Monday, January 31, 2011

Sunday, January 30, 2011

The place reeked of over-heated oil once we were done, but what matters is that these spring rolls were home-made!


Sunday etymology

The English noun Sunday derived sometime before 1250 from sunedai, which itself developed from Old English (before 700) Sunnandæg (literally meaning "sun's day"), which is cognate to other Germanic languages, including Old Frisian sunnandei, Old Saxon sunnundag, Middle Dutch sonnendach (modern Dutch zondag), Old High German sunnun tag (modern German Sonntag), and Old Norse sunnudagr (Danish and Norwegian søndag, and Swedish söndag). The Germanic term is a Germanic interpretation of Latin dies solis ("day of the sun"), which is a translation of the Greek heméra helíou.[2] The p-Celtic Welsh language also translates the Latin "day of the sun" as dydd Sul.

From Wikipedia.

a flightless bird in Asia

It seems to be doing pretty fine, right? Got its own refrigerated room, backpack, and all.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Soft core food porn.



Speaking of the last pic, I just watched this tutorial today on how to make no-knead bread, and darn they make it look easy and delicious. So, I'm gonna give it a try and report back if it's as easy as they make it out to be.

As for the chickpeas, they were spiced and roasted according to this recipe

Yes please.

Unfortunately it's something like 75 bucks, which, for a paperback, I find a tad steep. If you're wealthier than me but share my desires, you can buy it here.

I pointed it out to Mads at the book shop, who replied: "Cool, so is that all their catalogs compiled into one?"

Which it wasn't, but hey, that is a really neat idea, I find. I mean, I'd love to get my hands on some vintage IKEA catalogs, but since such things are probably high in demand these days, I'd settle for a cheap Taschen compilation. Or a really massive online magazine.

By the way, all this talk of IKEA catalogs reminded me of this fun fact.

so you think you're an innovator? First mover and opinion maker? A mover and a shaker?



Goodness my, I've laughed so hard at this snippet from the new IFC comedy series Portlandia, and what's more, when I woke up this morning and logged into my Google reader, I came across something like five (FIVE!) different life style blogs all featuring a post featuring, you guessed it, a bird! You want proof? Well look here, scroll down a bit here here and several places here! OK, so that was only three, but still.   


To be honest, apart from the above tea pot and matching cup in the shape of an owl (a gift!), I don't think I have anything around the house with a bird on it. But before you, like me, laugh that haughty laugh and bless yourself for not being that predictable, then watch this trailer and tell me you don't recognize yourself just a tiny bit in some of the stereotypes. Personally, I don't think I can shop local anymore;O)

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Come on, quick! Quick! Which movie? Which?!!!!

I watched it yesterday night and wholy moly was it an agony filled experience. Horrid. Frightening. Physically uncomfortable. I. Never. Want. To. Watch. Ballet. Ever. Again. (Not even if it involves chubby kids! OK, maybe if it involves chubby kids...). All of which basically just testifies to the fact that it's a really good movie.

Lego-scene by Alex Eylar via Gawker.

Vintage EV

Ever since I first met Al he's regularly been telling me stories about the East Village. How it was way back then in the late 70s and early 80s, when it was saturated with criminals and the down and out, and how he paid something like 50 bucks a month for his first place - a cockroach infested storefront he had to fix up himself.

Truth be told, Al has told me so many outrageous stories over the years, that I've probably dismissed one or two of them as clever fabrication. Except then every once in a while he'll show you some artifact or a photo or something, and then you realize, there really is fancy Argentinian wine hidden away in the basement! Or, oh, many corpses were disposed of at the other side of the street....

When my friend Kane sent me a link to this blog featuring images of the East Village circa 1986-1988 from a certain 'East Village Rat's' Flickr stream, I thought to myself, hey, Al probably hasn't even exaggerated all that much after all. I bet the neighborhood was every bit as rugged and rough as he's made it out to be, and that when he claims our landlord once owned several of the buildings on our block, but eventually decided to just give 'em up, because no one wanted to live there*, then he was probably telling the naked truth!

