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BaliZen

In Interiors on November 5, 2013 at 5:01 am
BalizenHome.com

BalizenHome.com

I had the distinct pleasure of meeting and chatting with Andrea Phillips and Nyoman, a highly conscious and delightful couple who reside in Bali and are cofounders of BaliZen, known for its whimsical green gifts and home decor.  The vast collection embodies a beautifully playful and colorful design esthetic–not only are the products natural, sustainable and handmade BUT the company is also a member of The Fair Trade Federation, a Washington DC-based nonprofit providing support to and promoting North American businesses identified as being fully committed to the principles of fair trade.  The event was held in the elegantly appointed Kunstkring Paleis.

Below, a few favorite’s on Beth Anne’s BaliZen wish list.  She emailed, “Ohmygosh what don’t I like…EEEEK!!!!”

Please visit balizenhome.com or click on the hyperlink above to be directed to their delightful shopping site!

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END OF SUMMER BLUES

In Beauty & Health on October 9, 2013 at 8:31 am
Nail Polish by OPI

Nail Polish by OPI

Perfect combination to cure end of summer blues…Havaianas and a refreshingly bright pool blue reminiscent of those lazy endless summer childhood days spent swimming with sisters and friends.

Dwiyono…and the Egg

In Art, Painting, Sculpture on August 6, 2013 at 11:09 am
Dwiyono's Eggshell Painting

Dwiyono’s Eggshell Painting

What happens if one morning your wife is cooking breakfast, an egg shell drops to the floor, and as you bend down to pick it up you have in your hand the most innovative new medium?  Dwiyono’s fascination with the simple delicate beauty of this cracked shell along with a little glue, cement, paint and his imagination, all commingle, creating this Jakarta based artist’s meticulous sustainable works.

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For additional info on the artist and his works, please visit Dwiyono and The Jakarta Post

John Banville, “The Sea”..a Post-Impressionistic Review

In Livre / Libri / Books, Media on August 4, 2013 at 11:24 am

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Winner of the Man Booker Prize, John Banville’s, The Sea is a poignantly eloquent, masterfully descriptive, provocative piece on death, love and relationships brilliantly weaving the past with the present.  His adept skills present themselves in full force and leave little room for dispute over this award-winning novel.  With such powerful prose, thoughts, actions andinanimate objects spring to life—his words painting a scene as artfully as paint on canvas.

Tying the wrists of writer and artist together, Banville’s protagonist, Max Morden, is writing a book on Pierre Bonnard, one of the Belle Epoque’s greatpainters and a member of Les Nabis, a famous group of French post-Impressionist avant-garde artists.  Max describes, Nude in the Bath, with Dog, so beautifully.

The Baignoires are the triumphant culminations of his life’s work.  In Nude in the Bath, with Dog, begun in 1941, a year before Marthe’s death and not completed until 1946, left end, and beneath the bath on that side, in the same force-field, the floor is pulled out of alignment too, and seems on the point of pouring away into the corner, not like she lies there, pink and mauve and gold, a goddess of the floating world, attenuated, ageless, as much dead as alive, beside her on the tiles her little brown dog, her familiar, a dachshund, I think, curled watchful on its mat or what may be a square of flaking sunlight falling from an unseen window.  The narrow room that is her refuge vibrates around her, throbbing in its colours.  Her feet, the left one tensed at the end of its impossibly long leg, seem to have pushed the bath out of shape and made it bulge at the a floor at all but a moving pool of dappled water.  All moves here, moves in stillness, in aqueous silence.  One hears a drip, a ripple a fluttering sigh.  A rust-red patch in the water beside the bather’s right shoulder might be rust or old blood, even.  Her right hand rests on her thigh, stilled in the act of supination, and I think of

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Pierre Bonnard, Nude in the Bath and Small Dog, 1941-46

Anna’s hands on the table that first day when we came back from seeing Mr. Todd, her helpless hands with palms upturned as if to beg something from someone opposite her who was not there.

Being a writer’s writer, Banville consistently and meticulously delivers eloquent prose (“I expected everything to be changed, like the day itself, that had been somber and wet and hung with big-bellied clouds when we were going into the picture-house in what had still been afternoon and now at evening was all tawny sunlight and raked shadows, the scrub grass dripping with jewels and a red sail-boat out on the bay turning its prow and setting off toward the horizon’s already dusk-blue distances.”), exquisite similes and metaphor’s (“But who is it that lingers there on the strand in the half-light, by the darkening sea that seems to arch its back like a beast as the night fast advances from the fogged horizon . . . I felt inexplicably lightened; it was as if the evening, in all the drench and drip of its fallacious pathos, had temporarily taken over from me the burden of grieving.”), and an astounding comparison of life by describing present moments with past remembrances—a true gift to have, brilliant memory and recollection to pull the past to the present.  He pens, “Really, one might almost live one’s life over, if only one could make a sufficient effort of recollection.”

Banville’s poetic prose, like Bonnard’s complex compositions, delivers a post-Impressionistic view—an artist exploring color, line and form, and his emotional response—bringing to life images through words.

