I'm safe and sound back in Okiehomie town. I love being back in my stompin grounds, my roots. And I've been reminded of what is so great about Oklahoma and being an Oklahoman. First was the sunset as my plane was landing. It was like a welcome home banner in the sky and I just had to take note of it as I wrote furiously in my leatherbound. Amidst all the scrawling rigamarole on the page, was a simple "I love Oklahoma sunsets, I'm home." Then this morning I ran to the post office to buy some holiday stamps for some Christmas greetings. And I knew by all the hellos and Merry Christmases and jolly chit chat happening in the very crowded, very near closing post office, that I was home. Bless this darling outcast of all regions state (oh no, it's true. The midwest won't claim us because we're too much in the middle, the south pretends we don't exist because we're too far north even though some of our boys fought with the Confederates during The War, and we're not the west .Anyway) and the kind dear hearted people that live here. We may be an interesting breed, but at least we're a polite one. A breed where everyone's your neighbor, especially at Christmas. (was that sufficiently Hallmark Christmas movie enough? Yeah, I thought so too, but it doesn't make it any less true).

It is the most wonderful time of the year and nowhere is it more evident than on the BYU campus. Every building has decked its halls and the trees are all lit and ready for you to wonder at how the grounds crew wraps the lights around each little branch. Well, there is another place on campus that wants to be part of the festiviti

es. The L. Monte Bean museum. Have you ever been? In three words: taxidermied animals . . .I fail to find a third word sufficient for the fascinating horror that this building with maroon and green carpet with the smell of old fur coats in the air thick and stale with the indignant spirits of decapitated giraffes and more kinds of antelope than I care to mention. Basically, I'm not a huge fan. I think it's supposed to be a learning e

nvironment, an indoor zoo of sorts where you can go and get up close and personal with animals sans fear of bodily harm. Only instead of learning when I go there, all I can think about is what it took to decapitate that poor giraffe and if the person who did it can sleep at night and then I think about the custodians of the building. Every time I think about the horrors they must encounter as they vacuum past the stuffed wild boar I shiver and thank my lucky stars all I have to deal with is twenty desks drenched in Martinellis because the honors kids got a little rowdy at their end of the semester party.I generally try not to think about the Bean museum. But The Reason for the Season has made it imposs

ible to ignore. You see, it has recently come to my attention that the creepy Bean has followed in the great tradition of the creche. The nativity. Yup. They put up a nativity scene. But don't worry, it's not any regular old nativity scene.

It's this:

Please just note the wombat thing that looks like it's about to eat the Baby Jesus. Or maybe the dead-but-looking-alive-for-eternity kangaroo that looks like she'd like to steal the Baby Jesus as her very own joey. Just a second, there's a stork. I fear for the Baby Jesus's eyes, that stork (who, I guess if you believe in that sort of thing, is just

taking a rest after peacefully dropping the Baby Jesus into the manger in front of Mary). Is the array of semi-exotic dead animals huddled

around the Baby Jesus not enough for you? I understand. Well then I'll leave you with this bit of cheer:

How about the Holy Virgin Mary in the likeness of a freaky fashion mannequin ca.1975. Or maybe Baby Jesus in the form of a Baby So Real Doll? They reached for the reverent creche and whether they reached it or not is in the eye of the beholder. So I suppose there's only one thing left to say:

Merry Christmas from the Bean Museum, y'all.

Merry taxidermy Christmas

The button on my darling denim romper broke. Don't worry, it didn't just come off, no it broke. As in broke. So I'm going orphan/newsie style and tied the strap through the button hole. I guess that's what you get when you change hastily backstage for a scene . . .karma's a romper killer.

