At 6pm last Saturday, I was walking out of the studio cradling a wet oil painting of myself. After a mad dash home to drop off the art and take the dog out, I headed for the John Anson Ford Amphitheatre. Nestled comfortable in the Hollywood Hills, a neighbor of the Bowl, I spent much of my youth in line for the summer Shakespeare performances at this gorgeous outdoor venue, clutching a can of chili as my price of admission. But not tonight. Tonight I was onstage.
About six weeks ago, My Man was hired to perform in a concert presentation of Sparks' new opera The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman. Filmmaker Guy Maddin had expressed an interest in creating the film version of the work and a show and tell was scheduled for the next to last night of the LA Film Festival, in order to generate financing. A small group of exceptional talent was assembled (including some outstanding representatives from the nation of Finland) to demonstrate the potential greatness of the work. Owing to my proximity and general enthusiasm for the piece, I nabbed a spot as an extra (or a super, as they say in the opera world.) Meaning I got to be on that stage. And look out upon a full house. With helicopters flying overhead. And the gorgeous score swelling from behind. And a wealth of gratitude all around me.
The after party was a casual but packed affair in the underbelly of the Ford with a bottle of Maker's Mark and some peanut M&Ms. I couldn't have been more thrilled.
The next day, my household and I were guests at the Finnish Consulate in Bel Air. (Yeah. I Know.) There was smoked fish and chardonnay and new solar panels they were very excited about and bona fide opera singers making conversation with me about The Burning Opera until I had to leave to go perform The Burning Opera.
Sometimes life is so extraordinary that you pause to say thank you to it.
Do keep an eye out for the film. I think it'll be quite good.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Places You'll Go - Day 2
Up bright and early Saturday morning, I was loaded down with gear and out the door by 9 for an all day modeling assignment at a San Gabriel studio. The morning session was easy. Short poses over 3 hours. The studio owner brought me a tasty bahn mi for lunch and I was able to stretch and relax for an hour. The afternoon session was a four hour pose for a painting workshop.
People are often curious about the life of an artist's model, which is understandable. The bummer is that they're always curious about the nudity part and rarely curious about anything else.
Here's an edited and condensed version of a conversation I have at least once a week:
"What kind of work you do?"
"It varies. I perform in theater pieces. I'm a musician. I teach. I'm an artist's model. And I write a bit."
"An artist's model?"
"Yes."
"So - like ... you have to be naked?"
"Usually."
"Huh. And you don't get embarrassed?"
"No."
"Your boyfriend doesn't get jealous?"
"No."
"You don't feel exploited?"
"I am exploited. And so are you."
And that's pretty much word for word how it goes. Every time. I try not to let it bug me. I don't always succeed. My job requires me to be nude in front of people. Obviously, if I had a problem with that I'd do one of the bajillion other jobs that don't require you to be naked. So when someone I've just met asks me if my job embarrasses me, it's hard to know how to take that. They're basically asking if I feel shame on a daily basis and I find that question condescending to say the least. No one ever asks a surgeon if they get grossed out by all the blood and guts they see at work. Because that's a stupid question.
But I've digressed. Oops. I have grown accustomed to peoples' prurient interest in the most sensational aspect of my job, to their amnesia regarding the highly-respected and centuries old tradition of nudes in art, to their unprompted concern for my personal dignity (as if it would be LESS exploitive to leave flyers on cars for minimum wage or make collections calls for a major credit card company or sit around a big desk with a bunch of fat guys brainstorming new ways to screw people out of insurance benefits they've paid for and are depending on. As if our entire economy were constructed on something other than institutionalized exploitation.) Sigh. But I mostly get miffed because I really love my work and I never get to talk about that. Nobody understands the extraordinary demands of art modeling or the euphoric pride I feel upon completing a 4 hour pose. It's like a marathon except you have to sit still instead of run. Most people have never sat still for longer than 10 minutes in their life so they have no idea. It's really hard on your body. Your muscles lock up and your circulation slows and sometimes you get bruises from resting your arm on an armrest. And you have to strive to maintain the emotional state you had at the beginning of the pose, even as your body goes on this journey of endurance. Plus, in stillness come thoughts. Often the very thoughts you've been avoiding take this opportunity to rush at you, demanding recognition. And as you ponder the deepest questions of your life, with the mother of all cramps in your lumbar, you have to keep your face arranged in the same placid lines you started with. Because people are counting on you. Artists, civilization - they need you. While in a pose, you are a bridge connecting the past to the future - allowing the people in the room to access the traditions of the masters and helping them to usher in their own personal renaissance.
