This One's for You, Magenta and Rue

Skirt: Wild Fable, Target

Bag: Xhilaration, Target; First three bangles: Mixit, JCPenney; Love bangle: Boscov's

Sunglasses: Betsey Johnson, Zulily; Necklace: JCPenney

Shoes: Mix No. 6, DSW

Dress: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Bold Bouquet Barrette Brooch

Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Purple Planet Necklace

Necklace: Betsey Johnson

Bright Blossoms Barrettes

Tights: Mixit, JCPenney; Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Top: Nine West, Kohl's; Skirt: Xhilaration, Target

Bag: Zulily

Boots: Dolls Kill

Violet Vibes Necklace

Headband: INC, Macy's

Watching so many Golden Girls reruns over the years has caused some of the dialogue to stick in my head.  And so when I put together this hot-pink-heavy post, I couldn't help but think of the episode where Blanche reveals that when she feels down, she calls it "magenta."  I thought this was weird because magenta is such a happy color.  Also, because the always ebullient Blanche rarely admits to being in the doldrums (that's Dorothy's department).  Yet I guess it's just one more example of the multifaceted magic of these Miami mavens.    

And now, on to the jewels!  I was very excited to use the amethyst-hued agate slice pendants I recently ordered from Amazon.  I thought they were a fun complement to all the rosy clothes.  Because if there's one thing we learned from Barbie, then it's that pink doesn't pop without purple.

Of course, I also had to embellish them with crystals for that fallen-fresh-from-the-firmament look.  Even though rocks come from the earth, not the sky.  But a little artistic license never hurt anyone.  

Except for maybe Van Gogh.

Moving Mountains: Gold Star Stay the Catskills Way

The first Elyssa Friedland book I ever read was The Floating Feldmans, which was a funny family drama set on a cruise ship.  Last Summer at the Golden Hotel is a lot like it, except the cruise ship is a hotel, and the main characters own it.  The Goldmans and the Weingolds have been the proud proprietors of the Golden Hotel for decades.  Nestled in the once-trendy Catskills, or as the locals call them, the Jewish Alps, the Golden Hotel has feted everyone from Joan Rivers to Jerry Seinfeld in its famed theater.  Families have come for generations to bond over brisket and shuffleboard, their happiest moments frozen in time in the hotel's Memory Lane photo gallery.  But time has not been kind to the Golden, and now it's falling apart.  These days, people want organic meals and Wi-Fi, and they're going elsewhere to get it.  Which forces three generations of Goldmans and Weingolds to ask themselves the dreaded question: should they stick it out or sell?  While trying to find the answer, they learn new things about each other -- and themselves.  

Last Summer at the Golden Hotel is fun and nostalgic, harkening back to the days of Dirty Dancing and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, both of which it references.  While reading it, I used the sunflower bookmark I bought at Beyond Van Gogh.  It matched the cover so perfectly that I couldn't stop looking at it. 

As they say, it's the little things.           

You, Me, and the Sea: Nine Years and Counting

So, why You, Me, and the Sea?  Obviously, because it rhymes with Owen Wilson's, You, Me, and Dupree!  Which makes even less sense than "sea" unless Dupree equals Van Gogh, Hokusai's The Waves being the inspiration for Starry Night.

For our ninth wedding anniversary, which was yesterday, the husband suggested going to see Beyond Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience.  A traveling exhibit, it had landed just miles away in Atlantic City at the Hard Rock Casino, so it seemed like a fun, local option.  Yet at first I was like, I don't know.  With COVID still looming large, going to a casino seemed dicey.  And yet, I was wavering.  The husband is a huge Van Gogh fan, and I like him too.  Also, an "immersive experience," whatever that was, seemed intriguing.  Finally, we'd marked our last two anniversaries with takeout.  Maybe it was time for a risk.        

So I ordered the tickets, and we embarked upon our day of, as the husband put it, "culture and COVID."  It goes without saying that we had a wonderful time, as evidenced by this pic of us posed at the café table in the gift shop.  An older couple took it for us after asking us to take one of them.  And yes, we whipped off our masks for the second or so it took to "click."  Like I said, risk ruled the day.

