Many people would disagree but I dare to say that the first pieces of art people wore were tattoos. Everyone who knows at least a tiny bit knows that I am not a fan of them and I would never get one for myself. But I do understand people who do. I used to live with a girl who was a tattoo artist. Her whole body reminded me of Sisine Chapel. Usually I see two types of tattoos: ones with a deeper meaning (which I fully understand and which always makes my tears pour before finding out what's the actual reason for them) and ones quite random, just because their owners perceived the certain symbol as a pretty decoration. But hers were something beyond it: they were like a step to the higher, cosmic kind of magic. Personally I can recall only one tattoo pattern I liked in my whole life: it was an ornamental key on the upper backbone of one of my friend. I never had a dareness to apply for a Sistine Chapel role.
Probably that is why I am so excited by a new trend called DYI. I am excited in advance since I am too lazy to try creating anything like that, but I absolutely adore beautiful crafts sneaking into fashion. The special thing about this trend is that it also turns back an abbreviation trend: I had to google it twice to get what does it mean.
Unlike me, Frank is not able to see any sense in decorations. He's unrespectfully glued to the usefullness. Maybe that's why he's such a boring company until the second glass of wine.
My mother has definitely nothing to do with Frank. To be honest I always had a feeling she was rather reluctant to him, still she never said she disagreed about me needing a psychotherapy. Surprisingly she didn't react when she learned that my chosen cousellor is imaginary like it was common amongst the sociey of modern elite. My mother like drinking tea and she likes DYI. What started as a passion, soon became a job as the trend turned massively global, as if something can be spread more largely than global, then massive global could be the right expression. Precisely, she's into felting. Felting is nothing more but an alternative manner for knitting which is, I'm sorry, Stephanie, now highly old fashioned. (But Stephanie, while felting you don't need to keep your arms in a continental way.)
Just as wearing tattoos is rather embracing a kind of primitive art (maybe except the Sistine Chapel case), sometimes reminding a Gauguin inspiration, wearing felted clothes is like immersing into the soft world of Rafael's painting. Since childhood I had a little weakness to Rafael. I cannot explain it, but even after all these masters of adult life, Renoir, Salvador Dali, Dorothea Tanning and finally poor Rousseau, Rafael always brings a warmth into my heart. That was the magic of a moment when my mom put her handmade scarf around my shoulders. I falled straight into a magical pond of colourful paint, only to spread my reality with random pieces of colourful undefiniable something, with a joyful scream 'aahaa!' Unfortunately only someone who used an advice of an imaginary counsellor can be aware of such fantasies.
This is how my mather falled for DYI, even she would need to google it twice to understand what does it mean. I think about her when I see handmade jewellery and painted glass, and springing and swinging house decorations. And when I see clothes made of an unwearable and something made of nothing, and hats made of paper and dreams made of a spider's web. About her and about him.
-That was exactly what she did- exclaimed Senor Carlos significantly shaking his coffee cup.
I smiled and slowly took a sip of my own coffee, watching an arising joy on the face of my fellow traveler.
-So she was not Italian?
-No- Senor Carlos leaned back on and old fashioned chair.- She was Romanian. Imagine, just started picking up cheap clothes from second hand shops only to create a masterpiece out of them- some cutting, dying, sewing all together and now she is opening a second store in Milan.
When he said 'Milan' his voice trembled slightly and his face seemed suddenly sadder, like he reminded of an old friend he hadn't seen for a while.
-People today are usually not like that- he carried on but clearly with already something else in mind- they are not imaginative. They think it's all about catching a job and keep it, staying for years in corporacies until they forget that there was a time when they had a passion for anything. Like my daughter, you know, she earns barely a tousand pounds monthly but still insists she doesn't want any money from me. She tells me that's the way it has to be now. I was like that as well. Maybe if I had a drive to do something, some call to creation, maybe I would have never left Argentina. You know, my daughter, she speaks almost only Italian, hardly remembers some words in Spanish.
