Today's Final Jeopardy Category: Words Ending in "-ina"

The latest installment of a TV guilty pleasure resurfaces the author's deranged inner child 

Amongst the purported “crown jewels” of HBO’s streaming platform, recently revamped as simply "Max," has been the hotly-anticipated Sex and the City reboot …And Just Like That. The limited series, currently winding down its second and potentially final season, was quickly recognized by both critics and dyed-in-the-wool (or rather, cashmere) fans for its out-of-touch writing, and deflated in ratings with a rather clumsy “thud” by the end of its first set of 45-minute installments in winter 2022. Where the original dramedy was recognized for its fresh and contemporary, somewhat edgy sexploits amongst urban females, its follow-up is the very definition of hackneyed and obnoxiously elitist. Worse, it awkwardly if not maddeningly makes a desperate reach for relevance by tapping into issues of transgender identity, which smells as strongly like an inauthentic ploy as the official Sex in the City perfume and body deodorants still available from Walmart and Amazon.

As my new favorite “hate watch” I couldn’t help but feel obligated to share a plot point in this week’s edition that stood out for its sorely and sadly disordered mindset. My gripe is with an abhorrent paperlight B —or rather, C— storyline, quickly and superficially resolved by episode’s end, involving Kristin Davis’ Charlotte, who I otherwise consider the sole likable lead (especially after Mr. Big’s untimely demise). As it plays out, the bubbly fifty-something Upper East Sider has decided her new career path lies in returning to the NYC gallery scene in some capacity that honestly escapes me (being not entirely important). Accompanying this comes the resolution o lose the bump so visible in her newest Prada LBD work "uniform” by subsiding on bone broth and layering an onion’s worth of shapewear skins underneath the garment's unforgiving form-fitting silhouette. The bold pink accent accentuating her curvy middle becomes the bane of her otherwise charmed existence. 

"I don't need to lose the belt, I need to lose the belly," she tells Harry, the ever-patient and supportive, somewhat bemused husband. Then later, perhaps more distressingly, to her other right hand man, gay BFF Anthony: “I'm going to be a gallerina again. Think about it: ballerina, gallerina. Anything that ends in '-ina' is teeny-tiny.”

This rather quirky —albeit irrational— conclusion immediately registered with me, my often-on-alert Anorexia-concerned brain flagging the remark as perhaps a long-ago buried ED thought from my formative years. After all: “Lor-ina” might fall under this vocabulary rule. 

Yes, to be above all else "teeny-tiny." And never amounting to anything much more than this sad, rather one-dimensional end goal and nearly lifelong obsession.

Think about it? Believe me, I have.

A still from Season 2, Episode 8 ("A Hundred Years Ago"): Attempting to hide her “problem area," Charlotte covers up in a bold floral Oscar de la Renta coat, with the belted dress of concern peeking out beneath.

"Materials on Hand"

- Modern decor that would otherwise
be languishing within a landfill
or floating garbage barge -

In a sort of salute to tonight’s premiere of Bravo's Project Runway — because, hey, any “reality TV” rewarding creativity, inclusivity, AND cattiness is worth an audience — I offer my own attempt at the requisite "Unconventional Materials Challenge" by way of Abstract Expressionism or, more accurately, Trash Art.

The presented 40 in. x 16 in. work is comprised of spray paint, acrylic tube paint, shattered headlight/taillight covers from auto crashes collected along Main Street (Route One) tissue paper, faded terrycloth wash towel, sequins, glitter, tiny triangles cut from sparkle holiday wreath bow (faded from red to yellow), torn satin, strand of purple foil wrapping paper, remnants of Amazon.com fabric gift satchel, netted produce pouches (shallots, clementine oranges, red dwarf potatoes), cellophane covering from Valentine’s Day chocolate box, red plastic hazardous waste bag, deconstructed powder pink adult diaper, hot glue, Mod Podge adhesive sealant, decades-old congealed turpentine, sparkle silver washi tape fused to side frames with cardboard reinforcement on back side, sprayed a dusty lavender, due to this being initially two separate canvases connected end-to-end.

Taking My Turn, Easing Onto The Off-Ramp

-- As posted online earlier this afternoon to social media, 

recorded here for posterity --

With the start of a new month I am finally feeling emboldened enough to follow through with the long held intention of exiting this increasingly divisive site.  I’ve been operating on the platform for 15 years, 10 on Instagram and also Blogger.  The aforementioned platforms I will continue with in order to at the very least share art & opinions, as both are generally less trafficked with one-sided, needless attention traps (albeit owned by the same mega corporations responsible for what I politically and morally object to here).  Should you need, I can be found easily on either under my usual name.  Even more importantly will be the simultaneous deletion of my (rarely accessed) Twitter account, more a gesture of objection to E. Musk and his mismanagement than the portal itself.  Be well — it’s nothing personal, really.  Just something I’ve aged out of as the site has evolved/de-evolved into something of a different beast.

