Still can't decide what to get? Maybe these books are more your cup of tea...



Do you like severed ears and mental breakdowns? Or to put it more politely: do you like a mystery to be solved around one of the greatest, if not most famous artists in this world? Well this is your chance! In this book Murphy describes her reseacrh into -what can only be described as- the second most disturbing nights in Van Gogh's life. The first most disturbing night naturally being the night that he dies after he tried to kill himself. But trust me, this second-best story is definitely worth a read. Even if you're not a Van Gogh fan, you must give credit to the way this reseacrhhas unfolded itself. It's truly through perseverance and a good head that this truth can finally be filed away as a truth. 

The book was really easy to read and followed the research as it was done. On the one hand this is a very strong point of the book as it gives you a sense of research in general (which is good when you, like me, are busy doing a research of your own and you're a bit stuck; although the theme and scale aren't the same, the idea of how to 'do it' is quite inspiring). On the other hand however this can lead you to such sentences as 'I've just had lunch with this person from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and it was really nice. The people here are very nice.' Like, why? Why is that included in the final copy of this book? Sure it gives you a sense that this was purely a individuals passion project, but, like, why? Why should I care about your lunch with the person from the Van Gogh Museum? Why? Why should I care? I mean, I get it when it's related to a break-through (for instance when she had dinner, I think, in this restaurant where there was this poster, or something, on which stood something, I don't know, something important about prostitutes or something -or was it the way Arles used to look before the Second World War?- which led her to something else important that actually helped her to get closer to the truth). Anyway, to summarise: good book, easy to read, very interesting subject, sometimes unimportant blabber.



And now for something entirely different... I love this book (collection of poems). Although I don't think I've ever mentioned it anywhere. It's brilliant, it's sweet, it's funny, it's ironic and it's smart. But most of all it's addicting. Once you start reading there's no stopping you. On the one side that's a good thing: you want more and more and more and more, but then, after you realised what you've done, after you've consumed every last bit of it and you haven't had the time to breathe out, you'll feel silly and guilty and consumeristic. There's never enough. Nothing is ever enough. So then, on a second read, you take your time. You breathe in and breathe out and you look at the words and think about the words you just looked at. Then you read -what can only be described as- a fart joke and a single salty tear slowly makes its way down your chin into your tea. Art.



In short:
My 1980s & Other Essays made me feel cultured yet very uncultured. It made me question. And question some more. It made me tilt my head, sigh, and just read through because I knew I wouldn't get it anyway, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it.

In long:
Monday 12 September 2016, 21:47

I just picked up My 1980s & Other Essays by Wayne Koestenbaum (not only because, I reassured my bullet journal, Debbie Harry is on the front cover) after finishing Van Gogh's Ear by Bernadette Murphy the day before (not only because it's about Vincent van Gogh). Although I'd spend the whole day reading about 'museum-making' and 'narrative spaces' for school purposes, I still felt a need to read. To read just for pleasure. To unwind before going to sleep (which is funny, may this notebook be my witness, I always end up rewinding instead of unwinding when reading. Uproaring my thoughts and feeling the need to write them down in an excercise that doesn't actually help me to sleep but in return instigates slept-driven thoughts to keep me awake at night). In the back of my mind I was thinking, planning, this blogpost-series (inception?), 'celebrating' my birthday. Although I hate it, this, in secret, so deeply, but any excuse will do to make me and my mum to feverishly knit 7 jumpers. In the name of entertainment.

My 1980s & Other Essays starts with, who'd thought, an essay called 'My 1980s'. While reading I thought that this style of writing/ordering/telling a story might be fun to duplicate/immitate (in my own way) for this series. But then, on a second thought, I remembered that my life isn't firstly as eventful or secondly as interesting as the one written before my eyes. I read further, absorbed in the words, when I camed to page 11 and this was being projected into my brain:

"I was not thinking about the world. I was not thinking about history. I was thinking about my body's small, precise, limited, hungry movement forward into a future that seemed at every instant on the verge of being shut down."

And the fact that this, this, was printed on the 11th page of the book means so much to me, which is hard to explain (and hopefully you'll accept that this goes beyond the notion of me being born on the 11th around 11 o'clock, but then again to also keep in mind that that, in many ways, is also one of the reasons for my excitement, my enthusiasm, but also -mainly- my hesitation and adoration towards these words. These words that aren't mine, but made me to pick up this notebook in the first place, to -again feverishly- write down these words in the hope they'll still mean as much to me in the morning as they do right now). Basically, if I were to write a similar kind of style essay this would basically be it. At this very moment in time (tomorrow morning may be different).

