Friday, March 26, 2010
In 1982, no computer software existed for composers. We scored everything by hand, including orchestra parts. The handwritten original manuscript of the Way of the Cross employed the majority of floor space on the family room floor of my parents’ home. The pharmacist that I happened to be dating at the time served as a pastoral musician for a parish in the north end of New Bedford. When I showed him the score, he literally scanned the entire floor saying, “I have an idea,” and invited me to perform the unfinished work as a Good Friday prayer service in his parish. Stations One, Two and Eight were still incomplete, so I hastily 'borrowed' works from several other artists to compensate and pull the work together for the event. I played recorder, guitar and piano on the other selections and asked an area musician to premier the cello score. Much of the oboe and string scores remained only a sketch in my head.
Word of a new work spread quickly throughout our small diocese, which prompted me to complete the score. Original music replaced 'borrowed' compositions; new manuscripts found their way into the hands of gifted players who loved and played the work into life. I became engaged to the pharmacist, who turned out to be a computer geek in his spare time and learned how to manuscript music with an early version of Music Write, providing clean and readable scores for the musicians who looked forward to Lent every year to meet and play the Way of the Cross. World Library Publication picked up an option to publish and distribute a recording of the symphonic version of the piece and married it to a collection of artwork that accompanied new prayer text. Within a twenty-eight year period of approximately 50 performances of the Way of the Cross in 32 locations, the pharmacist and I married, raised three children, became caregivers for aging parents and relatives, earned two masters degrees and multiple certifications in health care and religion, changed jobs between us several times, volunteered in our parish and schools where our children attended, became involved in city government, authored and published consistently in our respective fields, served on a number of boards and committees, faced a number of serious health issues, built several additions to our home, created and managed a business, maintained relationships with friends old and new, and managed to stay in love with each other and the Church, all through the grace of God.
Throughout their infancy and childhood, my children came to know Friday and Sunday nights in Lent as 'Stations concert” nights, when parishes would book the event and our family would hit the church trail. Sean, Tim and Martha learned how to set up music equipment, distribute programs at the door, manage a sales table, act as the cross bearer and candle servers for the liturgy, and socialize with people after a concert. Sometimes the events would produce a 'surprise' drama, like the time when a server arrived at the third station (Jesus Falls for the First Time) and decided that imitation really is the most sincere form of flattery and fainted because he forgot to eat prior to the service, breaking his jaw on the marble floor of the church (we packed up and went home without finishing that concert). Or the time when we took the fast ferry to Nantucket Island and got caught at sea in a blizzard that rocked our little boat so much that we all arrived sick the night of the concert (if anyone doubts that God possesses a sense of humor, they need only have gazed upon our green faces as we washed ashore that evening). Overall, my children grew to know this work intimately and developed a deep connection to this extraordinary gift of word and song that eventually became part of their anthropology, a way of life and a path to faith.
Our concert ensemble witnessed amazing grace, like the time that we waited for our cellist to arrive for a half hour before we realized that he was a no-show and gave the cello score and a second music stand to the violist, Jonne Gomes, (playing viola tonight) and watched in awe as he simultaneously and successfully played two scores in two different clefs (way to go, Jonne). In another concert, the page turner (my husband, Pat, who also doubles as second conductor, sound engineer, equipment mover, sales table manager and booking agent), got the flu and stayed home. It took the ensemble exactly one station into the concert to figure out that the page turner role was essential, when we realized that all of our hands were occupied playing our instruments and could not turn the pages of my full score so that I could sing and play the work. We all took turns that night, skipping measures of music here and there to flip pages. At another concert, I lost my voice at the beginning of the event and all the players took turns singing the notes they could reach and skipped the notes they could not sing. The concert mistress lifted the bow to her violin and issued her famous line: “Make it work”. And we did. Our concert ensemble family of players lost two cellists to early death; playing the Way of the Cross helped us to heal from those reeling events.