Needless to say, that deceased wren encountered on our property with eyes gouged and gut decayed (see previous post) has been taken as nothing if not *a sign* to keep my distance from Twitter. Shooting down my Facebook is (somewhat) less politically driven, as evidenced by remaining on Meta’s sister site Instagram, but it seems apt to “kill two birds with one stone,” nevertheless.

^ Final three "Tweets"

(representing author's present concerns)

#exitinggracefully

Grounded

Easily amongst the eeriest small natural wonders I’ve encountered on our Maine property in 30+ years, presented here, as discovered two days back, amongst the chestnut blossoms on our upper driveway in the long warm shadows of early evening.  Evidently a mother because there are still unhatched (!) Tiffany blue eggshells buried in her underside.  Has merely one wing and, even more disturbing, no eyes.  Weighs close to nothing — I assume any tissue inside the remaining cage of skeleton & feathers are long decayed?

Incidentally, I tagged these images on Instagram for the operators of #deadbirdsaresexy / @deadbirdsaresexy (which I swear is a more reverential and respectful account than it sounds, more of an online mausoleum).

Weeping inside *just* a little bit.

The FLORA-da Project

- A collage heralding the return of warmer days -

“Flora, Wife of The West Wind, Harbinger of Ample Blooms” Magazine and seed catalog pages, various spray paints, acrylic tube paints under several glazes of Mod Podge on two fused-together smaller canvases (totaling 16 in. x 10 in.) with black enamel contrast edging

*This piece has seen innumerable generations; initially, I wanted to better saturate the florals while adding more of a romantic “painterly” feel. Once a Memorial Day composition, it was further reworked Labor Day 2023 to more effectively define the tree skyline behind left arm's billowing fabric train.

#abstractcollage #surrealart #mixedmediapainting #floragoddess #winteriscomingbutsummerisstillhere

April's blossom season in new art: "Overwhelmed"

In a bed of buds, floored by fleurs.  As always, assembling this was my makeshift therapy -- collaging as "coping mechanism" for, well, life.  One of the creative hobbies I genuinely enjoy and look forward to, with enthusiastic recommendation (especially when paired with NPR).  

Spring has sprung!

Small abstract collage using plant seed catalog imagery sealed with Mod Podge over parakeet green spray-painted 8 in. x 10 in. mounted canvas framed by patterned metallic lavender washi tape (reclining nude of unknown origin)

“Deli Delilah and the Foreshank Vortex”

Abstract collage using paper, acrylic paint (Titanium White & Mars Black), and Mod Podge on spray-painted 12 in. x 16 in. mounted canvas framed by powder pink sparkle washi tape (Late-January & Mid-April 2023)

Poeticized Pallor: The Romanticized Victorian Ailment Aesthetic

19th CEntury Beauty Standards As Influenced By DEATHLY DECLINE

Pursual of the “en vogue” definition of a covetable female figure has rarely not involved some form of physical defilement, deformation, or other unhealthy modification —encouraged by a savage and unforgiving culture— be it an idealized, romanticized fever-state accompanied by sallow skin, ruby lips, protruding collarbone; neck-elongation of African tribes; or the ancient practice of Chinese foot-binding and with it barbaric female subordination. Certainly a precursor to "heroine-chic" or the glorification of such sickly appearances achieved through forms of eating disorders.

Tragic —even horrifying— and yet, as the attached article observes regarding a study on the Victorian glamorization of tuberculosis: “In making this harrowing illness into something aesthetically desirable, families could find some sense in a loss that felt too soon, too sudden, too meaningless.” Here, the review (as posted by Hyperallergic five years ago next week) of Carolyn A. Day's Consumptive Chic: A History of Beauty, Fashion, and Disease from Bloomsbury Academic.

Wonder-full

- Cover art of the novel, published six years ago, that inspired a recent Netflix adaptation from director Sebastián Lelio -

Last week when Netflix unveiled “The Wonder” I hastily assumed it would not be much to my  liking.  In skimming the movie's synopsis, I was a bit thrown by the rather overt, somewhat lazy creative decision to name the second lead Anna, given that she is a preteen girl demonstrating what might be described as a sort of obstinate, faith-driven “haunted Anorexia.”  (For those unaware, within eating disorder circles "Ana" or "Anna" is frequently coded language for an anthropomorphized version of one’s affliction, a fictionalized entity with which one endures a love/hate relationship.)  Secondly, the semi-abstract feature film is staged in the blighted and desolate rural moors of Victorian Ireland, which I unfairly perceived as another somewhat easy call in that it allows for the narrative to draw rather bold-faced symbolic reference to An Gorta Mor, or The Potato Famine.  