22:21

As if it was meant to be, I was scrolling through Instagram when I came across a short extract, posted by Tavi Gevinson, of her early NYC diaries (which are now up on Rookie, but which I haven't read). And I find, on some level, that what she says, what I can read on Instagram, to connect with the afore mentioned:

"Chirs Kraus wrote that every letter is a love letter. David Foster Wallace frequently used "Every Love Story is a Ghost Story" in private writings, though its origin is unknown. Lorde says she doesn't write love songs, but how can that be true? Every song is a love song, is a ghost song. We love something so much that we have to write it down, and in doing so, we've killed it, like Barthes' characterization of loved ones in a photo: "Anesthetized and fastened down like butterflies." Now I'm interested in love, in letters, in songs, that are not concerned with the end; that are incapable of accessing on aerial view, on image,  story; I would like to stop trying to conquer death by documentation, feeling like the end-game will always be the page."

I always where I've been. What I've done. Or better: what I've done wrong for not being so, not necessarily smart, but cultivated (and smart). (Is it you, instagram, have you killed my brain, my ability to be(come) smart?). To be well-read and well-thought. To be able to make connections and then to connect them to your own experiences/feelings/thoughts. Lately I feel clumsy with words (not only because I wonder where I'm writing to and perhaps what I'm writing for (purpose). I'm writing mostly for my own amusements. I've always liked writing, but I feel like this past year it really has become 'something' for me (but what?). I wonder whether this is interesting or not (probably not. Me moaning and then publishing it on my own blog because 'I can' (Yes we can). What do I accomplish? Embarrassment? Self-consciousness? I've always been filled with a self-centred interest, but as I may believe one of my other current readings (a thesis: Fashion Beyond Identity by Rebecca L. Breuer), 'I' am all but a dream.

Page 12 (My 1980s):

"Does any of this information matter? I am not responsible for what matters and what doesn't matter. Offbeat definition of materialism: a worldview in which every detail matters, in which every factual statement is material."

22:49

Funnily enough, now moved on to the second essay (Heidegger's Mistress), it starts with: "I'm trying to figure out why -or how- or if - I became intellectual."

Tuesday 13 September 2016, 23:46

(Susan Sontag essay on Roland Barthes, quoted, p. 47): "(...) 'the writer's freedom that describes is, in part flight. The writer is the deputy of his own ego - of that self in perpetual flight before what is fixed before writing, as the mind is in perpetual flight from doctrine. 'Who speaks is not who writes is not who is.' Barthes wants to move on - that is one of the imperatives of the aesthete's sensibility.' Move on, Sontag urged. Leave the field untilled. Switch projects. Change hemispheres. Make a film. Direct a play. Write a novel. Fly to Hanoi. Nonspecialist, she refused restriction, scorned the limiting identity of the expert. She would rather have been considered a collector, connoisseur, sad perfert - anything but an academic."

Wednesday 14 September 2016, 10:19

Reading, for me, has three reasons (in no particular order):
1. To (be) entertain(ed)
2. To forget
3. To (be) submerge(d)

The first one is quite self-explanatory; I read to find a certain entertainment, pleasure perhaps, which keeps me reading. It's hard to read something when the *spark* isn't there (although you'll understand I don't ascribe this singularly to predestined entertainment or fiction).

It's funny how I'm someone who needs to forget and still anxiously holds on to every little thought/experience she (I) can (in my mind).

To forget, the bad thoughts (of yourself or those reminiscent of -the words of- others). To forget sitting in a train. To forget being alone or overcrowded. To forget the day, the night, the hour or even the moment. Which is closely related to the idea to submerge. To submerge myself into a certain topic, a way of writing, thinking (a process of connecting the words on paper to the music in your head and the images that have once passed your eyes). To submerge, to take a bite, out of the words (out of the world). To, for the time being, be the words (to be the writer perhaps).

23:20

Page 71: "When I write, I'm always not yet a poet; I'm a striver, a yearner, hoping to crash the House of Poetry."

Thursday 29 September 2016, 00:09

P. 98 [about Schuyler]

"He indulges the words he loves, as he wishes each passing day would pamper him. Some typical titles: 'June 30, 1974.' 'Dec. 28, 1974.' 'February 13, 1975.' August first, 1974.' Each day ia an eclectic collection of moods and circumstances, potentially catastrophic; toward a ruined day's end, cheerfulness sometimes breaks through it."

