it, more Japanese food. I realized there were other restaurants I could have looked for, but by the time I had realized I was already seated at the bar at Suehiro, a friendly, diner-like neighborhood Japanese joint. To my right were two giggling teenagers and to my left was an older gentleman in a blue blazer, who was also by himself. Eventually this gentleman, Bert, and I began talking, about New York, about careers, about family, about Los Angeles. Though he was from the Philippines, he had lived in L.A. now for about 25 or 26 years. He told me about his family, and his late wife who I could tell he loved very much. It's times like these when the universe throws people together. Why didn't I find another type of food to eat tonight? Why didn't I sit somewhere else? "You make me feel young again," Bert said. I smiled, and he was kind enough to buy me dinner. We took pictures together and said our goodbyes. If even for a moment you can positively affect change in someone's life, then it's all been worth it. 

Post-dinner, I returned to my hotel and changed for another fabulous evening out with RE, punctuated by another disco nap. RE drove us out to West Hollywood, which I'm told is "the gay part of town" and we went to a gay club called The Abbey. Though it was outfitted like, well, an abbey, there was nothing holy going on in this place. Delightful! Go-go boys and girls (mostly boys) swung from poles and rails and did all sorts of muscularly things with their bodies. RE and I watched in delight whenever we need a break from shakin' our thangs to Gaga, Beyonce and Whitney or sipping our Long Island Iced Teas. West Hollywood is sort of like if Hell's Kitchen were pristine, spotless, and near one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in America (Beverly Hills is right down the street). And then, just like the other night, 1:30 rolled around and it was last call. Then at 2am, all the lights came on in the club and all the boys (and the occasional girl) slowly tottered out of the club. Another freeway ride and a big hug goodbye to RE later, I was back at the hotel, ready to see what else L.A. had in store for me the next day. 

(to be continued…again)

The L.A. Story, Part I

An entire state bursting at the seams with marijuana. Plastic surgery and Botox floating behind tanned skin. Celebrity. Vanity. Convertibles. People who are so laid back they might fall over. These are some of the things that the general public attributes to California, giving it a near-mythic quality, framing it as only a neverland of endless youth that generally lacks substance and has a movie star for a governor. 

Not to mention what people have to say about Los Angeles itself, especially while living clear across the country in New York. LA is where culture goes to die, people say. It's an industry city where people are only out for themselves. Strangely, I always wanted to go. I wanted to see if people were right or, if like so many other parts of the country, the ideas were all just rumors that were blown out of proportion. But I knew I'd have to save my pennies if I ever wanted to get there.

It was, then, a happy surprise when I found out I won the Affinitas Lingerie Stylist for Hire competition. After submitting a look and then a video inspired by the company's lingerie, I was selected by two top lingerie bloggers as the contest winner. As the winner, I won some prize money, lingerie, and a roundtrip flight and hotel stay in LA to style a photoshoot for the company's catalogs. I got back this past Tuesday, and I absolutely had a blast. 

My journey began at 6am on Friday, November 9 as I woke up and got fabulous before a car arrived at 7 to take me to JFK. On the bumpy ride to the airport, I was tired but unable to sleep, becoming nauseated by the persistent, clunking, stop-and-go of the car in traffic (life is hard, I know--cut me a break). Upon arrival at the airport, a bagel and cream cheese  eased the nausea, as did free wi-fi in the Jet Blue terminal! All was right with the world, except for a nasty stuffed and running nose. But I was going to LA! And I was excited! 

Six hours later, I landed at LAX and, like Miley Cyrus, I too had a dream and a cardigan. But also a leather jacket because I was told it gets surprisingly cold at night in LA. The kind ladies from the lingerie company picked me up and took me to my hotel and on the car ride I proved how…green…I was in terms of California-ness. "I CAN SEE THE HOLLYWOOD SIGN!" I said, as I stared out the window, only to discover that it was actually just a building. I talked about the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, the famous punk club and, when asked where it was, I said, "Uh…it's on a boulevard?" Which is like saying "It's on the corner of a street and another street next to the bodega," in New York (or anywhere, for that matter). 

After checking in to the Miyako Hotel in Downtown LA's Little Tokyo neighborhood (I also found out, on my last day, that the different areas--West Hollywood, Santa Monica, etc.--are not referred to as neighborhoods, but as cities. Oh. But Little Tokyo is actually a neighborhood.), the ladies treated me to lunch at Daikokuya Ramen, a DELICIOUS ramen/noodle/Japanese joint directly across from the hotel. Normally there's a line outside of the restaurant to get in, but since it was the middle of the day we only had to wait 10 minutes. Vintage Japanese advertisements from the '50s lined the walls, also peppered with the occasional, handwritten-in-black-sharpie 'Cash Only' sign. I wanted to keep eating the ramen, filled to the brim with pork belly, noodles, and bean sprouts, but my stomach wouldn't let me. Though the hot soup and an accompanying green tea did ease my sad little nose. I was in LA only minutes and already I was feeling better. What is it they say about that desert air?

Post-lunch the ladies took me to L.A.'s Fashion District in Downtown L.A., which is a lot like the one here in New York, except it's more of an open-air market and the shoes are really inexpensive (but totally fierce!). I returned to the hotel, shopped and near sleep, but I wanted more.

I called the delightful RE, who had just begun a Master's degree at USC because he is baller and amazing. What are you up to tonight? Let's have a drink! And so we had a cocktail and a lovely chat downtown. Not before I took the first of my many disco naps in L.A., the product of coast-to-coast jet lag. If you are not familiar, a disco nap is a nap taken post-dinner, pre-going out(to the disco, as it were). Sometimes I call just taking a nap a disco nap because it's just snazzier. 

Interestingly, in L.A. the bars close at 2am! Last call is around 1:30. I found this interesting because when people talk about L.A., it seems like a never-ending party. But really, everyone drives so they can't stay out too late, or something along those lines? What I learned from living in Pittsburgh, where the bar hours are the same, is that it just means people get drunker earlier. Whatevs. What I found most interesting about our trip downtown, however, is how empty the streets are. Yes, people line up to get into clubs and whatnot, but nobody really walks around. It's almost unsettling, until you get into a store or a bar or a restaurant and it's packed with people. Such is life and the car culture of L.A., but more on that later. After a grand hug, RE and I part ways. I practically fall into bed, having been up for almost 22 hours. But so far, so good!

(To be continued)