Several years ago, I suffered a number of health issues that resulted in the loss of vocal ability and placed me in the same shoes as a baseball player who can choose to keep trying to hit a ball with a bad arm or quit while people still remembered a great game. Like any death, I grieved the loss of my voice, a cherished friend, and reconciled the end of my singing career. I no longer sing publicly and prepared to face the fact that the Way of the Cross may no longer be possible as a live concert and heard only by those folks who purchased a recording of the work. Simultaneously, my daughter began to discover her own vocal gifts. As her own lovely singing voice developed, I considered that she may be the one to carry on the work that my husband and I began very innocently with that first concert. When Sheryl Walsh, the music director of St. John's in Attleboro asked if I would revive this concert piece, I asked my daughter if she would sing the score for tonight's performance, and she agreed. Listening to Martha sing the same music and lyrics that I did moves me in a way that surpasses singing the work myself. St. Paul got it right: “Eye cannot see, ear cannot hear what God has ready for those who love him.” Pat and I continue to marvel at the movement of the Spirit of God in our own lives that brought us to this point, to see our own faith life realized in the living witness of our own children. We can only wonder and give thanks at the gracious love of God, the giver of so many rich and beautiful gifts that nurture and sustain our lives within our deepest joys and sorrows.
I sing with the psalmist, “How shall I make a return to the Lord, for all the good God has done for me?” My thanks to the musicians who breathe life into this work. I extend my deepest gratitude to my family, who continues to walk the Way with me. I love you.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
French Reflections
In January 2010, the Stonehill College Chapel Choir set out on its fourth European tour, heading for the first time to France. In addition to offering concerts in the Cathedral of Notre Dame and L'Eglise de la Madeleine in Paris, the choir traveled to visit Notre Dame du Chartres, and finally to Le Mans, the home of Blessed Basil Moreau, founder of the Congregation of Holy Cross. Through the local Holy Cross community in Le Mans, the choir visited Notre Dame du Sainte Croix, the church built by Fr. Moreau in the 19th century, and continued on to visit and sing for the elderly Marianite who inhabit at The Solitude, a reserve that includes the archives from the Congregation's origins. Our singing tour ended with a vigil Mass at the Cathedral of St. Julien in the old city of Le Mans.
Forty singers, including five Stonehill choir alum, journeyed together to witness what history set before us. We pondered human suffering and endurance in the Conciergerie, extravagant glory at Versailles, creative genius at the Louvre, and the glory of God as we toured and sang in the glorious French cathedrals. As I visited with my students on our bus rides and our walks up and down the streets of France, I asked what touched them the most. Some were clearly moved by the music that we sang as their voices resounded and echoed back to them in reverberated hymns of praise. Others raised questions on political and economic history and their effects on a country that clearly surpasses our own in matters of national health care, affordable higher education and an enviable sprit de corps of the people of France. As the students toured the cathedrals, several mused on mysteries revealed throughout the magnanimous period of human history that produced such an implausible witness of faith in the living God, and what these miracles of stone and mortar teach us about ourselves. More than a few students returned to the Louvre in their free time, to continue to explore the countless works of genius throughout the ages and offered a spontaneous concert on the steps of the museum for other tourists.
I discovered a leitmotif of profound wonder and joy within all of these conversations, which I believe can only be accessed through lived experience. I may tell my students that their voices will resonate in a vast cathedral, but unless they draw breath as they prepare to sing, create sound and wait for the reverberation to cease before they sing another phrase while sensing the music of the ages that resonate for centuries before them, their epiphany will not occur. These young scholars study the history, literature, politics and artistic ventures of particular periods of history, reflecting and writing about them as they search for truth and meaning. However, as my choir students placed their hands on the very stones that the laborers of Chartres hauled by hand from a quarry five miles away, or gazed upon the upward thrust of flying buttresses and exquisite stained glass at Notre Dame in Paris, classroom legends became a living testament of real people who birthed these wondrous glories of mortar and glass through human endurance and unparalleled faith. As we encourage students to evoke their senses through learning opportunities such as a choir tour, we offer them new possibility, to discover, learn and grow into the holy human beings that God has in mind for us all.
I considered this particularly as we visited Le Mans and the site of Blessed Basil Moreau, who believed that “the mind must not be cultivated at the expense of the heart.” As my students sang an Ave Maria in Notre Dame du Sainte Croix, prayed at the tomb of Fr. Moreau and toured the church where our Stonehill roots found their origin, one student reflected, “If it hadn't been for all of this, we would not be here. We would not have met.” Without the experience of standing in that church, I very much doubt that Fr. Moreau would be as real as he will be forever more in the heart of that student. The exuberance of the elderly Marianite sisters during our afternoon concert enkindled the embers of friendship that transcended language as religious women and Stonehill students joined in music making and elated encounter, bringing alive the Holy Cross charisms of hospitality and community. Borders disappeared as we sang the liturgy at Cathedral of St. Julien, collaborating with the cathedral musicians in praise of our God, ignoring Arctic temperatures as hearts were warmed within the spirit of our shared faith. Singing for the hundreds of tourists who heard us at Cathedral of Notre Dame, L'Eglise de la Madeleine and at Cathedral of St. Julien stirred in all students a sense of Christian mission, igniting a spirit of faith which inspires and animates zeal and identifies us as the people of God.