*I mean, no one want to pay to live there. There were probably always lots of squatters. I mean, I've seen RENT, so, you know, I should know.  

But hey, look at the pic. Don't you just feel like going back in time?  And sorry for throwing this cheese ball at ya, but can't you just imagine Basquiat standing there on some corner and graffiti-ing away?

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

J

For a while I've been mystified by the letter J. Uppercase J.

Just overall mystified, you wonder? No, mystified when I come across in a specific context. In e-mailing, to be precise.

Sometimes, at the end of a convivial message, there it sits: J  --- and I'm like: "J? J what? Jay? Yay?" Then I try looking at my screen from other directions, thinking that maybe, if I see it from the side or from above, then it will make sense.

But it still just looks like a J.
Image via here.

Today I finally got my act together and researched it (read: googled) and it turns out it's supposed to be a smiley face:


"Microsoft uses a Wingding to render a smily in Outlook. The Wingding happyface happens to be at the same position as a J in the standard ASCII sets. So, on all clients other than Outlook, it renders as an out-of-place looking J."

Read more here.

I admit I'm slow with these things and also spent forever trying to decipher what " <3 " meant. But still, did you know this?

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

I once conversed with Calvin Klein. Kind of.

In many ways, I hate re-blogging other people's web-content, because it just makes me feel like a leech sponging off other people's hard earned cred. But then there are moments where I'm willing to ignore that stance, go with my gut-feeling and shamelessly re-post a snazzy comment because it's just too darn funny!
It's Michael Musto of the Village Voice who has this message for Calvin Klein, and namely with regard to his romantic involvement with boy toy Nick Gruber: "Get a grip on yourself, girl, and nail some dignity to the floor before this kid steals it all away from you."

Oh, that makes me laugh!

(Read more here: Jezebel)
Did I ever tell you I once attended a talk by Calvin Klein back when I was a studious kid at NYU? I didn't? It was supposed to be on "race, class and gender" (bet you haven't heard that combo before!!!), but all I seem to remember is that it was pretty much just Calvin Klein talking gingerly about his ads and showing us PowerPoint presentations of various magazine spreads.


"Here you see an underage Brooke Shields. Pretty right?"
 
Anyway, at some point I gathered courage to question him on something like the role of the retailer in this very perfect and neatly conceptualized "Calvin Klein mediascape" that he kept building up before our very eyes. I probably didn't say anything very smart, but you know, I was like: "Dude, your shit is hanging on plastic hangers all over this city's discount retailers, next to last year's Ann Taylor, and there ain't NOTHING sexually transgressive about it!" At least that was the message I was trying to get across although of course I put it nice.
 
I don't remember what he answered, though. In fact, he may very well just have pursed his lips in reply. 
 
Dignity above all.
 

absence. unintended.

 So, apparently I forgot all about blogging since, uhm, Friday?!

It's funny how you sometimes wind up going from over-sharing to not feeling like sharing at all. I guess there's some logic to it, but still.

Anyway, I went to an amazing museum in Copenhagen this weekend called Glyptoteket. Kind of like the Met only it's something like a fraction of its size. In its center it has this most beautiful glass atrium and despite the fact that it was filled with visitors (Sundays are free!) it's really one of the most serene places to sit.  And just be.

Plus, they have palm trees, and I for one, think palm trees are awesome!

Otherwise, I've been preoccupied with Mr. Schwarzenegger. Here he is before I glued his paper replicas to a large sheet of paper.

Friday, January 21, 2011

midwifery or no?

I've been having a bit of a career crisis lately (hence all the talk of my resume yesterday), and have been trying to push myself to think outside my arts/culture/communication box, which, interestingly left me thinking to myself, hey, how about becoming a midwife?   
Photo via here.
The thing is that the older I get, the more I feel disillusioned with 'the game' of various fields and industries, and the more I seem to admire my friend who's a doctor and who's actually going to spend her professional life being there for people when they need it most.

