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She was sitting on the sidewalk, strumming her guitar.
It was about an hour to sunset. The golden twilight cast a shadow on her guitar, silhouetting it against the garage door behind her.
She looked up at me with sad brown eyes, hair curling around her forehead. She said it would be okay if I took her photo.
I asked if I could email her a copy.
"No," she said dreamily, and bowed her head again, strumming. Lost in her thoughts. Beautiful melancholy girl.
Time: A weekday afternoon. 3-ish.
Place: Ritual Coffee Roasters on Valencia Street in San Francisco.
Me: In a mid-afternoon slump, slightly blurry, jonesing for a caffeine boost.
At the counter: A girl, 18-ish.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Counter girl: What would you like?
Me: A cappuccino, please.
CG: For here or to go?
Me: To go.
(a pause)
Me: Oh, and can I ask a favor? Can the barista stir a tablespoon of raw sugar into the espresso before adding the foam? Because, you know, when you add the sugar afterwards, it gets caught in the foam, and… (stops, slowly, as a sour expression of distaste spreads over counter girl’s face)
CG: Umm, we don’t… do that.
Me: You don’t do what, exactly?
CG: We don’t add… anything… to our espresso. We don’t believe in ruining it. We believe that our coffee shouldn’t have… things…added to it. Philosophically, we just don’t believe in it. So, no.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Barista (overhears and leans over, frowning): Sugar makes the espresso bitter, and we’d really rather not ruin it. (shakes his head, clearly displeased) I mean, I’ll add it if you really want me to, but… (furrows brow, sighs)
Me: No, that's fine. Just make it the way you make it.
Barista: I mean, if you insist.
Me: No, really. Just make it the way you make it.
CG walks away and whispers to her associate at the other end of the counter. They giggle, glancing in my direction.
I turn away. I have never felt this ashamed in the act of ordering coffee in my life. Ever. I feel like a heel, a rube, a bumpkin.
And there, in the middle of the busy room, tears rush to my eyes. I am simultaneously furious at them and furious with myself for letting it affect me so much. My brain clamors with judgment as my ego rushes to its own defense: how dare this greasy-haired girl with ill-fitting pants treat me like a disease? Who are these people, anyway? I want to walk out, forget that I ever stepped through the red-flag-waving door.
But I stay, willing the tears to subside. (Why? I don’t know. It takes me far too long to walk away from bad situations.) The barista finally slides my drink across the counter with a final disappointed glance.
I pick up the cup and walk out.
In the relative safety of the sidewalk, I try to figure out what just happened. Was it me? Was it them? Did I really just about have a breakdown over... a cappuccino?
All I know for sure is this: I am never. Going back. To Ritual. Again.
The farmhouse walls of my childhood were mostly bare, save for a garish painting made by my mother's cousin Robert that hung above the piano. Against a bright teal background, thick with brush strokes, Robert painted a simple vase, from which protruded the spindly stems of a dozen flowers. The flowers were modeled after a daisy, in colorful shades of red, white and yellow, each oblong petal distinct. At the center of each flower, Robert glued a shiny resin drop - gold, black, or clear - that caught the light and stared back at us, like unseeing eyes.
The painting was so hideous that it was compelling, so ugly that people who walked into the room could scarcely keep their eyes off of it.
It was lucky, I suppose, that we had the painting at all, as my father believed that art was a sign of vaingloriousness at best and the creation of false idols at worst, and thus we were encouraged to decorate the walls with dried flower wreaths instead.
Cousin Robert is no longer with us - bless his heart - and the painting has long since disappeared from the space above the piano. The edict on art at the farmhouse has changed, and now the walls are filled with botanical sketches and family photographs. I asked my mother about Robert's painting when I was home last month, and she vaguely recalled throwing it out at some point. I certainly don't blame her, but I feel an odd longing for another glimpse of its unabashed fugliness.
Which is a very long-winded way of getting to today, and my current obsession with art, and the ways I strive to collect beautiful pieces even though I don't have the cash to become a "real" collector in any sense of the word.
Ladies and gentlemen: 20x200, a Jen Bekman Project. Great art for hardly any money. Each week, the project reveals two original prints by an emerging artist: a run of 200 for $20 each, and a run of 20 for $200 each.
20 x 200 isn't news - it has been around since last September - but I wanted to write about it today, because, after following it for months, I love it more than ever. The whole experience - from viewing to purchasing to the pitch-perfect logo - is flawless.