And every once in a while, someone will gift you with the painting they've done of you. And you get to keep this tangible memento of you on this day, in this extended moment. This testament to your humanity. This labor of someone's love and talent. And as you take it from their hands, wondering how to get it home without smudging it, you know that someday you will be old. And then you will be dead. And this painting will only be a little bit dusty.
I've rambled. So you'll have to wait for the next installment to read about my evening's adventure.
People are often curious about the life of an artist's model, which is understandable. The bummer is that they're always curious about the nudity part and rarely curious about anything else.
Here's an edited and condensed version of a conversation I have at least once a week:
"What kind of work you do?"
"It varies. I perform in theater pieces. I'm a musician. I teach. I'm an artist's model. And I write a bit."
"An artist's model?"
"Yes."
"So - like ... you have to be naked?"
"Usually."
"Huh. And you don't get embarrassed?"
"No."
"Your boyfriend doesn't get jealous?"
"No."
"You don't feel exploited?"
"I am exploited. And so are you."
And that's pretty much word for word how it goes. Every time. I try not to let it bug me. I don't always succeed. My job requires me to be nude in front of people. Obviously, if I had a problem with that I'd do one of the bajillion other jobs that don't require you to be naked. So when someone I've just met asks me if my job embarrasses me, it's hard to know how to take that. They're basically asking if I feel shame on a daily basis and I find that question condescending to say the least. No one ever asks a surgeon if they get grossed out by all the blood and guts they see at work. Because that's a stupid question.
But I've digressed. Oops. I have grown accustomed to peoples' prurient interest in the most sensational aspect of my job, to their amnesia regarding the highly-respected and centuries old tradition of nudes in art, to their unprompted concern for my personal dignity (as if it would be LESS exploitive to leave flyers on cars for minimum wage or make collections calls for a major credit card company or sit around a big desk with a bunch of fat guys brainstorming new ways to screw people out of insurance benefits they've paid for and are depending on. As if our entire economy were constructed on something other than institutionalized exploitation.) Sigh. But I mostly get miffed because I really love my work and I never get to talk about that. Nobody understands the extraordinary demands of art modeling or the euphoric pride I feel upon completing a 4 hour pose. It's like a marathon except you have to sit still instead of run. Most people have never sat still for longer than 10 minutes in their life so they have no idea. It's really hard on your body. Your muscles lock up and your circulation slows and sometimes you get bruises from resting your arm on an armrest. And you have to strive to maintain the emotional state you had at the beginning of the pose, even as your body goes on this journey of endurance. Plus, in stillness come thoughts. Often the very thoughts you've been avoiding take this opportunity to rush at you, demanding recognition. And as you ponder the deepest questions of your life, with the mother of all cramps in your lumbar, you have to keep your face arranged in the same placid lines you started with. Because people are counting on you. Artists, civilization - they need you. While in a pose, you are a bridge connecting the past to the future - allowing the people in the room to access the traditions of the masters and helping them to usher in their own personal renaissance.
And every once in a while, someone will gift you with the painting they've done of you. And you get to keep this tangible memento of you on this day, in this extended moment. This testament to your humanity. This labor of someone's love and talent. And as you take it from their hands, wondering how to get it home without smudging it, you know that someday you will be old. And then you will be dead. And this painting will only be a little bit dusty.