When I started studying Art History at University back in 2002, there was a Swedish fella, who was a doctor and, as far as I recall, was actually working as a doctor, and on top of all that he had decided, in his mid-thirties, to go back to school to study the arts. And so, lately, I've been thinking, if he could do it, then I guess doing it the other way around would be totally legit too.


Problem is, however, I'm a total hypochondriac and extremely susceptible to tragedy, and going through Med school and reading about diseases and going into hospital rooms to check in on people who are ill, would leave me a wreck. Like really. I mean, I can't even watch ER or Gray's Anatomy. Which is also why I'm so full of admiration of the nurses and doctors and whatever other personnel you have in hospitals, who can spend such a significant amount of their day being there in all those nasty situations which most of us would run away from screaming and crying.
Photo via Flickr - did you have this one too growing up?

And so I started thinking 'midwife', reasoning that if I could minimize the stuff that revolves around pathology and focus primarily on happy stuff  - cause hey, babies are mostly considered happy stuff! - then maybe it could all work out. I threw it by my friend Maj, who said sure, looked at her watch, and then offered to take me right down to the city's Medical History Museum and check out fetuses in formaldehyde.  "Hey, easy", I said. 
Indiana Medical History Museum Auditorium via Wikipedia.


Oh, who am I kidding. I should probably realize it's not really what I'm looking for and that you can be there for people in a multitude of other ways. Because reality is that sooner or later I'll wind up helping a lady delivering a stillborn (or would I? Because I have a feeling they call a doctor in when shit really hits the fan), and then off to the psych ward I go because I'll find it just too tragic to be able to deal. And in a way, I have a feeling that if you're in medical care, you actually need to learn not to deal. You've gotta be a non-stick pan, as my mother and grandmother tend to say.

Anyway, I wound up reading about Heather Armstong this morning, founder of dooce, and according to Forbes Magazine one of the top 25 web celebrities, one of the top 30 most influential women in media, and, hold on to your horses now, she has 1,56 million followers on Twitter. All those crazy merits wasn't really what got me hooked though, rather it was the way she describes her days with her work and her kids and her dogs and husband, sometimes not getting out of her jammies but at the same time leading a quite professional life to say the least. And I thought, aweeee, that just sounds so overwhelmingly comforting and nice and interesting. Heck, she even makes growing up Mormon and having a postpartum depression and throwing milk in your husbands face sound kind of endearing!

So how's that for a long term goal? I should probably start getting more into social media though right about...let me just have a look at my watch...erm...now? Off to twitter I go!

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Memoirs Tipp-Ex'ed from my resume.

Whenever I work on my resume, and in particular the selected work experience section, I come to think of some of the many bizarre little jobs I have held throughout my life, which, over the years, I've edited out for one reason or another. What's left on it now is a neat little narrative of yet another lass in the arts/culture/communication industry and any stint that might disturb that orderly story has been Tipp-Ex'ed out from everywhere but deep down in my memory.

But hey, since I'm not one to fear identity theft anyway (for god sakes I have no identity, I'm just an empty shell!) and since I love over-sharing, let me tell you all about it.

As far as 'bizarre little jobs' go, I'm not talking babysitting, which I've done my fair share of over the years, nor cleaning, although lying on all fours scrubbing the kitchen floors at the home of the editor of one of Denmark's national newspapers - while he was sitting right next to me drinking his morning coffee - is on the list of top strange work scenarios I've experienced in my life. (Upside is that whenever people mention that editor's name, I can always say: "X? Suuuuure, I worked for him..back in 2003, I think...yeah, nice guy. Smart.") No, what I'm talking about are the jobs that make even me wonder how on earth I ever wound up there.
Duane Hanson's Queenie II (1988)

I went to high school with a girl who was a total job pimp, and who actually got me my first two real jobs. "Real" as in the kind where they're reported to the authorities and you pay that thing called taxes. First job, which I actually held on to for a couple of years, was in a local shoe store, which, deep down below its neat, mirror-filled and carpeted interior was reminiscent of a Taiwanese sweat shop. Lunch break was unheard of and we had to call the owner Mister, which in Denmark, where honorifics are never used apart from in formal letter writing, is basically the equivalent of calling someone Master and dressing up in blackface.
Tupperware Party via a site that wouldn't be found.