He didn't know that indeed I met his daughter once. I remembered a girl with strong eye brows and high voice with a strong Italian accent. I remembered her because she was memorable and unable to be erased from one's mind. Or maybe it was because we had the same first name.
He finished his coffee and stood up to strongly shake my hand, in a manner only kind and honest people do. Then he wished me all the best and disappeared behind the front door of Hostal Europa, leaving a shadow of his smile kept as a halo in a wind that suddenly cut the air of a lounge in Barcelona from the outside, recalling noisy street of a centre of Milan in a refreshing summer.
My mother has definitely nothing to do with Frank. To be honest I always had a feeling she was rather reluctant to him, still she never said she disagreed about me needing a psychotherapy. Surprisingly she didn't react when she learned that my chosen cousellor is imaginary like it was common amongst the sociey of modern elite. My mother like drinking tea and she likes DYI. What started as a passion, soon became a job as the trend turned massively global, as if something can be spread more largely than global, then massive global could be the right expression. Precisely, she's into felting. Felting is nothing more but an alternative manner for knitting which is, I'm sorry, Stephanie, now highly old fashioned. (But Stephanie, while felting you don't need to keep your arms in a continental way.)
Just as wearing tattoos is rather embracing a kind of primitive art (maybe except the Sistine Chapel case), sometimes reminding a Gauguin inspiration, wearing felted clothes is like immersing into the soft world of Rafael's painting. Since childhood I had a little weakness to Rafael. I cannot explain it, but even after all these masters of adult life, Renoir, Salvador Dali, Dorothea Tanning and finally poor Rousseau, Rafael always brings a warmth into my heart. That was the magic of a moment when my mom put her handmade scarf around my shoulders. I falled straight into a magical pond of colourful paint, only to spread my reality with random pieces of colourful undefiniable something, with a joyful scream 'aahaa!' Unfortunately only someone who used an advice of an imaginary counsellor can be aware of such fantasies.
This is how my mather falled for DYI, even she would need to google it twice to understand what does it mean. I think about her when I see handmade jewellery and painted glass, and springing and swinging house decorations. And when I see clothes made of an unwearable and something made of nothing, and hats made of paper and dreams made of a spider's web. About her and about him.
-That was exactly what she did- exclaimed Senor Carlos significantly shaking his coffee cup.
I smiled and slowly took a sip of my own coffee, watching an arising joy on the face of my fellow traveler.
-So she was not Italian?
-No- Senor Carlos leaned back on and old fashioned chair.- She was Romanian. Imagine, just started picking up cheap clothes from second hand shops only to create a masterpiece out of them- some cutting, dying, sewing all together and now she is opening a second store in Milan.
When he said 'Milan' his voice trembled slightly and his face seemed suddenly sadder, like he reminded of an old friend he hadn't seen for a while.
-People today are usually not like that- he carried on but clearly with already something else in mind- they are not imaginative. They think it's all about catching a job and keep it, staying for years in corporacies until they forget that there was a time when they had a passion for anything. Like my daughter, you know, she earns barely a tousand pounds monthly but still insists she doesn't want any money from me. She tells me that's the way it has to be now. I was like that as well. Maybe if I had a drive to do something, some call to creation, maybe I would have never left Argentina. You know, my daughter, she speaks almost only Italian, hardly remembers some words in Spanish.
He didn't know that indeed I met his daughter once. I remembered a girl with strong eye brows and high voice with a strong Italian accent. I remembered her because she was memorable and unable to be erased from one's mind. Or maybe it was because we had the same first name.
He finished his coffee and stood up to strongly shake my hand, in a manner only kind and honest people do. Then he wished me all the best and disappeared behind the front door of Hostal Europa, leaving a shadow of his smile kept as a halo in a wind that suddenly cut the air of a lounge in Barcelona from the outside, recalling noisy street of a centre of Milan in a refreshing summer.
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