I've rambled. So you'll have to wait for the next installment to read about my evening's adventure.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
The people you'll meet. The times you will have - filled to the ecstatic brim with art and music and wild opportunity. Bring it, I say. Bring it hard. Make it burn "like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars." (Kerouac)
It was a steamed clam pizza that kicked it off, delivering the direct message that this would be a weekend of discovery and adventure. Occasioned by a pair of delightful out-of-town visitors (our friends in Monterey,) we began our Friday night with dinner at Urbano Pizza Bar, where the Diva's dinner included Pizza Vongole - a standard mozzarella, garlic and parsley affair kicked up a notch by a scattering of perfectly steamed, in-shell clams. Really it was more like pizza with a side of clams than pizza but the side wasn't on the side at all. Whatever. It was delicious and the Market Salad and La Moto Chianti rounded the whole thing up beautifully. From there, our guests and I headed for a performance of The Burning Opera while The Man headed to his late night rehearsal for The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman at The John Anson Ford Theatre.
It was an especially great and especially hot show. Doing theater in a loft space presents special challenges. Doing it in the summer is just freakin' crazy. Industrial spaces have super-high ceilings but poor ventilation. While the audience remains relatively comfortable, the backstage and dressing area quickly become a sauna when filled with 20 hot bodies and heated by two enormous shadow lamps. By the end of the show, the entire company is drenched in perspiration and once the sweat-soaked costumes have been stripped off, the thought of putting anything else on in their place is simply unacceptable. This has led to a gradual increase in after-party exhibitionism which reached a fever pitch at this particular show. While her comrades strutted most or all of their enviable stuff, The Diva maintained a conservative decorum in her boy shorts, backless handkerchief top and stiletto boots. And of course, the Teeny Tiny Top Hat (required attire for The Teeny Tiny Top Hat Brigade, of which she is a founding member.) With the sensational DJ Jacques the Ripper burning up the dance floor and The TTTHB dancing on a table, it was tough to leave the party before dawn. But Divas need their beauty sleep. And Saturday was looking to be a big day...
It was a steamed clam pizza that kicked it off, delivering the direct message that this would be a weekend of discovery and adventure. Occasioned by a pair of delightful out-of-town visitors (our friends in Monterey,) we began our Friday night with dinner at Urbano Pizza Bar, where the Diva's dinner included Pizza Vongole - a standard mozzarella, garlic and parsley affair kicked up a notch by a scattering of perfectly steamed, in-shell clams. Really it was more like pizza with a side of clams than pizza but the side wasn't on the side at all. Whatever. It was delicious and the Market Salad and La Moto Chianti rounded the whole thing up beautifully. From there, our guests and I headed for a performance of The Burning Opera while The Man headed to his late night rehearsal for The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman at The John Anson Ford Theatre.
It was an especially great and especially hot show. Doing theater in a loft space presents special challenges. Doing it in the summer is just freakin' crazy. Industrial spaces have super-high ceilings but poor ventilation. While the audience remains relatively comfortable, the backstage and dressing area quickly become a sauna when filled with 20 hot bodies and heated by two enormous shadow lamps. By the end of the show, the entire company is drenched in perspiration and once the sweat-soaked costumes have been stripped off, the thought of putting anything else on in their place is simply unacceptable. This has led to a gradual increase in after-party exhibitionism which reached a fever pitch at this particular show. While her comrades strutted most or all of their enviable stuff, The Diva maintained a conservative decorum in her boy shorts, backless handkerchief top and stiletto boots. And of course, the Teeny Tiny Top Hat (required attire for The Teeny Tiny Top Hat Brigade, of which she is a founding member.) With the sensational DJ Jacques the Ripper burning up the dance floor and The TTTHB dancing on a table, it was tough to leave the party before dawn. But Divas need their beauty sleep. And Saturday was looking to be a big day...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Burnification of The Diva
I'll pass over the tedious business of recovering my voice (read The Sound of Silence for a quick refresher. Or don't.) and tell you that the first third of 2011 was dominated by teaching (Literacy Through Music for Underserved Youth. Voice, piano and acting for Children of Privilege.) The second third has been eclipsed completely by the juggernaut known as The Burning Opera.