For some of our students, choir tours will be their only experience of travel across the ocean during their academic careers, and will embark on a more profound journey of study because of their travel experiences. Others will find the inspiration and courage to step outside their borders and study abroad, exploring the world more deeply, traveling widely while they pursue academic discipline in a foreign country. Whatever the case may be, Stonehill choir tours offers our students an opportunity to engage spiritually, intellectually and bodily with the world, giving witness to Fr. Moreau’s vision of an education that fosters the widening of minds and the deepening of hearts.
Forty singers, including five Stonehill choir alum, journeyed together to witness what history set before us. We pondered human suffering and endurance in the Conciergerie, extravagant glory at Versailles, creative genius at the Louvre, and the glory of God as we toured and sang in the glorious French cathedrals. As I visited with my students on our bus rides and our walks up and down the streets of France, I asked what touched them the most. Some were clearly moved by the music that we sang as their voices resounded and echoed back to them in reverberated hymns of praise. Others raised questions on political and economic history and their effects on a country that clearly surpasses our own in matters of national health care, affordable higher education and an enviable sprit de corps of the people of France. As the students toured the cathedrals, several mused on mysteries revealed throughout the magnanimous period of human history that produced such an implausible witness of faith in the living God, and what these miracles of stone and mortar teach us about ourselves. More than a few students returned to the Louvre in their free time, to continue to explore the countless works of genius throughout the ages and offered a spontaneous concert on the steps of the museum for other tourists.
I discovered a leitmotif of profound wonder and joy within all of these conversations, which I believe can only be accessed through lived experience. I may tell my students that their voices will resonate in a vast cathedral, but unless they draw breath as they prepare to sing, create sound and wait for the reverberation to cease before they sing another phrase while sensing the music of the ages that resonate for centuries before them, their epiphany will not occur. These young scholars study the history, literature, politics and artistic ventures of particular periods of history, reflecting and writing about them as they search for truth and meaning. However, as my choir students placed their hands on the very stones that the laborers of Chartres hauled by hand from a quarry five miles away, or gazed upon the upward thrust of flying buttresses and exquisite stained glass at Notre Dame in Paris, classroom legends became a living testament of real people who birthed these wondrous glories of mortar and glass through human endurance and unparalleled faith. As we encourage students to evoke their senses through learning opportunities such as a choir tour, we offer them new possibility, to discover, learn and grow into the holy human beings that God has in mind for us all.
I considered this particularly as we visited Le Mans and the site of Blessed Basil Moreau, who believed that “the mind must not be cultivated at the expense of the heart.” As my students sang an Ave Maria in Notre Dame du Sainte Croix, prayed at the tomb of Fr. Moreau and toured the church where our Stonehill roots found their origin, one student reflected, “If it hadn't been for all of this, we would not be here. We would not have met.” Without the experience of standing in that church, I very much doubt that Fr. Moreau would be as real as he will be forever more in the heart of that student. The exuberance of the elderly Marianite sisters during our afternoon concert enkindled the embers of friendship that transcended language as religious women and Stonehill students joined in music making and elated encounter, bringing alive the Holy Cross charisms of hospitality and community. Borders disappeared as we sang the liturgy at Cathedral of St. Julien, collaborating with the cathedral musicians in praise of our God, ignoring Arctic temperatures as hearts were warmed within the spirit of our shared faith. Singing for the hundreds of tourists who heard us at Cathedral of Notre Dame, L'Eglise de la Madeleine and at Cathedral of St. Julien stirred in all students a sense of Christian mission, igniting a spirit of faith which inspires and animates zeal and identifies us as the people of God.