Our table was near the open doorway from which a fat slab of sunlight lay fallen at our feet.  Now and then a breeze from outside would wander in absent-mindedly, strewing a whisper of fine sand across the floor, or bringing with it an empty sweet-paper that advanced and stopped and advanced again, making a scraping sound.  There was hardly anyone else in the place, some boys, or young men, rather, in a corner at the back playing cards, and behind the counter the proprietor’s wife, a large, sandy-haired, not unhandsome woman, gazing off through the doorway in a blank-eyed dream.  She wore a pale-blue smock or apron with a scalloped white edging.  What was her name?  What was it.  No, it will not come—so much for Memory’s prodigious memory.  Mrs. Strand, I shall call her Mrs. Strand, if she asks to be called anything.  She had a

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William John Banville

particular way of standing, certainly I remember that, sturdy and four-square, one freckled arm extended and a fist pressed knuckles-down on the high back of the cash-register.  The ice cream and orange mixture in our glasses had a topping of sallow froth.  We drank through the paper straws, avoiding each other’s eye in a new access of shyness.  I had a sense of a general, large, soft settling, as of a sheet unfurling and falling on a bed, or a tent collapsing into the cushion of its own air.  The fact of that kiss in the dark of the picture-house—I am coming to think it must have been our first kiss, after all—sat like an amazement between us, unignorably huge.  Chloe had the faintest blond shadow of a moustache, I had felt its sable touch against my lip.  Now my glass was almost empty and I was afraid the last of the liquid in the straw would do its embarrassing intestinal rattle.  Covertly from under lowered lids I looked at Chloe’s hands, one resting on the table and the other holding her glass.  The fingers were fat to the first knuckle and from there tapered to the tip: her mother’s hands, I realized.  Mrs. Strand’s wireless set was playing some song to the swoony tune of which Chloe absently hummed along.  Songs were so important then, moaning of longing and loss, the very twang of what we thought was love.  In the night as I lay in my bed in the chalet the melodies would come to me, a faint, brassy blaring carried on the sea breeze from the ballrooms at the Beach Hotel or the Gold, and I would think of the couples, the permed girls in brittle blues and acid greens, the quaffed young men in chunky sports coats and shoes with inch-thick, squashy soles, circling there in the dusty, hot half-dark.  O darling lover lonesome moonlight kisses heart and soul!  And beyond that, outside, unseen, the beach in the darkness, the sand cool on top but keeping still the day’s warmth underneath, and the long lines of white waves breaking on the bias, lit from inside themselves somehow, and over everything the night, silent, secret and intent.

And like the master painter’s dedication to painting his wife Marthe in the bath at Le Bosquet even after her death, so to is the writer’s dedication to delve into our minds and compel us to process and reflect on the stark reality of life, death and love.  As an addict is with his addiction, how will I ever read one-dimensional prose again and be ok!

SSSsssssnake Print..in Brattlesnake!!!

In Maquillage on March 9, 2013 at 5:35 pm

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Celebrating the Year of the Snake while taking nail design to the next level.  Nail Polish Strips by Sally Hansen…easy enough to do yourself and almost as cool as the hand painted original!

Infectious Rhythms

In Music on March 7, 2013 at 2:05 pm

Growing up, music was the center of our world–one never knew what might be playing on the now ancient Pioneer turntable. Curiosity ran rampant thanks to the rich and eclectic tastes of our parents, and as old habits never die, I again found curiosity running circles around this new to me, style of music.

The following is an article from NPR Music’s August 21, 2012 edition that Live Mocha featured on their Saturday Morning Music series.

Janka Nabay: The King Of Bubu Music

by BANNING EYRE

Janka Nabay is the king of Bubu music. That style has old roots in Muslim Sierra Leone, but it’s come to life recently in the clubs of Brooklyn and Manhattan, as well as on a new album called En Yay Sah.

Sierra Leone is a good place to invent a music style: It has 16 ethnic groups, a Muslim majority and a large population descending from freed American slaves who returned to West Africa after the Revolutionary War.

The original Bubu music is a product of Islam in Africa, with processional chants and rhythms with ties to ancient African culture, but also to Ramadan, the Muslim holy month of fasting. Janka Nabay gained attention when he transformed Bubu songs he recalled from his youth into modern pop. Nabay’s hypnotic mixes began circulating around Sierra Leone on cassettes, and a new Bubu music underground was born.

Sierra Leone’s brutal civil war in the 1990s complicates the Bubu story. Nabay’s songs sought to remain above the fray, but when rebels began using them as a soundtrack to village raids, Nabay was forced into exile. He left home unwillingly, and it took time for him to find his footing in Brooklyn. But in the past two years, Nabay has built a band fit to bring Bubu music to an international audience.

Re-creating Bubu music in America has not been easy. At first, Nabay found himself surrounded by enthusiastic Sierra Leonian expats, but none were willing to help finance his career. Nabay channeled that frustration into his song “Kill Me With Bongo.”

Before Janka Nabay, Bubu music was an all-but-forgotten remnant of Sierra Leone’s past. Now, thanks to technology, imagination and the forces of globalization, the Bubu sound is working its mysterious, mesmerizing magic on the world. This is one way old traditions survive: in the hands of single-minded visionaries like Janka Nabay, for whom technology is an ally — not an enemy — of customs and culture.

Meet the Expat! in Jakarta Expat

In Dance on March 5, 2013 at 10:05 am

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Meet the Expat!  ~ Click to read article

Meet Melissa Calmes. Passionate Belly Dancer, Musician and one third of the Calmes Triplets!

Dreamy blue-green…Sephora by OPI, Teal We Meet Again

In Maquillage on March 5, 2013 at 6:29 am

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