Hey it's Halloween! You know what that means: it's pumpkin time y'all! This season I've rediscovered a love of nearly every sweet thing pumpkin that is not pie. I'm nibbling on a pumpkin chocolate chip cupcake with cream cheese frosting right as we speak (I know, right? Try not to salivate on the keyboard as you ponder on that one). But it all started with one thing: Chet. Yup, reason 647 to lalalove my iPhone 4. Pumpkin.
You see, one day I was perusing my Epicurious app, trying to keep myself from remembering and slightly resenting myself for thinking that early morning custodial really is a great idea (it is, actually. A good idea. It works for me in every way. But sometimes that's a bit difficult to remind yourself when it's 5 am). I was looking in the section called Halloween Treats and for the most part it was what you'd expect. You know, just your run of the mill spider cookies, witch fingers made of baby carrots and "blood" filled cupcakes. But then there was something different, so intriguing I tapped on the icon to see how to make it. My relationship with Epicurious generally dwells in the realm of platonic, we aren't even in the friend zone. Basically I look and dream about being a semi-gourmet perhaps a little hip maybe Ready-Made Julie/Julia hip but I never act on any impulse to make anything from Epicurious. But this recipe. Pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. I mean fat sack of the most perfect piece of fried serendipity I've ever come in contact with.

So I did the only thing a body can do in that situation. I created an excuse to make these treats. I had a partay. Sort of. Anyway some of my most darlings came and we made pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. Something I learned is that basically everyone becomes intrigued and somewhat nostalgic for something but they're not sure what when you mention pumpkin donuts. And they did not disappoint. It was just as pumpkin was intended to be experienced: the taste of pumpkin pie but the texture of an old fashioned donut, smothered in cinnamon sugar. I mean come on. You'd have to be made of stone or severely allergic to the squash to not feel some kind of positive reaction to that thought. We liked them. And I'd say we're rather discerning bunch. Plus there was no chocolate, but I still managed to feel satisfied. For whatever that's worth. So, here you go, try it. The Recipe. Love it. And maybe this will help renew your faith in this fall staple. It sure has for me. Thanks Chet.

I'm app happy.

But I'm a specific kinds of app happy (so really I'm an app snob. . . but what else is new?) I'll tell you what else is new: my Museum Mate app, MOMA app and French Word of the Day app. Oh and my iPhone 4. He is sleek and lovely and so handy. And by handy I mean there may be a budding love affair between my iPhone 4 and myself. He is everything a young phone ought to be: useful, musical, artistic and international. I can listen to This American Life one minute and then look up some slightly reliable information about the Bermuda Triangle on my Wiki app and then find a recipe for zucchini cake on Epicurious app and then text i'll be="" there="" in="" a=" It's pure magic people, pure magic. But the thing is, I haven't found just the right name for him. I have this compulsion. I don't believe it has a name but it is about names. I just have to name major objects in my life. Car? Named Ace. Cello? Darcey. MacBook? Mac Jacobs. Suitcase? Pierre. And so on. I've never named a phone before, but then again I've never had a phone worth naming. But for some reason I'm stumped on iPhone. We've lived together for about a week now (I can't imagine life without him anymore) but I've not been able to come up with a suitable name. Do they have the top iPhone Names 2010 book in library

What are you reading this summer? I've been beavering away at all sorts of literature (and by literature I mean all the things I don't really have time for during the school year) and today I finished reading my latest quest (recommended to me by my mama and her reading group). I can't really stop thinking about it or talking about it, so I just had to share it. It's this novel right here:
Have you read it yet? No? Then all I have to say is do it. You. Will. Be. Changed. Maybe not in a drastic way, but it will make you think, and think hard. It takes place is Mississippi in the early to mid 1960s, it's told from the perspective of two black maids and a white girl (the novel is divided into sections, with each woman taking a section). And I think it's nothing short of brilliant. It is a personal and poignant look at segregation, prejudices and how wrong ideas can be passed from generation to generation and the fight to changes those ideas. But even with all these lofty sorts of themes, it is a humble and unassuming read. It is real and therefore so beautiful. Not much of a reader? (become one) Then listen to it on tape, cd, mp3 or whatever, because not only is it a wonderful read to yourself book, it's a wonderful read aloud novel. And the readers are fabulous. I sit and listen with Mama (she's behind me in the book, but I love it so much I want to listen to what I just read) and embroider and then before you know it, we're speaking with our best Southern accents all about what we just heard. If you read nothing else this summer (and I surely hope you do choose to crack the spine of another this season) read The Help. Tell me what you think about it.

