When Light Fixtures Attack

Ingo Maurer's Zettel'z fixture first appeared in my life when, as a starry-eyed design student, I employed it over a French Deco dining table in an imaginary Upper West Side brownstone:

If you're keeping score (I know you are), those are Biedermeier chairs, an Asian-influenced stone console table, Russian Constructivist and turn-of-the-century graphic art, an overscale po-mo dentil molding, and an unremarkable cream rug (which I now know better than to ever put near a dining table, hoooo no). This was during my Mixmaster Phunk phase, if you hadn't guessed.

But the beauty, looseness, spontaneity, and simplicity of this fixture are remarkable: I've adored it for years. Until I had to put one together, that is.

That thing is a BITCH. You have to run each of those little metal rods through the central mesh cylinder by hand, judging the height and angle, correcting misfires, and locking it into place with two diabolically small and slippery rubber stoppers, all while teetering precariously on a step ladder (or kitchen stool, for some people). It takes a LONG TIME. After a couple hours of picking away, I felt reasonably confident I had arranged the rods in a satisfactorily full and firework-like fashion, even though I had a bunch of them left over. Then I put the papers on and realized it was still only halfway full. So, like Sisyphus taking hold of his boulder for another go, I sighed and climbed back up on the stool. Only to ping my client in the face as a rogue rod-stopper went zooming out of my hands.

The only light fixture more painful to put together than the Zettel'Z is the Bocci, which we also did for this same client:

All those tiny floating orbs of dewy light come at an agonizing price, namely hours upon hours of time. For this same (very patient and trusting) client, we did a cluster of six of the five-orb fixtures, to create a fairy-cloud feeling over her dining table. It was very important that the globes not be aligned symmetrically, but instead with subtle variations in height and location, and that is just NOT the kind of thing you can draw up on CAD, you have to look at it in real life, in the real space, with the real fixtures. Which meant that I had to sit with the electricians for hours while one of them held each fixture up--and those bastards are heavy--and the other measured the hanging distance for each orb, slipping it up or down according to my instruction. And that's not counting the time it took them to actually cut the wires, lock them in place, and install all six fixtures.

I left the site for a while to get some lunch, and when I came back I ran into one of the electricians outside. He reared backwards in alarm, making the sign of the cross in front of his face to ward me off, before retreating cautiously into the building, never taking his eyes off me.

That’s called suffering for beauty, my friends. They’re not just talking about high heels.

Analysis Paralysis

After spending all weekend anti-socially planted on my couch, I am finally (finally) moving toward what I think is a good query letter and synopsis. And honestly I think one of the single biggest things I did to get myself there was to STOP reading advice articles on how to do it.

Now, I am not saying not to read the articles at all. I have everything to gain, and everything to learn, from reading them--and I've learned a lot. But at a certain point, I just had to stop, because all I was doing was driving myself in endless circles of "Is it good enough? Did I do this right? Is it ready? Have I edited the MS enough? Am I ready?" Not unlike when my boss's cat gets freaked out by the sight of his own tail, and then attacks it, and then gets confused and gives up, and then three minutes later gets freaked out by it and attacks it again. I found that I was holding my own material up to this magical unattainable standard of the examples given, and the criteria listed, until I had convinced myself that it was so incredibly difficult to write an interesting query that I was never going to actually be able to do it.

So I stopped. And took some deep breaths, and went back to my most recent critique, and wrote another draft. And I think it's pretty good. Maybe not totally there yet, but most definitely moving in the right direction. Part of it was, instead of trying to query my heartfelt story about love and loss and memory like a plot-driven paranormal where stakes are high and danger looms around every corner, I accepted that--as my prized, trusted beta reader pointed out--emotions are plot. And I need to play to my book's strengths, not throw smoke and mirrors at it to try to make it look like something it's not. The smoke and mirrors were adding up to a much less interesting book, anyway.

Well, so this happened.

The best damn wedding in the Hudson Valley. Donuts were eaten, karaoke was sung, the party was thoroughly, thoroughly partied. My dress was pink and puffy, and I felt like a hipster Scarlett O'Hara descending the winding staircase at the venue, holding my billowing skirts out of my way so I wouldn't pitch face-first onto the floor and ruin all that hard work on my makeup. We walked in to "Love and Happiness" and walked out to "Signed, Sealed Delivered" and it was the biggest blast I've ever had in my life. Too bad I only get to do it once.

Is Your Face Supposed to Be Doing That?

I am molting.

A month and a half ago, suddenly horrified by the reality of being 33 years old with baby wrinkles, dry spots, and occasional breakouts, I ran screaming to an Upper East Side dermatologist and dropped an unholy sum on exactly three products. She also wrote me a prescription for Retin-A.

So apparently the way Retin-A works is to induce your skin to shed itself. This is every bit as sexy as it sounds. My skin has been flaking and peeling like a bad paint job. I was kind of secretly hoping that no one else had noticed, until the other day when Allen touched my scaly cheek worriedly and said, "Baby... is your face supposed to be doing that?"

I think those are words nobody ever wants to hear their partner say. Lucky me.

Greetings from the Naughty Bear Cafe

This weekend was my mini-bachelorette party. This is not to say that there will be a MAJOR bachelorette party at some point in the future--just that I didn't want a big fuss involving airplanes, Four Loko, greased-up strippers pretending to find vaginas appealing, or disorderly conduct arrests. It was just me, my sister-in-law, my cousin, and a couple of badly-behaved girlfriends... it was perfect. The girls surprised me with a sweet Apple book of photos culled from all their various hard drives, which made me both laugh and sniffle. And the cover of this book, splashed across it at full bleed, was the photo above.

My cousins Lauren and Leigh and I had just finished up a nice greasy brunch at a Shoney's in Harrisonburg, VA a few years ago, when on our way to the exit we spotted this painted wooden bear next to the cashier's station. He had a giant head and an ingratiating grin but what concerned all of us, immediately, was the gaping hole in the middle of his pelvic region. He had a little compartment for lollipops tucked away in there, so kids could just reach in and grab one. Cute, right? Except for the location of the hole. The bottom of which is a mere inch above the androgynously smooth, shapeless "T" of his crotch.

The more we studied his lollipop hole, the more his wide-eyed grin took on a whole new meaning. Reaching in there and feeling around while he beamed back at us was just... wrong. So what did we do? Took a picture of me with my hand in the hole and a similarly excited look on my face, of course. And that is the cover of my photo book, for all posterity. Me molesting a lollipop bear. And that wasn't even the last time I did something inappropriate to an animal statue in public.