The Burning Opera is a most unlikely creation: an original musical/opera about that exercise in temporary utopia known as Burning Man that does not (as everyone expects it to) suck. Not only does it not suck, it may be the greatest piece of live art I've ever been involved with. Only time will tell...
I became aware of The Burning Opera last year when its composer asked me to record some vocals for the demo and gave me a cd to help me learn the songs. It stayed in my player long after the sessions were concluded, its hold on me growing stronger with repeated spins. Needless to say, I was over the moon to be offered a role in the new production - a concert/shadowplay/interactive art event being staged right in my own backyard, at a 10,000 square foot loft in the Fashion District.
I was hired for my movement theater experience (crucial to the shadowplay,) my vocal range and my skill with harmonies. The score is a beast and the composer one of those mad geniuses who keeps making adjustments until the last possible second, always pushing his people to get just a little closer to the magic playing in his head. So I was a bit daunted but completely energized at the first rehearsal, when Genius Composer asked if any of us had instrumental skills to lend to the production, at least until the rest of the band had been hired. I boldly offered up my primitive piano skills (hey, I teach it. I don't play it.) and my oh-so-elementary bass ability. I was put to work immediately.
It took a couple weeks for the callouses to return and my hands to remember how to make the necessary shapes (weeks I also spent getting back into dance theater condition and learning vocal music that would make a theory major cry.) Somehow the arrival of the promised musicians did not reduce my instrumental responsibilities at all. It was like realizing the summer gig you've accepted is actually a reality show called Rock Star Boot Camp. But whatever. I booted my butt into gear and now I'm a professional bass and piano player. My students like to place this massive divide between where they are and where they want to be. I assure them it's just a matter of a few steps taken everyday. Oh look - I proved it.
The Burning Opera is now up and running and the production team (a colorful ragtag collection of jaw-dropping talent, sultry swagger and varying levels of deviance in personal matters) has bonded into a single-cell organism (with a lot of sexy arms.) Since our opening, our ranks have swelled with the Burning supporters of Los Angeles, who have surrounded the show with a bubble of love while singing its praises from the enormous rooftop.
For a gal who's never been to the Burn, this has all been quite the eye-opener. My vocabulary has changed. (I say "participate," "expression" and "community" at least once a day.) My thinking has evolved. I have a bazillion new best friends and a fab new wardrobe. I'm on a blinky-light rollercoaster, smothered in glitter and gropes, careening toward a moment of inevitable sadness, when the ride comes to an end.
But it's so far from over...
Sunday, October 24, 2010
My Dog Sees Mean People
My dog Lola has a secret power. She can see directly into the soul of any human being. She can discern the content of your character in the time it takes me to learn your name. This is both extremely helpful and slightly awkward. As most people are fundamentally decent she either ignores them, explores the aroma of their shoes or seeks their affection with an adorably upturned face and wagging tail. Every once in a while though, she takes an instant dislike to someone. (If you fail the Lola test - no offense - but I don't want to be around you either.) As our daily travels take us through the mean streets of the Central City, her second sight makes for some very enlightening encounters.
Shortly after My Man and I moved downtown we breakfasted a familia at JJ's Sandwich Shop - a fave cafe of ours with sidewalk seating. Lola, excited as always to be on an outing, lay next to Man's chair, quietly guarding her beloved pack. A homeless man approached us and tried to befriend her.
"Hey, little dog. What you doin'?"
She firmly rejected his advances, moving swiftly away from him and turning her side toward him - a protective move that translates roughly as, "I don't like you. Not one little bit. I know I'm super-cute but get away from me now or I will turn mean."
He didn't get the message and took a step toward her. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that," he said with a hardness in his tone that made me strangely anxious. She darted as far in the other direction as the leash tethering her to the chair would allow and resumed her defensive pose - this time adding a threatening growl to help make her point. Undeterred, he moved again in her direction, extending a hand.
(Friendly tip: When someone clearly hates you, don't put parts of your body in their face.)