Anyway, at some point I guess I was a bit broke, so my pimp got me a second job as a product promoter. The first gig I had was rather harmless in the sense that I was parked outside a suburban pharmacy were I spent an afternoon handing out lotion samples. Interestingly, as other product promoters will know, such samples feel a little like currency, and so you start out by handing out one sample, occasionally two if people seem nice. But after an hour or two, inflation has kicked in, and you're basically just happy if people take a whole bag off your hands. But because of the perverse logic that constitutes the free market, people don't want what they can have in plenty. They only like things that are scarce, and hence I wound up going home with a lot of lotion, which, one the bright side, kept my skin moist throughout most of high school.

On my next gig, my pimp got me an afternoon job at a supermarket handing out little sample cups of non-alcoholic beer. The fact that I didn't look one bit like a busty beer frau, and the fact that I had (and still have) the voice of a 9-year old, probably didn't make that loser of a product seem anymore appealing. The men seemed to feel like pedophiles when addressing me, and even the floor manager kept at an appropriate distance when he passed by to suggest that I speak up a littler louder when I offered people a spoonful of my brew. "Sure" I whispered. 
Why is it that when I think of Boris Becker all I think of is broom-closets?


FFW. University. Spring 2003. I was in dire need of cash to finance my first trip ever to New York, so when my sister's then boyfriend's boss (???) called me up to ask me to assist on a programming job (???) for one of their clients, I said sure, and promised to bring friends.

My friends were all from my Art History program, so needless to say we didn't know one bit about programming. The client, alarmingly, turned out to be Scandinavian Airlines System, at whose head office we spent a week in the company of three jolly fellows who were overwhelmingly nice and patient with us, even though it was apparent to everyone that they could do the job quicker on their own. A couple of hours into the gig I decided to stand up and declare myself and my contemporary art posse entirely incapable of solving the task. "You guys, shouldn't you just fire us?" I offered, but surprisingly they decided to keep us on board as welcome diversion, and we in turn welcomed the cash and the free lunch.
Photo via here.




If it weren't for the fact that this post has already grown far too long for anyone to want to read it, the grand finale would have been a) my memories of my not so grand hour-long stint as a waitress, where I decided to go home out of failure to memorize the numbers of the tables (hey, would it kill them to write it down somewhere?! Truth be told they we really nice though and offered I stay and hang at the bar) or b) the time I spent a night as a wardrobe assistant dressed as a cupcake - whipped cream on the top and all.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

at the museum



The colored coffee table looking things above aren't coffee tables but art, but I forget by whom. The mirror is by Ceal Floyer, I think. On the right, in the dessert, Tracy Emin sits.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

priceless

I'm sleepless tonight and as I lie here on the couch and wander aimlessly around the internets, what do I suddenly come across but these little guys. From here.

Ba-dum-ching!

If, like myself, you have love-loathe relationship with award shows, my bet is you'll find this post hilarious. If you're to lazy to get you behind over to Gawker and read it, I can inform you it's a list of 10 things that should be banned from award shows, including actors using their thank you speech to cheekily tell their kids at home to go to bed, Jack Nicholson reaction shots, and montages (except the one of famous people who died "because we love to see who gets the most applause. Frankly, it's refreshing that people are being judged by their peers even after death."

If that's not spot on, then I don't know what is.

Ba-dum-ching!

Monday, January 17, 2011

A good things about blogs...

...is that you can use it as an external hard drive of sorts and keep a pictorial archive of all the things you suspect your mind won't be able to able to contain and maintain.



So here are pics from a Nicolas Provost show that I saw at Haunch of Venison in London, and which I'd really like for myself to remember and think about some more some day when I have thoughts to spare on the matter.