I won't even acknowledge the time that's lapsed since my last post (it's been much too much), but I needed some time to process and love and revel in my Paris time. And time to juice the Jamba and embroider and watch a bit of tv. Oh the tv. Here's the truth of the matter: there are some crap shows on the tube . . .but then again there are good ones . . .really, really good ones. I am of the Project Runway (PR, which started again last Thursday, I don't even think I need to say anything about how excited I've been about that), So You Think You Can Dance school of thought. You know, the idea that the show ought to have some kind of contest element but really features the creative process of brilliant, sometimes neurotic but always interesting characters who beg for me to become invested . . . and I get invested. Boy howdy, do I ever get invested.Well, a new show has come into my life. A new vice as it were and a new set of people who have no idea of who I am but who I love and whose future I really care about. Bravo TV has done it again and this time it's called Work of Art (or affectionately known as Our Art Show, here on Alexander's Tr.). [There's the whole art-making crew, along with the judges, host and Tim Gunn-esque figure. Don't you just want to watch them make art all day? I sure do.] Think PR but only with visual art. Squeal!! I lalalove it! And I'm basically in love as well. (as I write this, I shake my head at myself for putting so much of my emotional self into a tv program. But c'est la vie). Who/what am I in love with? Well I'm in love with the creative process, the art and the idea that the winner will have a show in the Brooklyn Museum of Art (what a great prize) but I'm mostly in love with a few people . . .or rather person. I suppose it's rather embarrassing to admit, but with so much neurotic adorableness about, who can blame me? There he is. Miles. Miles the adorable, obsessive compulsive artist just oozing with talent and funny sayings and just . . .well . . .look at him. He wears plaid and this grandpa cardigan. And. And. Well. Just look.

I know what you're thinking: Fat sack of aproned preciousness. Right? And don't I know it.

Sure he crazy, but the guy can take a nap because he feels overwhelmed and then wake up with a stroke of genius idea that he inevitably executes in the most meaningful way. Basically, he could be my best friend. Do they have one like him at BYU? But don't take my word for it. Watch it, love it. And I'll even let you love Miles . . .

I had this whole witty schpeal about theatre and Marie Antoinette and how much I love both and how I squealed when I saw the little village for the first time (which had become a pilgrimage of sorts for me) and about how Marie had this thing about playing pretend and escapism and Rousseau. . .but the internet here at the Nice studio is less than reliable. It was all lost and now I must jet to catch the train that will take me to Paris that will take me home. So enjoy.

And just know how charming it is.

And how much I want to help it be a better museum space.

And just come on, it's darling and nuts. What a fantastic combination.

She used porcelain milk buckets. People lived here and worked the farm . . .she just would come and play the part of milkmaid whenever she felt like it (here, in the original post was a rather good joke about method acting. . . but it is lost). I just wanted to share this: the best bit of Versailles.

I find there are certain places in the world that a body can be totally comfortable and at home in and one such place for me is a book shop. I feel very at ease and happy as a little clam when I'm surrounded by books and especially books that beg me to discover them. And when it happens to be one of the nine anglo bookshops in Paris, one that originally started as a library in the 1920s, where Hemingway often went to borrow books and money. Shakespeare and Company. How do I love thee? No but really. I could sit and read and write and read some more in this place. I'm thinking of creating a special Shakespeare and Company room in my future maison.
I mean come on people. Stop it. Words allude. I think when I saw this study area I might have sighed audibly, the sigh of a thousand short stories and maybe a novel to be written and hundreds of leatherbounds to be smelt and soaked in.

A hideout of books. A hide out of books! Oh heaven help me, a hideout of books.