Her growling now intensified to the point where most people would show her their palms and back away slowly. But not this guy. He was on a depraved mission. He kicked it up a notch by attempting to touch her head (a critical error when dealing with any dog. I am amazed at how few people understand that dogs, like people, don't like total strangers touching them on the head.) and the growl became an angry bark.
The angry bark is the final warning Lola gives you. If you don't take the warning, you are an idiot. My Man intervened.
"You should really leave her alone."
So what does he do? He takes off his black leather jacket, reeking of the piss-soaked gutter and his own dark rage, and shoves it authoritatively in her face. She responds by racing back to the other extreme of her leash zone, facing him, hunkering down, baring her teeth and barking like a chained-up, junkyard dog.
"Look, she obviously doesn't want anything to do with you," My Man offered, nearing the end of his own patience.
The guy turned angry cold eyes on him, inquiring, "And why is that?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
The guy responded by shoving his jacket into her snout again, this time adding an ugly command: "Smell it."
She did not smell it. She barked with utter rage, leaping at him with little jerking movements that signal the beginning of her attack mode.
I was terrified. How could he stand to be so close to such naked aggression? How violent was his day to day existence that he was able to bear the very real possibility of teeth ripping at his flesh?
"Smell it," he repeated, determined to bend her to his will.
"Look! Buddy!," My Man snapped - all done dealing with this guy. "You're bothering my dog. Go somewhere else."
"Well," he replied with all the wounded pride of a snubbed debutante, "I will do that." And he gathered his jacket protectively around him and walked away, muttering to himself.
I felt bad for him. I wished he had some idea of how to make friends. I wished his life were not so unforgivingly difficult. But Lola was untroubled by such thoughts. She resumed her post, excited and proud of herself, tail wagging extra hard.
She's not judging you. She can't help it if there's darkness in your soul. She's just doing her job.
Shortly after My Man and I moved downtown we breakfasted a familia at JJ's Sandwich Shop - a fave cafe of ours with sidewalk seating. Lola, excited as always to be on an outing, lay next to Man's chair, quietly guarding her beloved pack. A homeless man approached us and tried to befriend her.
"Hey, little dog. What you doin'?"
She firmly rejected his advances, moving swiftly away from him and turning her side toward him - a protective move that translates roughly as, "I don't like you. Not one little bit. I know I'm super-cute but get away from me now or I will turn mean."
He didn't get the message and took a step toward her. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that," he said with a hardness in his tone that made me strangely anxious. She darted as far in the other direction as the leash tethering her to the chair would allow and resumed her defensive pose - this time adding a threatening growl to help make her point. Undeterred, he moved again in her direction, extending a hand.
(Friendly tip: When someone clearly hates you, don't put parts of your body in their face.)
Her growling now intensified to the point where most people would show her their palms and back away slowly. But not this guy. He was on a depraved mission. He kicked it up a notch by attempting to touch her head (a critical error when dealing with any dog. I am amazed at how few people understand that dogs, like people, don't like total strangers touching them on the head.) and the growl became an angry bark.
The angry bark is the final warning Lola gives you. If you don't take the warning, you are an idiot. My Man intervened.
"You should really leave her alone."
So what does he do? He takes off his black leather jacket, reeking of the piss-soaked gutter and his own dark rage, and shoves it authoritatively in her face. She responds by racing back to the other extreme of her leash zone, facing him, hunkering down, baring her teeth and barking like a chained-up, junkyard dog.
"Look, she obviously doesn't want anything to do with you," My Man offered, nearing the end of his own patience.
The guy turned angry cold eyes on him, inquiring, "And why is that?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
The guy responded by shoving his jacket into her snout again, this time adding an ugly command: "Smell it."
She did not smell it. She barked with utter rage, leaping at him with little jerking movements that signal the beginning of her attack mode.
I was terrified. How could he stand to be so close to such naked aggression? How violent was his day to day existence that he was able to bear the very real possibility of teeth ripping at his flesh?
"Smell it," he repeated, determined to bend her to his will.