For some of our students, choir tours will be their only experience of travel across the ocean during their academic careers, and will embark on a more profound journey of study because of their travel experiences. Others will find the inspiration and courage to step outside their borders and study abroad, exploring the world more deeply, traveling widely while they pursue academic discipline in a foreign country. Whatever the case may be, Stonehill choir tours offers our students an opportunity to engage spiritually, intellectually and bodily with the world, giving witness to Fr. Moreau’s vision of an education that fosters the widening of minds and the deepening of hearts.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Market Place Musings
After reading Juliet Schor and Tom Beaudoin on religion and consumption, I began to reflect on Beaudoin’s position regarding the “unique dynamic” of “branding” as a verb, capable of shaping “a consistent and coherent identity” within a specific community, namely, that of young adults within a college setting. When considering this particular pericope, I decided to take several intentional walks at two private Catholic colleges, where I respectively work and study, to specifically pay attention to what students wear, how they carry themselves, and how they interface with one another in coffee shops, libraries, classroom areas, and gyms. The practice of Christian presence as hospitality and availability always plays out in a very deliberate way within my own practice of ministry, and that includes walking intentionally on both college campuses. However, this exercise became a more focused activity, one I attempted to perform without moral certitude or agenda, keeping an open eye and mind to the physicality and interaction of students on both campuses, with an ear to Schor and Beaudoin as I walked and observed. I offer several equations as a result of this exercise:
Abercrombie and Fitch + Coach + Nike = Status, Power
Jimmy Choo + Calvin Klein + Victoria Secret = Envy, Desire
Status + Power + Envy + Desire = Acceptance and Confidence
Status + Power +Envy +Desire+Acceptance +Confidence = The Look
In these two private college settings, I found that The Look contains not only a distinguishable physical appearance in students who espouse brand economy practices, but also carries with it an aura of poise which manifests itself as an air of superciliousness, a “brand” of arrogance worn as surely as any logo apparel. The Look communicates how one wishes to be seen by peers, issuing physical appearance as one's own personal traits (cool, strong, intelligent, etc.) These young power magnates appear to set the bar for other college students who may not possess the monetary resources or the physical norms that The Look requires, creating an abyss between those who can and those who cannot. In my opinion, “branding”, when lived out as a verb, not only marks those who adopt marketplace ideologies, and adapt their identities so that they can really experience the pleasure that their own imaginations conjure, but also “brands” those it leaves in the wake of its effects. The old adage, ‘marked for life’ comes to mind when recalling those students who sit with me because they’ve been made to feel different and struggle with their own self-image. Even good ministry sometimes falls short in its attempt to call to mind that every individual is created in the image and likeness of God when a human being feels crushed by the impact of marketplace ‘branding’. The haunts who embody those everyday elements that college students encounter play themselves out through episodes of bulimia, cutting, excess drinking, drugs abuse, gossip, co-dependant relationships, and other forms of depression. I would add to Schor’s claim that materialism creates neurosis and risky behavior those who feel that they cannot measure up to America’s marketplace dictatorship, driving them into a state of despair. “Branding” is alive and well and is often before me as students live their own Calvary, attempting to reclaim their own truths from the bill of goods that marketplace icons try to sell them.
After my two intentional walks, I mused that The Look dominates my two colleges. What does this say about us as institutions? Who are the targets of our market? Who do we invite and accept into our institutions? Schor claims that young people become ‘branded’ at a tender age, through a composite of influences created by the culture of our time. The two aforesaid institutions gean much their student constituency from a professional clientele of parents and moguls who provide a kind of modeling of what power, influence and prestige appear to look like. Marketplace contouring plays out in the professional world through brand suites and ties with clout, Blahnik power, and other eponymous attire which has the potential to inform, form and transform accountants into power-broker look-alikes, lawyers into economist wanna-be’s, business owners to entrepreneur-hopefuls. Do our students model what they witness in their parents? Or, do they adopt The Look, if they’re able, when they arrive on campus, and if so, at what point are they ‘branded’?
While guilty of parental transgressions from time to time, (I love really great showes and so does my daughter!), I will not purchase brand names for their own sake, but will find companies like Kenneth Coe, which advocates awareness through AWEARNESS1. I’ve worn my own sons out with my sermons on profit-at-any-cost companies (a perfect example of Beaudoin’s warning about moralizing!), but happily report that my lectures must have taken at least partial effect. All three of my kids will think twice before purchasing a piece of clothing from companies whose market practices are in question. I continue to watch for ' branding' signs among the young adults with whom I'm privileged to share a relationship and continue to consider the question, “To whom do we belong: to God, or to the market gods?” Indeed, to whom do any of us belong and how will we live that conviction out in the future?