And then there was this cranny made of cupboard doors. It was a little shelter a petit croin for writing hopes and poetries and sillinesses on a typrewriter. I sat down on the creaky little seat and grazed my fingers on the keys. I wonder how long it had been there, who had typed and then I knew my writer's heart wanted this petit croin de la monde pour toute ma vie.
Other people felt inspired by the faded persian carpet hanging on the back wall of the croin and the twinkle lights above and they left messages. French, English, German, Arabic.

So I couldn't resist.

For my favorite Company always.

Signed C. Cotten.

Pere Lachaise is the largest cemetery in Paris. All sorts of famous, rich and not so famous nor quite so rich (but there has to be at least a little money put by because word on the street is it's not cheap to keep a place in this chez) people and whole families have come here for a final repose as it were. The result is a rather peaceful and strangely charming (maybe not the right mot, but it alludes me in both French and English) sort of neighborhood (all of the tombs are the above ground variety. Vous savez, the kind that look like houses/Grecian temples/Gothic Cathedrals). But as I strolled the cobblestone paths and climbed the hills of this neighborhood, I wondered at all the ways the living try to immortalize and honor the dead. I found a few:
Sometimes a man's life's work becomes sculpting the most comforting and beautiful image he can think of, to remind himself after his wife has died that he and she are not alone as they face the uncertainties that lay beyond.

Sometimes we show the essence of a person by immortalizing what they loved or did best.

Or we may give our favorite or even the writer we're just mildly attached to a kiss with a shade of lipstick called "Earnestly Read".
Perhaps we place a stone at the base of a memorial for something that cannot bear remembering but can never be forgotten. A beautiful symbol of experience and eternity.
Or you can be like me and after you've paid respects, you do the very natural, very human thing. You have a tranche de mailleoux among the memorials and graves. Here's to me and here's to you, you might say, raising the cake to those around you. Then enjoy the taste of chocolate, I'm sure they did.

There are some places in the world that you can feel have been loved. Loved in a real and tangible way, so much so that they take on a life of their own. They have a distinct and rather giving personality. Or at least this was the case with Giverny, Monet's home and inspiration just about an hour's train ride from Paris. The moment you walk into the gardens, you can see why he wanted to paint this place over and over and over again. It was so easy to imagine him with his easel and paints working early in the morning and then walking up to the house to eat breakfast with his family in his yellow dining room or blue and white tiled kitchen. This was the perfect long weekend day trip.This was one of my favorite trees there. I sat on a bench under it's sprawling, flowering branches and soaked in the creative energy (maybe this sort of attitude came from being practically intoxicated by the sunshine and the fact that I didn't have to go to class for three whole days)
Although it may seem incongruous, the more I thought about these ladies in their kimonos the more I thought Monet would approve. It was like they were honoring the fact that he loved their culture so much that he filled his home with Japanese artwork and used it as inspiration for his compositions. Plus, they were just fun to watch from under my flowering tree, they'd shuffle about and talk to each other about flowers and whatnot.
What can I even say? I was walking a little shaded path towards le jardin d'eau and was given this enchanted view.
I'm not concerned, I'm just taking in the general perfection of the water lily pond. And I may have had a bit of star struckedness going on too. I mean this is a famous pond that I love without ever have actually seen it.
The. Pond. Makes you want to paint it, huh? But having little or no painterly ability, I stuck to writing and daydreaming about reading poetry (probably Walk Whitman's Leaves of Grass, mostly because it's one of the earthiest poems I know . . .that I enjoy too) on a quilt in the grass. The poetry is possible and the quilt is a bit difficult but doable, but the grass. . .the grass is an impossibility seeing as all the pelouse est interdit at Giverny.