P. 98-99

"To include the fruit beside the blanket page, the page on which one is about to write a sentence is to be indolent enough to notice wild beauty, to stare at it, to wonder what words might begin to be useful in a description of it, but to stop several steps short of actually writing the words down."

Am I killing the words? I've got this bad habit of writing stuff down. For my research, for my memory, for my pleasure. Something physical that's in my own handwriting (in my own words?). I've been mocked about my way of 'going around' things. Making stuff happen. Writing stuff down. It's funny how I, in a crisi of my believe in myself and my capabilities find a calmness in one of the things I'm criticised for. For something I can't do. So is me writing down those words - the words of others - killing them by making them my own? Connecting them, remembering them?

"We love something so much we have to write it down and in doing so, we've killed it."

I wasn't consciously on a slaughtering session. And anyway I think Tavi is in this case mainly referring to experiences (the same goes for taking pictures). I'm still killing these words I'm reading (an experience an sich?). I've murdered to experience by writing about it. To quote. To literally convert them -sticking a knife in the back- into my own handwriting.
Nothing is sacred.
Nothing is safe.
A brain that works,
a body that moves,
is always contaminating, poisoning the water.

P. 104
"Not all poems need to be written. Part of the beauty of the lyric enterprise is that one can store at verse from across a rift of silent inaction and remark on the unwritten poems. Sometimes it is enough to have thought to do."

[no more entries were made]

Last minute Christmas shopping? Why not give a book! Everyone likes a book, right? I mean, there ar so many different kinds of books out there. For instance...


This year I've been on a roll when it comes to reading books. I found that reading during train rides calms me down. Although it heightens the fear of missing the right stop. Although, to be fair, the right stop for me is Amsterdam Central Station. I mean, that isn't your 'where are we again?' stop it's more your 'oh my giddy giddy gosh does the whole world need to be here too?!!??' kind of stop. Anyway, this year I've been on a roll when it comes to reading a book, but then Wuthering Heights happened. *dramatic music* I started reading this book at the beginning of July (may Instagram be my witness) and I only finished reading it at the end of October. For some unexplainable reason I just couldn't get through it. I blame it on the July sun that shone just a tad bit too bright. But still, why was this book so hard to read? I want to love it, I need to love it, why is it so hard to love it then? And then it struck me. It's very clever in that way.

The struggle is the point. The struggle between, within and outside yourself (or naturally between/within/outside the characters in the book). Being dragged into situations or (sub)consciously creating situations that either grows beyond yourself or becomes (un)explanatory to your being. The struggles within the book are made to make you struggle when reading it. Basically: not everything that's great is enjoyable. She said. She sighed. I think, within mainstream consumption, we're actually made lazy. I mean -to show my popular hand- how else can pineapple-pen be 'a thing'? Right? RIGHT?

Wuthering Heights isn't a book to simply read, to simply consume, it's a book you'll have to experience. You'll have to try to embody the means and motive before you get the opportunity to make it hunt you.


When discussing this book with my mum (because I just love to share my opinion with everyone who'd like to hear it (and 'everyone' always turns out to be my mum, who doesn't always want to hear everything I've got to say, but she's there anyway, so basically she's got no choice)), I came to the conclusion that How To Be Parisian can best be summarised with the word 'self conscious'. Which is stupid. Not the book, mind you, but the word 'self conscious'. I mean, it is stupid isn't it?

But then again it -in this case, within this book- can also be very helpful. Enjoyable. 'Fun' even. It takes itself serious, but also it doesn't. It makes fun of itself, but also it doesn't. Basically it's conscious, self conscious, of the good and the bad and all the 'grey areas' that goes with it. Which can be funny or ironic or informative. And that from your 'typical' fashion book that explores your 'typical' fashion terminology and stereotypes. So therefore concluding that it contains, maintains and obtains a self consciousness, a (reflective) personality, a 'anything but snobbish attitude' is almost the act of a madman. Call me mad.

At the end 'the' Parisian isn't defined by its je ne sais quoi, its unattainability, its fleetingness, but by its - there it is again- self consciousness, and therewith thus its humanness. The Parisian in this book isn't something that only exists between the twilight of stereotypes and daydreaming (or: seeing what you want to see, defining something that isn't actually there, but still can be looked and graved for because there's a market for it, or at least there's a market created for it by fashion magazines through idealisation). This isn't a phantom image, a nonexistent being, a fashionable money-maker (well....) or the proof of the existence of demi-gods. It's a deconstruction followed by a reconstruction followed by a resurrection.