It's on till January 29 2011 if you feel like going. If not, you can see it all on Provost's site. I was particularly fond of Storyteller, but then again I'm a sucker for symmetry. The first pic is from Gravity and I suppose a piece one shouldn't watch if one is prone to having epileptic seizures - seriously. The top one is from Stardust (I think...) and had cameos by Jack Nicholson, Jon Voight and Dennis Hopper - apparently the last footage recorded of the latter.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Hood. A condition or state of being the thing or being in the role denoted by the word it is suffixed to, usually a noun.

Mother puts on my lipstick, 1993

I watched a really wonderful documentary last night called People*Love*Photos which featured the work and characters of four female photographers, namely Tanyth Berkeley, Rose and Olive (aka Traci Matlock and Ashley Maclean) and finally, a lady who totally blew my socks off, Elinor Carucci.
Menstrual Period, 2000

I'm still trying to figure why I was so smitten by the latter, but in part it had to do with the fact that unlike the other ones, she didn't dress like an artist, nor did she live like one, and somehow it was so refreshing to see and listen to someone not playing "the part". You know, her apartment appeared to be in one of those gigantic condo-buildings in Midtown or The Financial District, furnished with really bland stuff as opposed to filled to the rim with art books and artsy knick-knacks and cool collector's items. Had I not known any better I probably would have mistaken her for, I don't know, a banker! ;O)
Grandfather in Shower, 2000

On top of that I don't quite remember the last time I heard anyone speak so genuinely, thoughtfully and interestingly about their own work as she did, nor can I remember the last time I encountered anyone who managed to so cleverly use their own persona and relationships as the basis of their art work while at the same time not coming across as gag-inducingly self-obsessed. She didn't use overly intellectual language when she spoke of the things her photography was about. Instead she managed to describe it with a simple, wistful sophistication and sensibility, which made her work seem so important and pertinent.
Mother is worried, 1996


As you can see from her site she appears to be very much into examining these "big" - dare I say universal? - categories like pain and comfort - big bold things which I suppose not everyone can get away with because either you try to say too much or you say far too little - and then, it just doesn't matter, does it? But instead her attempts where so perfectly proportioned with whatever "thing" it was that she was trying to mediate. It was as if there was some really wonderful cohesiveness between the formalistic and cerebral aspects of her work.
Haircut, 1994


At one point, while describing some of her newest photography, she said something along the lines of being interested in motherhood, emphasizing the suffix hood and adding that in her previous work it was also the daughterhood or the dancerhood she had been preoccupied with exploring. Such a perfect way to present an artistic idea or aspiration, I think. And it left me feeling: "Hey, this really matters!" And I honestly can't remember the last time I felt that about an artistic product. I mean, I'll admire a lot of art for a bunch of other qualities, but rarely do I feel it genuinely informs or describes or captures the human condition in a way that makes my throat tighten. The way it does when capital T Truth creeps up on you out of nowhere.
My father and I, 2002

Saturday, January 15, 2011

flødeboller.







According to Wikipedia, the English word for what you see here in the making is chocolate-covered marshmallow treats, which in my opinion is a bit misleading as the marshmallow-y bit on the inside isn't chewy but more fluffy, yet not fluffy like marshmallow fluff, but rather fluffy like a sugary and dense whipped cream meeting unbaked meringue.

But who cares, point is that yesterday evening Johan, I, Johan's friend Bue and this city's prime chocolatier and confiseur Heidi, made them from scratch! We flavored one batch with freeze-dried raspberries, one with licorice, and one with honey and vanilla. Some we made with a waffle-base and others with a chocolate-covered marcipan one.

Judging from the photos it looks as if it was one harmonious soirée, but truth is we had moments of chaos too. Our first obstacle turned out to be a lack of enough egg whites, which I had to run to the store and get just before closing. Then Johan burnt his pot roast (or so we thought, it actually turned out delish!). And finally we had a power failure just as the sugar-sirupy concoction was approaching the right temperature needed.
Johan by the circuit breaker.


But hey, in the end: YUM!