Anton Chekhov was born on 29 January 1860. In addition to being quite the looker…
Anton Chekhov, 1889
…he ranks as one of my favourite writers.
QUOTE: “There is nothing new in art except talent.”
SOME WORKS: The Bear; The Seagull; Uncle Vanya; Three Sisters; The Cherry Orchard; The Death of a Government Clerk; The Huntsman; At the Mill; Easter Eve; Grisha; The Bet; The Darling; The Bishop.
A KEEPSAKE:
Men on a roof. Bending, crouching, arms open to the sky. Hammering, drilling, sawing. Moving silhouettes on a cityscape set. Dress extras bringing atmosphere. Skyscraper backdrop with painted clouds. The foreman stands, his back to the audience. Directing the action. Immobile. Neon-vested. Empty hands in warm pockets. The workers’ raucous laughter slides through the whirring whinge of their tools. Perfectly timed. They’ve given this performance before.
Men at Work
My response to the Daily Prompt.
A poetry-filled party might not sound like a lot of fun to some people, but it is the heart of any good Burns Night Supper. Without love for the famous Scottish poet, there would be no laughter and whisky-fueled merriment. It would be just another run-of-the-mill party with bland finger food and men in pants. Who wants that, when this lovely alternative is at hand? Any takers? Nah. That’s exactly what I thought. The Chef, in addition to being highly skilled at his craft, is a charming, idiosyncratic speaker. He can rock the shit out of any poet’s words, from Emily Dickinson to Allen Ginsberg. (Don’t even get me started on his ability to declaim Shakespearean monologues from memory.) In other words, even though I am a stage trained thespian and real-life professional writer, I leave the Burns Night performance-poetry up to him. If you’re wondering at this point exactly what my contribution to the evening is, other than being stunning eye candy, I won’t blame you. The Chef, he cooks. He recites poetry. What, then, does Maedez do? For starters, I help select the Robbie Burns passages that will be incorporated into the festivities. If you’re keeping score, that’s one check on my side of the ledger. Continue reading
Plans for all of my 2013 writing, editing, and publishing projects are, as usual, going into a classic black Moleskine notebook/planner. This year, there’s a royal twist.
Le Petit Prince Moleskine Planner
I made this “poster” from an excerpt of one of my essays. It was fun! If you want to make a quote poster of your own, go to Recite This. A big thank you goes to Gala Darling for introducing me to this site.
A quote from one of my essays.
The essay I wrote yesterday in honor of my friend Frank really took a lot out of me. I’m drained. I’ve decided that I deserve a break from wading through my creativity. Tonight’s entertainment?
Top Hat poster (1935)
Sullivan’s Travels (1941)
I baked my first cake from scratch when I was nine years old: a simple cocoa cake, round, one-layer. I decorated it by throwing a handful of confectioners’ sugar on top, the powder landing sparse and uneven in spots, heavy like a snowdrift in others. It was beautiful, and tasted like spongy hot chocolate. From that moment on, standing triumphantly in my aunt Lauree’s small kitchen, I had a new hobby.
I found my sole domestic comfort early, unless brewing a perfect pot of tea counts. To this day, I would rather write and read than do anything else. Baking is my only life-long hobby, the one non-verbal art I have never ignored or repudiated altogether. My favourite time to bake is in winter, when the cold starts pushing through the walls of even the most solid structure. I meet Jack Frost head-on, with a hot oven and a swirl of sugar and spices at the ready.
I’m in the habit of reading as I bake. Consuming a few sentences of Hardy or Plath or Trollope whilst blending cake batter or folding in nuts and sultanas is appropriately meditative for this most serene of the creative arts. The uncontrollable frenzy of the holidays officially starts in America on Thursday. The next month will be a kaleidoscopic whirl of shopping, parties, and working with all of my settings broken, but one: overdrive. A few hours spent baking cookies, bars, brownies, and pies will preserve my nerves and restore my balance close to something I can call normal.
I am dedicating today, the 18th of November, this lovely calm before the holiday storm, to Proust and his madeleines. I was born on Marcel Proust’s birthday, 10th July. Today marks the 90th anniversary of his death. He was 51 years old, and left some of the most lyrical, evocative, and intensely beautiful writing in literature. All of that, and an unbreakable association with French tea-cakes called madeleines? Delicious.
Madeleines require very few ingredients, are easy and quick to make, and can be adapted to fit your whimsies. As they are shaped like shells, they require a special but inexpensive tray, but if you are ambitious you could try shaping them by hand!
MADELEINE COOKIES
Ingredients (minus milk + a decorative pumpkin). Continue reading
Someone at Vanity Fair unearthed a short chapter of Truman Capote’s never-finished novel, Answered Prayers. Seems fitting.
Capote, Uncovered (courtesy of Vanity Fair)
I’d like to think that I’m a relaxed, purposeful, and serene-looking reader, a leisurely woman out of a nineteenth-century painting. Cushioned in velvet and satin, a pile of books, a pot of tea, and a vase of flowers artfully arranged on an elegantly draped table near-to-hand. Like this, more or less:
Louise Tiffany Reading by Louis Comfort Tiffany, 1888
My delusions are so humble, aren’t they? The reality is a bit different. Okay, considerably different. For starters, it involves backaches and too much dog hair. I live in a sea of language, a blizzard of words. If I’m not writing, I’m reading. The former is done at the desk in my studio with neatness, solitude, and organization. The latter is a haphazard affair. I hunker down with a book or three in, on, or beside whatever can pass for a seat: my swinging sixties swivel chair; the bathtub; my too-lumpy bed; on the dining room floor; or, somewhat claustrophobically, on the couch crushed beneath a pile of scratchy dog paws and icy snouts. My solution? A dedicated reading space, of course!
We’ve been in our huge flat for 2 1/2 years, and my studio has been used as such from the get-go. Why am I so late to the party with this? I’ve always been a wallflower but this, this, is ridiculous. I spend far too much time on Pinterest to be ignorant of or immune to the sweet siren call of The Perfectly Curated Reading Nook. The concept makes my heart sing with girlish enthusiasm. The effort required to make this over-the-top idea come true? Not so much. In fact, it makes me think of this:
My girl Ophelia knows how I feel.
What’s a writer-reader with bohemian taste, an absurd imagination, and lazy tendencies to do in lieu of actual work? Drag an old chair that has been in the family for 40+ years to the middle of her studio and call it a day.
Before: Communing with the chair in the late 1970s.
The Gold Chair is older than I am. It’s now missing a few buttons and is slightly threadbare in spots; it reminds me of a passage in The Velveteen Rabbit (or How Toys Become Real) by Margery Williams: Continue reading
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 