Paris is wonderful at many things and one is being attractive to artists and art. As a consequence of said attractiveness (which believe me is magnetic) Paris is absolutely brimming with art, it's everywhere. It's in the parks, on the metros, on buildings, shop windows, even the Parisians walk and act and dress like their lives and they themselves are works of art. But the art can also be found in museums. J'adore museums. I can't help it. When other people around me say they'll pull their hairs out one hair at a time if they have to go to another one, I'm ready to go hole up in some gallery or exhibit somewhere and just get lost. So let me just introduce you to one of my favorite museums. Can you guess (look at the picture)



You guessed right. The Rodin Museum (near Invalides and Napoleon's tomb, it's easiest to get there on line 1, just get off at Invalides). It is one of the most perfect museums: it's intimate and gives you a wonderful feeling of the artist (mostly because it's in this fabulous Rococo house that Rodin lived/worked in for a while) and the works are displayed in a wonderfully studio-esque sort of way. Besides, it has a beautiful garden, where some of his bronzes are displayed, or rather placed in a way that you feel like you've come upon a revelation as you walk down a path and look behind a tree.
Isn't the way the green light shines on this magical? And Rodin, dear man whom I love. The guy knew how to sculpt such raw and real emotion. And I became a believer from seeing these works face to face that Rodin could put all that emotion and story into his sculptures' hands. I became darn near obsessed. Sculpture might very well be one of the most engaging and mystical of the visual art forms for me. Isn't it lovely how the manmade bronze juxtaposes yet works in a strange but pleasing harmony with the organic leaves of the trees? Let me tell you that as I walked in this particular grove of trees studded with sculpture, I felt like I was in the best of enchanted forests, where I uncovered long forgotten and beautiful secrets.

Heaven help me, the hands oh the hands. Rodin. Bless. Just go ans see for yourself whether or not I exaggerate. I think you'll find I'm a reliable source (oh and after you've gone there, hop over to see how pretentious Napoleon is and then walk towards Ecole Militaire, grab some Amorino near Tribeca Italian and Cafe Marche and walk over to see the sun set behind the Tour Eiffel, you won't regret it).

One day, we climbed on to a bus. 2 letters, 1 prince cookie (these brilliant sandwhich cookies that come in a tube) and 45 minutes later we were there. The clouds parted and the sun shown on the grand horseshoe staircase and it was . . . .
Fontainebleau yall!
Fontainebleau is a chateau not far from Paris that was mainly used as a hunting lodge for kings all the way starting from Francois 1e (he's the one that brought Davinci to France from Italy) all the way to the time Napoleon kept the pope prisoner here for not signing some document or other the diminutive despot wanted him to sign.

(ps. I have no idea why the text is deciding to do this weirdy underline thing) The best part was the mini lake with its faux ruin in the back of the chateau. You could rent little rowboats, called funyaks (I kid you not) A life of leisure, darling, is what I lead. Can't you tell? Daydreaming of grandness is not difficult on the back of a rowboat. So picturesque . . .even though the boat reminded me of playskool sandboxes. (ok this text thing is too weird, now it's decided to be normal). Isn't it an impressive yet somehow still charming as well as an oh so pleasing prospect? I almost like the back better than the front, perhaps it was because I saw the back from the perspective of a rowboat.

More people who don't know I'm photographing them. A fun fact about Fontainebleau is that people in the surrounding city like to have wedding photos taken there. Here's one such couple in the Jardin de Diane. Ah to be in love in the garden of the goddess of the hunt.

I know it's been a while but that's what happens when you're in fabulous Paris and in the quirky 1920s artist town of Le Vesinet where the mistress of the house doesn't like the idea of "waves" in her house (I don't have internet where I live . . .or rather lived because tonight I'm at the most luxurious Etap Hotel in a small town near Omaha Beach. We've started our week tour of the western countryside of France and next week is Nice. Yes, my birthday will be in Nice. Chew on that for a second. I myself am still trying to digest it). Anyway, I won't talk about Normandie (no, that's not a typo . . .that's how the French spell it) just yet. But I will give you a few pictures highlighting my more recent Paris adventures (sniff . . .au revoir ma belle ville pour maintinent). I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!