Abercrombie and Fitch + Coach + Nike = Status, Power
Jimmy Choo + Calvin Klein + Victoria Secret = Envy, Desire
Status + Power + Envy + Desire = Acceptance and Confidence
Status + Power +Envy +Desire+Acceptance +Confidence = The Look
In these two private college settings, I found that The Look contains not only a distinguishable physical appearance in students who espouse brand economy practices, but also carries with it an aura of poise which manifests itself as an air of superciliousness, a “brand” of arrogance worn as surely as any logo apparel. The Look communicates how one wishes to be seen by peers, issuing physical appearance as one's own personal traits (cool, strong, intelligent, etc.) These young power magnates appear to set the bar for other college students who may not possess the monetary resources or the physical norms that The Look requires, creating an abyss between those who can and those who cannot. In my opinion, “branding”, when lived out as a verb, not only marks those who adopt marketplace ideologies, and adapt their identities so that they can really experience the pleasure that their own imaginations conjure, but also “brands” those it leaves in the wake of its effects. The old adage, ‘marked for life’ comes to mind when recalling those students who sit with me because they’ve been made to feel different and struggle with their own self-image. Even good ministry sometimes falls short in its attempt to call to mind that every individual is created in the image and likeness of God when a human being feels crushed by the impact of marketplace ‘branding’. The haunts who embody those everyday elements that college students encounter play themselves out through episodes of bulimia, cutting, excess drinking, drugs abuse, gossip, co-dependant relationships, and other forms of depression. I would add to Schor’s claim that materialism creates neurosis and risky behavior those who feel that they cannot measure up to America’s marketplace dictatorship, driving them into a state of despair. “Branding” is alive and well and is often before me as students live their own Calvary, attempting to reclaim their own truths from the bill of goods that marketplace icons try to sell them.
After my two intentional walks, I mused that The Look dominates my two colleges. What does this say about us as institutions? Who are the targets of our market? Who do we invite and accept into our institutions? Schor claims that young people become ‘branded’ at a tender age, through a composite of influences created by the culture of our time. The two aforesaid institutions gean much their student constituency from a professional clientele of parents and moguls who provide a kind of modeling of what power, influence and prestige appear to look like. Marketplace contouring plays out in the professional world through brand suites and ties with clout, Blahnik power, and other eponymous attire which has the potential to inform, form and transform accountants into power-broker look-alikes, lawyers into economist wanna-be’s, business owners to entrepreneur-hopefuls. Do our students model what they witness in their parents? Or, do they adopt The Look, if they’re able, when they arrive on campus, and if so, at what point are they ‘branded’?
While guilty of parental transgressions from time to time, (I love really great showes and so does my daughter!), I will not purchase brand names for their own sake, but will find companies like Kenneth Coe, which advocates awareness through AWEARNESS1. I’ve worn my own sons out with my sermons on profit-at-any-cost companies (a perfect example of Beaudoin’s warning about moralizing!), but happily report that my lectures must have taken at least partial effect. All three of my kids will think twice before purchasing a piece of clothing from companies whose market practices are in question. I continue to watch for ' branding' signs among the young adults with whom I'm privileged to share a relationship and continue to consider the question, “To whom do we belong: to God, or to the market gods?” Indeed, to whom do any of us belong and how will we live that conviction out in the future?
Voguish
Recently, my daughter came home on a break from college. After a Saturday morning breakfast chat about her friends, her work, her search for apartments for next year and her most recent romantic interests, she stood to go upstairs to shower. Before she left the room, she kissed me on the cheek, pulled the latest copy of Vogue out of her overnight bag and plopped it on the kitchen table. “By the way, I bought this for you. Fun stuff. “
After I poured myself a third cup of coffee, I mustered the courage to look at the star-studded cover of sleek, label-gad women walking toward the wind-machined lens. My daughter and I used to pour through the pages and muse over the lifestyle of the people who seem to very casually wear the unwearable and took great pleasure in perusing Vogue together. When she went to college, I lost my Saturday morning fashion rag buddy. The pages of the magazine taunted me as I mused about my sudden discomfort with the images that stared up at me from their glossy frames. I felt as though I had stepped into a minefield and suddenly wondered why in the world I used to think that this was fun.What was going on here?