The pieces are fabulous. I don't love them all, thank goodness, but they're always great fun to browse through. The Google Checkout experience is seamless - elegant and more intuitive than PayPal - and makes it easy (too easy?) to buy. Each piece comes packed inside a protective plastic sleeve, in a sturdy envelope, into which is nestled a certificate of authenticity and the edition number.
Every time I purchase one, I feel - well, giddy.
OTHER PLACES I FIND GREAT ART:
Kal Barteski's Tiny Art. I love the way she captures tender thoughts and feelings in these tiny pieces. I bought one a few weeks ago, and what can I say: I love it.
Ork Posters. My current favorite is the grey and yellow San Francisco screen print. Ooh, look - they're making one for Portland later this spring...
Inkdesigner. You never know what you're going to get when you purchase on Etsy - I've had both good experiences and "meh" ones, but that's part of the fun.
Where do you find art online?
There are so many metaphors for this crazy web space we all play in – Wild West, superhighway, collective brain.
Today I’m going with circus.
It fits, doesn't it? One wild and crazy act after the other, all competing for applause. Or maybe that only describes the blogosphere.
Whatever metaphor you like, a circus is definitely the best way to describe Guy Kawasaki’s newest venture, All Top. Displayed in deceptively simple fashion, the site feels like a giant circus tent, where the best blog acts come to ply their trade. Step right up: there are politicians and celebrities and mamas and just about every other act you can think of, all juggling words and ideas, peddling dreams and opinions. For what is a blogger if not a performer, flying on the trapeze and teasing lions in hopes of keeping the audience enthralled?
Guy is a shrewd circus master, deftly slotting diverse acts next to each other, always keeping one ear tuned to the crowd. One of his best moves was naming one of the categories “ego” – ooh, what does it mean? Insult or compliment? You decide.
A sleek, colorful stripe - the "anti-header" - floats at the bottom of each page: the perfect accessory for a virtual circus.
Suddenly, I'm craving popcorn.
Everything Guy does is heavily scrutinized by the peanut gallery, and All Top is no exception. Jeremiah Owyang dubbed it a "gimmick site". Michael at TechCrunch? Hated it! The commenters on his post weren’t much better: snark, snark, snark. So many haters, so little love.
But I'm a fan, and here's why:
Continue reading "Circus Master Guy Kawasaki under the Big (All) Top" »
With all due respect, empathy and consideration for the rights of property owners, I must confess to being fascinated with graffiti. I know it's not "okay" for people to deface property, but still: it appeals to my love of stark urban graphics that deliver a slap upside the eyeballs.
Here's a recent favorite:
It only lasted a few days; the garage door is now back to a uniform shade of pea green.
But yesterday! As I was wandering down random streets with Petra tugging at her leash, I saw another one of the same, the letters G R O W glaring out against a brick facade. Alas, I didn't have my camera. I'm going to try to snap it today, if it is still there....
I only hope this doesn't mean something awful and make me regret posting it.
Happy Friday! Now get out there and kick this weekend into shape.
:: PS: FRIDAY AFTERNOON UPDATE ::
There's a place in Portland that I like to think of as my Other living room: the main floor lobby in the Ace Hotel on Stark Street. If you could see it, you would want it to be your Other living room, too. Here's why:
- It is lined with cushy, olive green couches and has funky salvage-y pieces scattered around just so.
- It has a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with books.
- It has a Photo Booth. Who doesn't like a Photo Booth?
- It has a door that opens into Stumptown Coffee, which might be the best coffee on the planet. The espresso is smooth and creamy, rich and dark without a hint of bitterness.
- Stumptown Coffee sells a cookie that might be the best cookie on the planet. When I wrote that I wasn't that interested in food these days, I meant to write "... with the exception of the chewy dark chocolate cookie at Stumptown in Portland, Oregon." This cookie has a crackly top and a chocolatey, walnut-studded interior that resolves into ooey-chewy goodness inside your mouth. Is it worth booking a trip to Portland for? Oooh, yeah.
This is the lobby-living room inside the Ace Hotel:
This is the counter at Stumptown, above which swirl the aromas of roasted espresso beans and smoky dark chocolate and pine needles:
Okay , it doesn't smell like pine needles. But this is Portland, land of pine & fir trees, and doesn't it sound poetic?
Continue reading "Step Inside My Other Living Room (the Ace Hotel in Portland)" »