Translated colloquially as “The Great Hunger,” this was a famously brutal mid-18th century agricultural disaster responsible for the deaths of entire communities, to say nothing of embedded and lingering trauma.  Famously devout Christians, the Irish peoples have been seen throughout their history as adherents to a strict, near-radical branch of Catholicism, a faith that incorporates and reveres disturbing acts of martyrdom and voluntary, sacrificial flagellation.  With cursory research one might recall that self-starvation and fasting are a common theme in religion, universally lauded as a pious, noble form of deprivation because it is the sufferer’s decision.  Like renouncing sex or sleep, fasting is one of the ultimate forms of mind-over-matter corporeal restraint, in some cases even deemed worthy of sainthood.  That an 11-year-old child, one who obsessively ruminates on the characters of Biblical lore, is now the centerpiece marvel —the titular “Wonder”— in an almost egregiously pious family within a few years reach of famine, is not lost on the viewer.  

Where the film regained merit for me was in its spooky quality and ruminative pace, along with the uncertain message/intention of the central mystery.  With some forty-five minutes remaining in running time I still wasn’t sure where "The Wonder" was ultimately leading.  What  sadly enriched & intensified my viewing experience is knowing firsthand the horrible physical and mental agony of nutritional deprival, what with an eating disorder first launched in girlhood and presently flaring.  But when I consequently forgave (and gave into) the premise I found myself mesmerized.  The internal conflict I faced in rejecting my critic’s voice almost mirrors the strong but gradually fading skepticism of Florence Pugh’s central nurse.  She is originally hired to monitor Anna, whose family is suspected of staging the alleged “miracle” for fame & financial donations to their lamentably meager poor box, as benefitted by gawking, awestruck visitors.  I especially appreciated that she was an Englishwoman assigned to oversee an Irish patient's care but instructed to DO NOTHING, as this dynamic reflects the criminal lack of intervention and assistance by Great Britain’s parliament for its then-indentured colony during its time of crisis.  (To further strain the relationship, in the 19th century Irish tenant farmers were permitted few rights under England’s heartlessly restrictive Penal Laws, with the lasting resentment on pointed display in several exchanges of dialogue.)  

Pugh anchors it all with an unapologetic, take-charge resoluteness recalling the best of Kate Winslet, and I imagine she is in line for similar plaudits, if not A-list opportunities.  I was relieved that after just shy of two hours the gut-wrenching story arrived at a satisfying end without cheapening its vision.  What's more, I thought it was a thoughtful detail, perhaps (yet again) a bit heavy-handed, to have Anna *SPOILER ALERT* reinvent herself, near-death, as a whole new person she calls "Nan".  Not only is this a pointed rearrangement of her birth name but also, perhaps, serves as an intentional attempt to draw upon the Hindi meaning of the word.  For those unacquainted with Indian cuisine, nan is unleavened bread; that it is shaped like a teardrop provides yet another poetic inclusion.  (Certainly, it was not unintentional that Anna/Nan is “reborn” once she finally permits herself what appear to be the tiniest possible allowance of a softened wheat roll.)  Such creative decisions summon to mind other elegant and artful gothic prestige pictures as "Portrait of a Lady on Fire," "The Piano," "Manon of the Spring," "Howard’s End," and (most famously) "Jane Eyre" in its countless incarnations.

It is not until Pugh's long-overdue interrogation of her charge in the final act that Anna ultimately divulges to her trusted nurse-come-friend the reasoning that has thus far motivated her "gradual suicide".  When insistently (but compassionately) questioned, Anna confides that a prematurely deceased brother, Rupert, was her sexual abuser.  For the sin of sibling fornication he is punished in the afterlife to an everlasting torture for which she, as his partner and "bride", is personally responsible and alone capable of reversing.  “That’s what Hell is — it’s ceaseless,” she explains.  For those enduring anorexia —or struggling with a comparative barrier to adequate sustenance— our own Great Hunger can be similarly unrelenting.  I wish for so many the world over to be granted relief —if not release— in this life, or the next.

“Snake-in-the-Glass”

(textured collage-painting, late-October 2022)

I dream of “creamy” with this tactile 12 in. x 9 in. surreal mixed-media composition featuring a jagged field of jet black glitter crystals over spray-painted hombre canvas, marbled washi tape edge, and vintage advertising imagery cemented in place using Mod Podge. A study in paint finishes — matte acrylic (as kept within the wine vessel) vs. glossy enamel.

Honestly *not* happy with a lot of this —and attempting to photograph its many flaws has nearly driven me to drinking!

Stay Kool with a fetching Baileys blonde as you best attempt to reclaim any sense of composure before Monday’s inevitable return. Here’s to chasing those elusive "weekend vibes"!