The word 'pragmatic' rarely enters fashion vocab. If you love it and you feel good in it, you buy and wear it, regardless of pain or practicality. I admit that despite budget restrictions, I own a good number of stiletos and suits and would never think of going to the grocery store without earrings and lipstick, at the very least. Every day presents a change of purse to match a particular outfit, and sometimes the outfit may be selected because of the choice of a favorite bag or shoes (I confess that I still change my purse if I think that the color clashes with my outfit). I even admit that I once refused to come out of the house to say hello to an old friend who stopped by to introduce me to his new wife because I didn't have my 'face' on. (He recently admitted to me through Facebook that he thought that I was mad at him these many years because of that incident. Pow, that hurt.) Okay, I admit it: I have allowed the stylediva within me to become the power magnate. Fashion rules. A thousand lashes and thirty days without matching bags and shoes for me. However, my recent practice of SAAC (Style At Any Cost)leans more toward supportive walking shoes and a giant satchel that holds my laptop, my brown bag lunch and a tote umbrella, just in case in rains. The brick walk that leads from the parking lot to my office kills nearly every stileto I own; I have befriended the cobbler and take credit for putting his daughter through her first year of college. Vogue smogue. These days, my outfits tend to revolve around a growing collection of Danskos. So sue me. I don't like wet and pinchy feet and can no longer go a full day inside open-toed four-inchers that threaten to land me on my yasch. I used to buy clutches based on their level of color, style and cuteness. Now I look for bags that hold my two-inch heels when I change them for a couple of hours at a meeting. My book-sized purses have been replaced by John Wayne-sized satchels that accommodate the daily bread of blackberry,notebook and arugula with date bagels. Take that, baguette queens.
I nudged the suspect copy of Vogue with the base of my thumb so that the cover was now hidden behind my laptop. I suddenly wondered if I had evolved past brand names and fashion interests. Where did the love go? As I pondered the possibility that age might be a contributing factor, I considered the fifty-something women who still purchased high heels and carry the letter C on on more bags and wallets than New York cabs. These power queens still pull off The Look, an air of confidence and comfort as they stride down corridors in their high heels, balance home and career, labels and love, breezing between board meetings, brooms and Barney's. However, as I perused the pages (yes, of course I gave in) filled with Gucci and Channel, Givenchy and Dior, adorned by anorexic nymphs and sunglassed men clad in underwear or nothing at all, I found myself searching for anyone over the age of twenty-something. The flawless, youthful faces with no wrinkles advertised the miracle of regenerating cell magic with the newest brand of cream for aging skin with air brush wonder. Are you kidding me? Every page taunted me with nymphettes who existed on subsequent meals of lettuce leaves and flavored water, baring limbs longer than Gumbi and evoked the possibility of adventure, sexuality and arrogant carelessness. I couldn't seem to find anyone who aged within these hallowed pages (of course I read it from cover to cover). My daughter intended her gift as a source of enjoyment. Instead, the episode propelled me into a Vogue-funk and sent me running to my closet-and-a-half to consider when My Look had decided to take a trip south for the winter.
Hope arrives through the most unexpected encounters. I decided to dress comfortably that Sunday morning, anticipating my usual 14-hour Sunday and donned a soft gray skirt, red Dansko's and a red and pink argyle layered sweater with white collar and cuffs. As a compromise for my scaled-down non-look, I threw on a pearl necklage and earrings with my giant Swalarki pink-jeweled ring that I picked up at a 75% off sale in a Denver hotel on a lay-over several years ago. As I passed a mirror for a quick check, I told myself to face it: my cosmo girl days were long gone. My non-look was a far cry from outfits past, when my students would watch for my feet under the piano to see what cute stiletto I would wear and visitors drooled over my lastest scarf or newest jacket. I had decamped the world of sheek and settled for comfort. Where is Tim Gunn with a shot of fashion conscience when you need him.
Upon arriving to work, I encountered a staff member who would preside aand preach at worship that morning. He introduced me to his friend, who I immediately dubbed Friendly Guy, probably in his mid-fifties. You just liked him at first blush.
“Wow, you've really got it going on!” he exclaimed, checking me out from head to toe. “You must watch What Not To Wear! You're so coordinated. I love what you're wearing!”
For a moment I considered telling Friendly Guy that I felt like the last rose of summer when it dawned on my that Vogue wasn't the problem. I had become my own worst version of The Enemy. In that moment, I knew that I had allowed a contemporary marketing icon to dictate how I felt about myself based on what I wore on my back and on my feet. I decided right then and there that Friendly Guy had offered me an opportunity to reboot from my Voguefunk and return to the land of the resurrected, so I volleyed back, “Well, thanks, and yes, I do watch What Not To Wear. I love that show! I actually have a reputation on this campus as the Coordination Queen. My students tell me all the time.”