The first part of the exhibit was a room filled with texts about Van Gogh's life interspersed with empty picture frames for photo ops.  But the main event was an enormous room, which was first superimposed with Van Gogh's self portraits.  This was probably the most iconic, and my favorite:  

In some portraits he looked angry, in others old, and, yes, in one his head was bandaged because he'd cut off his ear.  Yet although his faces were both magnificent and haunting, part of me was wondering, is this it?  Then the colors shifted, filling the entire room, floor and all, with a breathtaking landscape.  I actually gasped, causing a teen sitting on the floor to shoot me a dirty look.  I scooted away, not wanting her to harsh my mellow. 

This painting and the many that followed jibed with one of my favorite blurbs from the previous room about Van Gogh's gift for making the ordinary extraordinary:

Not surprisingly, I liked the sunflowers best of all:

And then, of course, there was Starry Night.  Painted from Van Gogh's view from his room in the asylum, it epitomizes finding light in the dark:

People always think of Van Gogh as the crazy guy who cut off his ear and eventually took his own life, but Beyond Van Gogh shows us a hopeful, sensitive artist who never stopped believing in the power of his vision.  And that's beautiful.  

As is this pic of the husband at the entrance -- yes, playing up the auricular angle.  Check out that crazy casino carpet!  

This wouldn't be a Tote Trove post if I didn't 1) show off my gift shop buy (a scrunchie!) and 2) expound upon my outfit.  As we were leaving the immersion room, the docent (not sure if that's the right word for a casino showing, but whatevs) stopped me and asked, "Did you wear that sunflower barrette just for today?"  I nodded.  "And the dress, too?"  Again, I confirmed.  She smiled and then said, "Thank you."  I was a little embarrassed but nonetheless pleased.  

Necklace: The Tote Trove; Sunglasses: Party City; Flower clip: The Tote Trove; Bangles: B Fabulous; Ring: Mixit, JCPenney

Dress: So, Kohl's; Bag: Dancing Days, Banned, Modcloth

Flipflops: Katy Perry Collection (they smell like pineapples!)

Even after we left the Hard Rock, there was one more piece of art to see.  I was absolutely delighted by this colorful food hut, which I caught outside the window as we exited the city:

On the way home, we stopped for an outdoor meal at this blessedly deserted spot, followed by dessert at Rita's:

It was a lovely nine-year anniversary celebration, not to mention a lovely nine years.  

And maybe Van Gogh is a little bit like Dupree after all.  Misunderstood but following the beat of his own brilliant drum, riding Hokusai's waves out to sea.

Sunflowers snapped at the farm stand a couple of Sundays ago.

Starry Night Sandwich

Historically, I've never been a huge fan of the maxi skirt.  And not just because it shares a name with a feminine hygiene product.  But because I thought it was matronly and a little sloppy, a too grown-up, up-market commune hybrid.  Yet over the years, I've let down my guard (and hemlines), allowing long lengths to infiltrate my wardrobe.  This spring, I've seen more maxis than ever, which means that they're in the style spotlight.  And that I'll be -- ahem --maximizing my wear of this trend.  Spoiler alert: I'm loving my new ankle dusters.  Instead of making me feel like a frumpy mum (no, I'm not British, but "frumpy mum" flows so much better than "frumpy mom"), they make me feel sophisticated, like a woman of the world.  Or at least one who pronounces quinoa correctly.  So I went whole hog and topped off these looks with upswept, lady-of-the-house hair.  The husband said it was wedding hair (it was more ringlety in person).  But then, he also said that the bag in outfit number two was a baby tiger I caught to keep as a purse.  So, not the most reliable of non-narrators.

Betsey Johnson, Macy's 

Anyway, I couldn't decide whether to pair the blue skirt with an orange or yellow top, so I went with both.  In person, I preferred the orange, but in the pictures, it was yellow that won.  Such is the yin and yang of the clotheshorse life.  Yet the most noticeable thing about this skirt (which is, by the way, Nine West from Kohl's) isn't whether it's shown to best advantage against tangerine or lemon, but that it looks like Van Gogh's Starry Night.  Like that famous painting, its bold blue and bolder lines stand out to demand your attention.  And that got me thinking about the coffee table book about Van Gogh that I'd bought for the husband. 