Longbourn is a novel by Jo Baker that gives you a sneak peek behind the scenes of Pride & Prejudice. It almost gives you a reality check. A lifting of the magical veil that is love: It presents you with the inevitable truth of class, rank and life. So no fancy dresses or long diners for you, my sweetest. You will be scrubbing, cooking and crying. But then, then the story turns again. It'll let you dwell on a whole other love story, including all its romance and 'sticky stuff'. And therewith, indeed, creating another magical veil of love...

It's very refreshing to get a whole other angle on the classic story I've known (and loved) for years and years. And no, just to be clear, this isn't a story about Elizabeth and Darcy slowly falling in love. It's set in the same period of time (and a bit beyond), it's got the same pace and the stories intertwine at moments (when the servants are for instance mentioned within the Pride & Prejudice world), but it's a whole different read. Another story with another ending. Elizabeth and Darcy do get together, but who cares?! Mr Darcy can be brutally murdered with the silk ribbons of Elizabeth's bonnet or tragically slip in the lake and drown for all that I care! What about Sarah the housemaid and the mysterious footman James? What about Mr and Mrs Hill? You don't even need to know or have read Pride & Prejudice to understand this story! (although I highly recommend you to do so anyway).

Longbourn is in fact fanfiction, the only difference being that the main characters in Longbourn aren't really of any importance to Jane Austen. Or at least, they make the world of Pride & Prejudice work the way it did, but substantially it didn't made a difference on what kind of servant (the 'who': Sarah, James, Mr or Mrs Hill etc.) acted upon their wishes. It was being taken care of, like it always had been taken care of (and therewith the actual 'who' didn't matter). This whole 'role division' is perfectly demonstrated within Longbourn, although they (so the Bennet's, the Bingley's and the Darcy's) aren't being portrayed as some kind of monsters (although they are high maintenance), they play the part of master/better than you and therewith they are unlikable characters. Or at least: they don't shine as bright or are as witty as we once thought they were. You can't charm your way out of this one, Darcy dear...

Lizzy and Darcy etc., as characters, don't flourish as much as they did or could in Pride & Prejudice. Mainly because this 'new' perspective doesn't allow them to. Yes, Jane is still the most loveliest and Elizabeth is still the smartest. However when scrubbing their "monthly bleeds" from their clothing, being totally ignored and expected to serve them 24/7, you wouldn't be as taken with them as presented in their original settings. It gives the words 'pride' and 'prejudice' an entirely different meaning. Therewith making the title of this book, Longbourn, almost symbolic to this hierarchy. The servants are 'bound' to this place. It's their place, socially and morally.

You could even say that the moral is a construction based on the social, which in itself is naturally also a construction. However more importantly: it's a construction that's being acted upon. Not only by the Bennet's, the Bingley's and the Darcy's, but most importantly by the servants. Without trying to spoil anything: the anxiety that comes with these certain settings, expectations and 'rules'. The downstairs of the household tries to obtain a certain 'uniform being' that is seen as a reflection of the household as a total (so downstairs + upstairs = household aka Longbourne). Because it's a reflection or even a representation of the household within the society it moves in, it's really important how either party 'flows' (naturally the main focus being on upstairs instead of downstairs, but it's the thought that counts). And SPOILER ALERT it's quite telling that at the end of the book the main characters (the servants) are reunited at the same place that bounded them together in the first place. Perhaps demonstrating that they will always belong or play their part, in some way, as the servant no matter what happens. They'll forever be property of Longbourn, bound within the boundaries of the (social) household, while their own personal boundaries (the 'who') has developed dramatically. 'Keeping up appearences' is seen as the most important end result. "But what about love?", as Sarah rightfully asks. Yes, what about it?

 


[Click here to go to the giveaway]
[which is closed now, btw, but, like, maybe you want to look at what you could've won if you had participated... I don't know why you would want to do that either...]

Ladies and gentlemen,
boys and girls,
cats and dogs,
pizza couriers and chinese takeaways,
gather around!

The time is nigh, the winners of the first ever, and most probably last ever, giveaway will be announced shortly! Oh how electrifying! The jury had no hard time choosing the winners (as there was only one on each platform to participate... also, I'm not really a number-person, but is there any corralation between me having 226 followers on Instagram before the giveaway and loosing twenty souls after the giveaway... you can't please everyone I guess. *one single salty teardrop slowly slides over my left cheek as I scrape my throat* Anyway...). The tention is rising! Who could it be?! Who could be the lucky winners of the first Fashioned by Pluche zine??? OH MY GIDDY GIDDY GOSH I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY LONGER!!!!