“I knew it,” Friendly Guy said, perceiving my interest in the fashion world. “Can you believe the women on that show and what they wear? What in the world are they thinking? They don't even wear the right bras or underwear with their clothes. It always fascinates me to think that they walk on the streets either oblivious to how they look or just uncaring about their appearance.”
Our family motto is Toutedroit (Straightforward). I suddenly became intensely interested in Friendly Guy's identity, so I asked straightfowardly asked him, “Who are you? Do you work in fashion?” “ Oh no,” he laughed. “I'm a priest.”
Shucks, folks. I'm speechless.
Was Friendly Guy an anomaly or is there really a little Tim Gunn in even men of the cloth? Are people secretly reading Vogue under the covers at night and watching Project Runway instead of Meet the Press? Did my Friendly Guy just pull back the curtain on the newest show in town?
And what all this say about those of us who might still want to always look our best but willing to compromise the height of our heels or the length of our skirts for a more accomodating style with a little comfort? And in what rule book does it state that voguish style equates to what the fashionistas dictate? It seems to me that whatever I wear, my clothes should suggest who I am – a woman who may have gained a little wisdom (and weight) over some well-heeled walkway. My mileage tells me that some styles should never be worn by people over forty and body parts serve us best if they serve in the style that God fashioned them. I may be preaching to the choir but I'll say this loudly and proudly, by gum. Vogue smogue. Beauty comes in many sizes, shapes and styles. It's up to us to find our style and work it. Or, in Gunn-tongue, make it work.
I still read Vogue on Saturday mornings. I still love fashion and I still want to own a pair of Christian Loubatin open-toed pumps someday. But now I just look in the mirror and love myself back. I am, after all, me.
After I poured myself a third cup of coffee, I mustered the courage to look at the star-studded cover of sleek, label-gad women walking toward the wind-machined lens. My daughter and I used to pour through the pages and muse over the lifestyle of the people who seem to very casually wear the unwearable and took great pleasure in perusing Vogue together. When she went to college, I lost my Saturday morning fashion rag buddy. The pages of the magazine taunted me as I mused about my sudden discomfort with the images that stared up at me from their glossy frames. I felt as though I had stepped into a minefield and suddenly wondered why in the world I used to think that this was fun.What was going on here?
The word 'pragmatic' rarely enters fashion vocab. If you love it and you feel good in it, you buy and wear it, regardless of pain or practicality. I admit that despite budget restrictions, I own a good number of stiletos and suits and would never think of going to the grocery store without earrings and lipstick, at the very least. Every day presents a change of purse to match a particular outfit, and sometimes the outfit may be selected because of the choice of a favorite bag or shoes (I confess that I still change my purse if I think that the color clashes with my outfit). I even admit that I once refused to come out of the house to say hello to an old friend who stopped by to introduce me to his new wife because I didn't have my 'face' on. (He recently admitted to me through Facebook that he thought that I was mad at him these many years because of that incident. Pow, that hurt.) Okay, I admit it: I have allowed the stylediva within me to become the power magnate. Fashion rules. A thousand lashes and thirty days without matching bags and shoes for me. However, my recent practice of SAAC (Style At Any Cost)leans more toward supportive walking shoes and a giant satchel that holds my laptop, my brown bag lunch and a tote umbrella, just in case in rains. The brick walk that leads from the parking lot to my office kills nearly every stileto I own; I have befriended the cobbler and take credit for putting his daughter through her first year of college. Vogue smogue. These days, my outfits tend to revolve around a growing collection of Danskos. So sue me. I don't like wet and pinchy feet and can no longer go a full day inside open-toed four-inchers that threaten to land me on my yasch. I used to buy clutches based on their level of color, style and cuteness. Now I look for bags that hold my two-inch heels when I change them for a couple of hours at a meeting. My book-sized purses have been replaced by John Wayne-sized satchels that accommodate the daily bread of blackberry,notebook and arugula with date bagels. Take that, baguette queens.