Normally, I'm not one for nonfiction.  But the story of Van Gogh coupled with the provocative title of this book, Starry Night: Van Gogh at the Asylum, conspired to make me take a peek.  I'd always known that the Dutch master had demons, but Martin Bailey's arresting account makes him seem both more tortured and human.  Van Gogh suffered from auditory and visual hallucinations, which meant he heard and saw things that weren't there.  These phantom sounds may explain why he cut off his ear, and it was this incident that influenced his move to the asylum.  There he was surrounded by men with afflictions much worse than his own, although he initially considered them to be his "companions in misfortune."  (A year later, just before he left, he changed his mind and said that they brought him down.)  Yet despite Van Gogh's somewhat sound mental health, he experienced a series of episodes while an inmate, both catalyzed by and calmed by his devotion to his work.  It was at the asylum that he painted Starry Night, that inextinguishable symbol of light in the dark.  Or, you know, just dark considering Van Gogh's untimely end (shortly after leaving the asylum, he shot himself in a field).  But I choose to see Starry Night as a beacon of hope.  Even if it didn't ultimately save Van Gogh, it gave him solace when he needed it.  Bailey puts it best:

"It is doubtless Van Gogh's passion for art that meant he was able to cope with asylum life.  The intensity of his work helped him fend off the indignities of daily existence, giving him a purpose and making his troubles bearable." (16) 

Before I sign off, I must mention another (albeit macabre) connection between my maxi skirt and Van Gogh.  Both are linked to the red stuff, the skirt with its menstrual-inspired moniker, and Van Gogh with his severed appendage.  And I can't help but think: bloody pad, bloody ear, bloody brilliant!

There goes that Brit thing again.

Grown-up garb or not, I'll never outgrow bathroom humor.

Happy Haunt Jaunt: Jackets and Jack-o-Lanterns

Halloween means spooky times, tons of treats, and a chill in the air.  It's the chill that brings the thrill, of course -- the thrill of breaking out jazzy jackets!  Um, don't you mean costumes, oh esteemed Tote Trove lady?  No.  I mean jackets.  Because a jacket is a lot like a costume -- colorful, fun, and cape-able of turning anyone into anything.  Here's the cream of my top layer crop.  Two are oldies but goodies; one is as fresh as roadkill.   

This first jacket is a Wild Fable favorite.  Sure, it's more Saved by the Bell than Satan's ball.  But I'm willing to let that slide because of my hair horns. 

And here's the new kid on the blog, decked out in day-glo.  Sorry, Joseph A. Banks, but Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat has claimed this happening hoodie.  It's from Dolls Kill by way of Delia's.  Which, if you ask me, is pretty Halloweeny.  Most Dolls merch is mucho edgy.  To give you an idea, it comes packaged in black bags emblazoned with a knife-wielding Kewpie.  It's a sight that never fails to unnerve me.

And finally, faux fur fires up stormy denim.  Black is a fitting shade for this day of undead and its feathered friend -- or perhaps I should say feathered Poe.  Nevermore, That's So Raven, said some Nickelodeon exec at some point one day.  Mr. Foe (for I've made my decision; this foul fowl is not to be trusted) is the only frightening thing in this picture.  Unless you count my closed-eye smirk of a creepy doll impression.  Watch out, Kewp, I'm coming for you.

You could probably tell by my tongue-in-cheek tone, but I like Halloween only a little.  And even then, it has to be playful as opposed to spine tingling.  Observe the quirky cute cover of this murder mystery in which a mean woman dies in a way that's not at all gory.  

The husband, on the other hand, likes Halloween a lot, and the darker and more macabre the better.  (Who do you think bought that raven?)  This is his beloved reproduction of a Van Gogh self-portrait that haunts our hallway every October. 

The husband and I agree that Vinnie was a sad, misunderstood man who died way too young.  Even if he did want to marry to his cousin.  

Speaking of which . . . whoa.  It's a Poe-Van Gogh crossover.  Two dark dudes and artistic geniuses who had the hots for their uncles' offspring.  Who would win in a weird, tortured, incestuous-even-though-it-was-olden-times, dead guy contest?

My money's on Vinnie.  People who cut off their own ears mean business.

Are You an Artist?