I can only share a bit, because I'm pretty sure I've already worn out my internet welcome at my director's apartment. I just had to share a bit of what I lalove about my most beloved ville (but there's more . . .I could go on for days about couples and art and the metro and food ah beautiful and glorious)This is in the Quartier Juif (Jewish neighborhood) he was calling down in Yiddish to a Jewish bakery kiddy corner to his apartment. I hope they were talking about Shabbas bread.
It's an ostrich (Je pense). . . with pearls on its legs (Je sais). I mean come on! How fantastic is that?
Coolest bookstore near Sainte Sulpice. Good book people inhabit this place, each speaking at least 2.5 languages.
Magnificent boulangerie, creates baguettes in the historical fashion. Sans yeast but avec stone ground flour.
Another thing I love in Paris are the windows. I'm endlessly fascinated by every kind of window. Stained glass, shuttered, broken, residential, palatial, storefront (I'm shameless, and I take pictures of window displays. Isn't that such a faux pas? I don't even care. Ok I do a bit, enough to try and be a bit discrete, but what can you do? I can't help myself).

I especially am in love with daddies and their babies. Look at this precious interaction between papa et enfant, just got to the boulang?
French babies can even make Hellion Pigeons seem almost charming (which is saying something, because pigeons are Satan's birds that's why they try and annoy and gross you out right before you go into churches, they're trying to keep you away)
Just imagine this little girl humming a little nonsense song as she skipped down the street with her glace.
Beautiful people live in Paris . I don't know if you know that, but c'est vrai. And no people are more beautiful or engaging than French babies. I've started taking pictures of the gen I can't get enough of when I'm out and about the ville during the day. Mostly they're from the back, but I take what I can get. I just want to capture and keep the essence of chaque personne. The way they dress and walk and how intriguing they are and the fact that French was their first language. Everytime I hear a baby voice in French I think, geez this kid speaks better French than I do and that's his language. It's the same when I talk to the cat our host family is watching, he only knows French people-making-fools-of-themselves-for-animals speak. So I try to follow suite.

I had a Maria moment when I walked into this grand ball room of the Opera Garnier (the opera house of the Acadamie Musique that inspired the Phantom of the Opera) and I had the urge to waltz about but I was also afraid Captain Vontrappe might come and scold me for going where I'm not supposed to be.


'

The overture before the overture. Even if it doesn't float your boat architecturally you'll be in awe. I was giddy just walking in, the anticipation and theatrical mood set by the building before you even enter the theatre proper. And the ballet we saw was tres magnifique. Everyone in Paris is beautiful and I'll be darned if the ballerines were not even more so. And for 10 euro I could lean over the side balcony and feel all 19th century starving student in love with art and Paris and fashion but in an intellectual way. Right? Classy but suffering for art? But kinda wishing that you were part of the rich but resenting them. I feel like that's a proper 19th century feeling.

Art is everywhere and the Quartier Latin is no exception, this is just a cafe front on a tiny street. Makes me want to mange there! The Quartier Latin is the section where all the college kids used to argue with each other in Latin during the Moyen Age. Now it's artsy and bookish and absolutely perfect. At the end of my jour in teh Quartier Latin I wrote profound thoughts in my leather bound and ate quiche lorraine and chocolate cake from heaven by the Seine. A true intelectuelle, n'est pas?

Einstein and Louie in the Quatier Latin, it's obviously where all the cool kids hang out. I hung out there and thought all sorts of Latin-ish, philosophical and scholarly there. Mostly I just went into the petit galleries and dreamt of the day I could work in one while wearing my plaid glasses. I could live in a flat near the Quartier and then spend my days supporting local artists. Doesn't that sound divin? And it would be a baby version of my dream of being a curator and it'd be better because it's edgier (even though I'm far from edgy) and more intimate (which I dig)
It's the sign of the oldest cafe in Paris. Racine wrote and argued intellectually there over tea . . .actually probably wine and cheap beer.
It's the most darling sign, let's just be honest. A hot air balloon? Probably circa 1800 something or other. I couldn't resist it. Reason 556 to love Paris: fabulous signs (signs are art too)