"Look! Buddy!," My Man snapped - all done dealing with this guy. "You're bothering my dog. Go somewhere else."
"Well," he replied with all the wounded pride of a snubbed debutante, "I will do that." And he gathered his jacket protectively around him and walked away, muttering to himself.
I felt bad for him. I wished he had some idea of how to make friends. I wished his life were not so unforgivingly difficult. But Lola was untroubled by such thoughts. She resumed her post, excited and proud of herself, tail wagging extra hard.
She's not judging you. She can't help it if there's darkness in your soul. She's just doing her job.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
So Long, Artwalk
Yep. They did it. They killed Artwalk. I was sure it was just some vicious rumor but it's true. The official website says:
"In recent years the Downtown Art Walk has grown so large that it has become too costly to manage in its current form. Effective immediately the Downtown Art Walk will go on hiatus, ceasing all event operations until January 2011, at which time it will be reborn as a quarterly, weekend, daytime, gallery-focused event which will appeal to both patrons of the arts as well as the general public." (http://www.downtownartwalk.org/)
Booo.....
Am I to believe that it will be less costly because it's during the day? Or on the weekend? Cuz I don't. I think it will only be less cool.
You don't have to tell me that Artwalk's a pricey pain in the ass. I live here. I still think this is a monumentally stupid decision. In a city known for elevating isolation and solo car travel to a "lifestyle," Artwalk got people out of the house and on their feet. It made public transportation the sensible choice - even if just for one night. It provided a functional marketplace for creative work and a launchpad for fresh ideas. It funneled cash into local businesses. But most importantly - it created a community. That's hard to do in a city as sprawling and uncrossable as ours. It should not be treated casually. Yes - it drew plenty of irritating drunks but their presence is always the price of admission to the destination of the visionaries. And there were visionaries in droves.
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"
Now the visionaries will stay home and Artwalk will become the new thing for armchair innovators to do on the weekend. It will become just another street fair offering credibility for purchase.
Come January, it will be their party. On our streets. Which will be jammed not with pedestrians but with minivans. Not for one night a month but for an entire weekend every quarter. It will still be a pain in the ass. But instead of a massive grown-up urban event, it will be a massive gathering of suburbanites venturing bravely into "the city" for the day to "get some culture."
Count me out.
I shall stay home. And invite people over. Smart, interesting, creative people. People who will challenge me, trigger runaway thoughts, make me laugh too hard and feed my soul.
An Algonquin Round Table for the New Millennium.
The first one should happen on October 9. I encourage you to host your own. Invite over a small group of people you truly want to see but never do. Or at the very least - go outside, walk for a while and take a good look around. Don't go home until you've seen something inspiring.
The Diva's Vegan Round Table Dip
1 15 oz. package of soft tofu
4 T. soy sauce
4 tsp. yellow mustard
1 clove garlic minced
2 T. minced onion (dehydrated)
Dash cayenne
1 T. Old Bay seasoning
1 T. dried chives
Whirl everything up in the blender until it's smooth.
Serve with Kettle chips and conversation.
"In recent years the Downtown Art Walk has grown so large that it has become too costly to manage in its current form. Effective immediately the Downtown Art Walk will go on hiatus, ceasing all event operations until January 2011, at which time it will be reborn as a quarterly, weekend, daytime, gallery-focused event which will appeal to both patrons of the arts as well as the general public." (http://www.downtownartwalk.org/)
Booo.....
Am I to believe that it will be less costly because it's during the day? Or on the weekend? Cuz I don't. I think it will only be less cool.
You don't have to tell me that Artwalk's a pricey pain in the ass. I live here. I still think this is a monumentally stupid decision. In a city known for elevating isolation and solo car travel to a "lifestyle," Artwalk got people out of the house and on their feet. It made public transportation the sensible choice - even if just for one night. It provided a functional marketplace for creative work and a launchpad for fresh ideas. It funneled cash into local businesses. But most importantly - it created a community. That's hard to do in a city as sprawling and uncrossable as ours. It should not be treated casually. Yes - it drew plenty of irritating drunks but their presence is always the price of admission to the destination of the visionaries. And there were visionaries in droves.