Fabulous Felt Artist Palette Necklace

I was reading Rena Klingenberg's always informative and interesting Home Jewelry Business Success Tips newsletter when an article called "Are You an Artist?" caught my eye. Written by April Schwaegerle of April Francene Designs, it examined the age-old question that plagues so many creative people, namely, "Are you an artist?" For many reasons, labeling oneself as an artist is difficult. It's not like saying you're a doctor or lawyer or teacher or office worker or shopkeeper or even aspiring Olympian. Perhaps part of the reason is because the word artist sends many mixed messages. For some people, the word evokes an image of an unhinged and ear-less Van Gogh, while others think of the proverbial starving artist feverishly painting in a rat-infested attic. Still others think of someone who isn't serious, whose work is relegated to the realm of hobby and can be mimicked by third graders. Then again, there are those who think of artists as inhabiting the loftier end of the creative spectrum, excelling at oil paintings and large scale sculptures worthy of being displayed in museums. In each instance, the identity of the artist is fraught with flaws, whether they be flakiness, poverty, childishness, or an inflated sense of self-importance. With stereotypes like this floating around, it's no wonder that so many of us are hesitant to admit to the title. April's article forces each of us to redefine the way we think about ourselves and our art. Go ahead and give it a read:

Are You an Artist?

"I just attended an exhilarating conference in Detroit hosted by the Detroit Creative Corridor Center, titled "Rust Belt to Artist Belt III". This conference originated in Cleveland, and we were fortunate to have it here in the Motor City this year.

I am not writing to tell you about the conference but about the attendees.

There were approximately 300 people in attendance representative of all mediums such as: graphic designers, landscape designers, architects, photographers, fashion designers, sculptors, painters and at least one jewelry designer . . . me!

I had the opportunity to mingle at the parties and during the breaks and I came up with an ice-breaking question, "Are you an artist?"

It was a simple enough inquiry, or so I thought, but it provoked an emotional response that I did not anticipate.

"Me? An artist?" most replied with a look of confusion and self-doubt. One woman in particular, who held a Masters Degree of Fine Art, could not answer yes to this question.

Wow! This made me realize that most artists lack confidence.

But why?

If I asked my seven-year old niece if she is an artist, then she would say yes. I think the difference is, in her mind, she believes she is an artist.

I am not sure if adult artists have lost that confidence along the way or if external forces like juries and judges have intimidated their beliefs. Or, are they comparing themselves to the esteemed and extolled?

I do not have the answer to why but I do know that if you want to succeed as a creative individual or own a creative business, then you must be shameless in announcing to the world that you are an artist!

My kindergarten teacher told my mother that I was going to be an artist when I grew up.

So I kept drawing. Then I painted. Then I was an advertising artist. Then I became a video producer.

Now I am a jewelry designer who primarily beads with a little wire wrapping thrown in for fun.

Maybe it just takes one person to believe in you even if that one person is yourself.

In my heart and soul... I have always been an artist. Are you?"

I immediately recognized the reluctance of the people April questioned. I've oftentimes been at the post office, mailing a package to a customer in an envelope covered with illustrations, when the clerk inevitably asks, "Did you draw this?" I say yes, and the next question is always, "Are you an artist?" I always feel embarrassed. Secretly, I think, "Well, yeah," but I don't want to say it out loud for fear of sounding pompous. Similarly, I'll be carrying a bag I painted or wearing a piece of jewelry I made, and someone will ask me if I made said piece. Again, I say, "Yes," and again, the person says, "Are you an artist?" Inevitably I find myself saying sort of, that I don't have a degree in it or anything, but that I took lessons and won art contests as a kid, and that of course I have a day job because if I didn't that would be just crazy, right? I babble on like this, as if by asking his or her simple question the poor person (who, let's be honest, is probably just making small talk) has hinted that I'm some kind of fraud that they'll expose. The funny thing is, I identify myself as "Artist" on my business cards. So I can put it into print but not conversation. Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. Reading about other artists struggling with this sort of thing was oddly comforting. (Several readers commented on April's post, some of whom cited experiences similar to my own.) Even more importantly, it made me realize that I shouldn't be afraid of standing behind what I do."

So, what do you think? For those of you who "make stuff," have you ever had trouble telling someone that you're an artist? Or are you more inclined to proclaim it proudly from the (studio) rooftops? The Tote Trove wants to know.