I nudged the suspect copy of Vogue with the base of my thumb so that the cover was now hidden behind my laptop. I suddenly wondered if I had evolved past brand names and fashion interests. Where did the love go? As I pondered the possibility that age might be a contributing factor, I considered the fifty-something women who still purchased high heels and carry the letter C on on more bags and wallets than New York cabs. These power queens still pull off The Look, an air of confidence and comfort as they stride down corridors in their high heels, balance home and career, labels and love, breezing between board meetings, brooms and Barney's. However, as I perused the pages (yes, of course I gave in) filled with Gucci and Channel, Givenchy and Dior, adorned by anorexic nymphs and sunglassed men clad in underwear or nothing at all, I found myself searching for anyone over the age of twenty-something. The flawless, youthful faces with no wrinkles advertised the miracle of regenerating cell magic with the newest brand of cream for aging skin with air brush wonder. Are you kidding me? Every page taunted me with nymphettes who existed on subsequent meals of lettuce leaves and flavored water, baring limbs longer than Gumbi and evoked the possibility of adventure, sexuality and arrogant carelessness. I couldn't seem to find anyone who aged within these hallowed pages (of course I read it from cover to cover). My daughter intended her gift as a source of enjoyment. Instead, the episode propelled me into a Vogue-funk and sent me running to my closet-and-a-half to consider when My Look had decided to take a trip south for the winter.
Hope arrives through the most unexpected encounters. I decided to dress comfortably that Sunday morning, anticipating my usual 14-hour Sunday and donned a soft gray skirt, red Dansko's and a red and pink argyle layered sweater with white collar and cuffs. As a compromise for my scaled-down non-look, I threw on a pearl necklage and earrings with my giant Swalarki pink-jeweled ring that I picked up at a 75% off sale in a Denver hotel on a lay-over several years ago. As I passed a mirror for a quick check, I told myself to face it: my cosmo girl days were long gone. My non-look was a far cry from outfits past, when my students would watch for my feet under the piano to see what cute stiletto I would wear and visitors drooled over my lastest scarf or newest jacket. I had decamped the world of sheek and settled for comfort. Where is Tim Gunn with a shot of fashion conscience when you need him.
Upon arriving to work, I encountered a staff member who would preside aand preach at worship that morning. He introduced me to his friend, who I immediately dubbed Friendly Guy, probably in his mid-fifties. You just liked him at first blush.
“Wow, you've really got it going on!” he exclaimed, checking me out from head to toe. “You must watch What Not To Wear! You're so coordinated. I love what you're wearing!”
For a moment I considered telling Friendly Guy that I felt like the last rose of summer when it dawned on my that Vogue wasn't the problem. I had become my own worst version of The Enemy. In that moment, I knew that I had allowed a contemporary marketing icon to dictate how I felt about myself based on what I wore on my back and on my feet. I decided right then and there that Friendly Guy had offered me an opportunity to reboot from my Voguefunk and return to the land of the resurrected, so I volleyed back, “Well, thanks, and yes, I do watch What Not To Wear. I love that show! I actually have a reputation on this campus as the Coordination Queen. My students tell me all the time.”
“I knew it,” Friendly Guy said, perceiving my interest in the fashion world. “Can you believe the women on that show and what they wear? What in the world are they thinking? They don't even wear the right bras or underwear with their clothes. It always fascinates me to think that they walk on the streets either oblivious to how they look or just uncaring about their appearance.”
Our family motto is Toutedroit (Straightforward). I suddenly became intensely interested in Friendly Guy's identity, so I asked straightfowardly asked him, “Who are you? Do you work in fashion?” “ Oh no,” he laughed. “I'm a priest.”
Shucks, folks. I'm speechless.
Was Friendly Guy an anomaly or is there really a little Tim Gunn in even men of the cloth? Are people secretly reading Vogue under the covers at night and watching Project Runway instead of Meet the Press? Did my Friendly Guy just pull back the curtain on the newest show in town?
And what all this say about those of us who might still want to always look our best but willing to compromise the height of our heels or the length of our skirts for a more accomodating style with a little comfort? And in what rule book does it state that voguish style equates to what the fashionistas dictate? It seems to me that whatever I wear, my clothes should suggest who I am – a woman who may have gained a little wisdom (and weight) over some well-heeled walkway. My mileage tells me that some styles should never be worn by people over forty and body parts serve us best if they serve in the style that God fashioned them. I may be preaching to the choir but I'll say this loudly and proudly, by gum. Vogue smogue. Beauty comes in many sizes, shapes and styles. It's up to us to find our style and work it. Or, in Gunn-tongue, make it work.
I still read Vogue on Saturday mornings. I still love fashion and I still want to own a pair of Christian Loubatin open-toed pumps someday. But now I just look in the mirror and love myself back. I am, after all, me.
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