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"
Now the visionaries will stay home and Artwalk will become the new thing for armchair innovators to do on the weekend. It will become just another street fair offering credibility for purchase.
Come January, it will be their party. On our streets. Which will be jammed not with pedestrians but with minivans. Not for one night a month but for an entire weekend every quarter. It will still be a pain in the ass. But instead of a massive grown-up urban event, it will be a massive gathering of suburbanites venturing bravely into "the city" for the day to "get some culture."
Count me out.
I shall stay home. And invite people over. Smart, interesting, creative people. People who will challenge me, trigger runaway thoughts, make me laugh too hard and feed my soul.
An Algonquin Round Table for the New Millennium.
The first one should happen on October 9. I encourage you to host your own. Invite over a small group of people you truly want to see but never do. Or at the very least - go outside, walk for a while and take a good look around. Don't go home until you've seen something inspiring.
The Diva's Vegan Round Table Dip
1 15 oz. package of soft tofu
4 T. soy sauce
4 tsp. yellow mustard
1 clove garlic minced
2 T. minced onion (dehydrated)
Dash cayenne
1 T. Old Bay seasoning
1 T. dried chives
Whirl everything up in the blender until it's smooth.
Serve with Kettle chips and conversation.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Products I Love - Private Label Skincare
I make my living as an artist. A lot of people assume that means I starve. They are mistaken. (Starving artists, for the record, are just wastoids with no talent for living.) I live well. But only because my dollars work hard. Nothing can be wasted when paychecks are small and irregular. My ship is tight.
One of the tricks I've learned over my frugal lifetime is to gravitate toward private label products. Private label or generic or no-name products are on the stores of your supermarket or drugstore right next to the name brands you know and trust. They are usually packaged similarly to the names and often contain identical formulations. But they are considerably cheaper. They can afford to be because they don't have to advertise.
Not all private label products are the bomb. But I'm here to sing the praises of my generic skin care regimen.
Rite Aid Cleanser - a similar formulation to Cetaphil. This stuff is gentle, moisturizing and doesn't irritate. I use it to remove eye make-up without tears. You can use it with water or just massage it in and tissue it off. It makes my face feel like velvet and it costs practically nothing.
Kroger Oil of Beauty - a no-frills knockoff of Oil of Olay, this light moisturizer doesn't clog, irritate or leave a film. It absorbs beautifully, makes a great make-up base and has SPF 15.
These two standbys, along with Garnier Skin Renew Awakening Face Massager - a reasonably-priced gem of a product that is worth every penny - form my basic daily skin care routine.
Skin care is the basis of any decent beauty regimen. Your skin tells all. Do not skimp on skincare. But for heaven's sake, don't spend more than you have to.
One of the tricks I've learned over my frugal lifetime is to gravitate toward private label products. Private label or generic or no-name products are on the stores of your supermarket or drugstore right next to the name brands you know and trust. They are usually packaged similarly to the names and often contain identical formulations. But they are considerably cheaper. They can afford to be because they don't have to advertise.
Not all private label products are the bomb. But I'm here to sing the praises of my generic skin care regimen.
Rite Aid Cleanser - a similar formulation to Cetaphil. This stuff is gentle, moisturizing and doesn't irritate. I use it to remove eye make-up without tears. You can use it with water or just massage it in and tissue it off. It makes my face feel like velvet and it costs practically nothing.
Kroger Oil of Beauty - a no-frills knockoff of Oil of Olay, this light moisturizer doesn't clog, irritate or leave a film. It absorbs beautifully, makes a great make-up base and has SPF 15.
These two standbys, along with Garnier Skin Renew Awakening Face Massager - a reasonably-priced gem of a product that is worth every penny - form my basic daily skin care routine.
Skin care is the basis of any decent beauty regimen. Your skin tells all. Do not skimp on skincare. But for heaven's sake, don't spend more than you have to.
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