And. the. winners. are.....

*an annoying and ineffective long silence. I mean, these are just words on digital paper. You could just skim the text and read it whenever you like. I'm not stopping you. I don't have the power to stop you. Yet. But when technology evolves to that extend, and when I will have the power to stop you skimming my hard thought-through words (right), well then, then... Anyway, back to the announcement*

......the lovely Batsheva from Cynical Duchess (which is an absolutely brilliant, funny and honest blog and you should all be following her) and the wonderful Loes who simply is the definition of cool and also a very good analog photographer (go and see it for yourself @loederr)!

Dear winners,

Although you were the only two participants, your stories really resonated with me. From fulfilling a childhood dream (by making your dog wear your brothers' underwear classic) to standing up to those whippersnappers who just don't 'get' the pleasure of playing with your entire Barbie/costume jewelry collection during school hours (anything to avoid maths, amiright). And by showing that you're not a deer directly staring into the headlights of a truck that would definitely squash you to death, is a very handy trade to achieve at such a young age for when you're older and people really start to act weird when you pop out the ol' Barbie doll during a board meeting... Well done, you two!

Love,
Dominique


P.s. After I've gathered your information I will send it to you as soon as I can. Pinky promise.

P.s. P.s. I've had this nightmare about you looking at my zine like 'what is this sh*t', so I'd like to ease the pain before damage has been done: this is the first zine I've ever made and -as it goes with most firsts- it isn't THA BEST THING EVAH. However I tried my very best to make it something. So I hope this something will make your eye twinkle (or twitch. Twitching is fine too) just a tiny-winy-little bit.

Business will proceed as usual very soon... (it probably won't, but I felt this sentence needed to be added).

It's the first day of December. I've got two words for you: Michael. Bublé. I think, and Mr. Bublé knows it, the Christmas album is the best idea he has ever had. Because, although I'm quite scrooge-esque towards Christmas, the soothing warm sound of Mr. Bublé's voice somehow makes everything in life better. (E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g). Anyway, while I'm swinging and shaking my booty to some Santa Claus adoring sounds, you can read this post. So let's get started! (she said, while sliding over the floor with a hairbrush in her hand loudly singing along to 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town').


I've finished my first zine! It's called 'Nostalgia: There's going to be no future' (to keep it bright and cheery). What to expect? 48 pages filled with bad -but sincere- poetry, original (Microsoft Paint) art and that overall wistful nostalgic feeling...

If you'd like a digital (PDF) copy of the zine, please send an email to: fashionedbypluche@hotmail.com with the subject line 'Fashioned by Pluche Zine Issue 1'.

However...



 If you'd like a physical copy of the zine, enter the giveaway! There are two ways to enter this giveaway (everything is in parts these days):

1. Bloggy-blog
- Follow this blog (either on Bloglovin or click on the follow button underneath the 'Good Kids Club' in the sidebar).
- Write a comment below this post telling me about a nostalgic childhood story.
(Don't forget to look back to know if you're the winner...)

2. Insta
- Go to my Instagram (@dominique_by_pluche) and follow it.
- Click on the picture with my baby face (the one that's got 'giveaway' written on it).
- Like the picture and tell me a nostalgic childhood story.

The giveaway is open internationally. The winners will be announced on the 15th of December around 20:00 Central European Time.

However...




I'd like to broaden my zine-world experience. So if you've got a zine of your own and you'd like me to read it (and write about it on this blog), you can send an email to fashionedbypluche@hotmail.com, with the subject line 'Fashioned by Pluche Zine Issue 1 SWAP'. You can either send me a digital copy and get a digital copy in return OR you can give me your contact details and I'll give you mine and we can send each other physical copies... Sounds like a plan, right?



Good question! I've already started working on the second issue. This time it's all about bad habits. So if you have a bad habit to share, you can! (Lucky you.) It can be anything and it can be expressed in anyway... (but don't come up to me and confess that your bad habit is killing people. "Oops, oh no, I kill people everywhere I go, I can't help it, I can't control myself, it's such a bad habit! Almost as bad as my chocolate addiction...". Just no. No. NO. Clear?). I already feel that this one is going to be (even *wink wink*) better and bigger than this one.

Love,
Dominique