Thought I’d renew my habit of publishing links to things I’ve recently written. In this case, it’s Facing North reviews. I have been (sort of) keeping up with that work – and making requests for books with a tiny bit more conservatism now that I have larger projects of my own to handle. I also, in my fantasy world, daydream about making this blog a sort of Pagan Brain Pickings, where I find and feature quotes from Eliphas Levi, especially those labeling yoga as “imbecilic” and mentioning something about a finger in uncomfortable places. ((It really says that in the History of Magic. I laughed so hard I almost fell off the bed I was on.))
That’s my fantasy world. My reality has the MUNI, Outer Richmond, and BART trains that light on fire with astonishing regularity.
So in the meantime, here’s what I actually *did* accomplish – book reviews!
At any point in childhood, did your parents decide to put a kabosh on the picture books? Mine did.
At one point, I checked out a book from the children’s section of my small town’s library. It had a red cover, was about 1/2 inch thick and the inside did have words but also lots of tiny, stamper size color illustrations. Sailboats, blond boys in nautical clothing…something about tiny bears that won’t kill and eat you.
In a reading session with my father, I opened the book, declared it a cookbook and declared every recipe one for cake. I then informed my father that my future husband’s favorite food would be cake. But not my first husband. He wouldn’t like anything. (He didn’t, really.)
My partner’s favorite food is indeed cake.
My mother, overhearing this, decided that it was time to put the kabosh on heavy picture books. It had to be a few years later that I discovered the Alfred Hitchcock endorsed Jupiter Jones series. In college I met a kid that resembled this Jupiter.
He was a total douche.
So as an adult, even now, I experience I weird sense of guilt when flipping through image heavy books. It may even explain why I started to avoid reading fiction despite the enormous relief it gives me when I do.
Of course, fashion is all about image – and since I dipped my toe into fashion blogging, even niche fashion blogging, understanding image has become a compelling force in my life. So when a fashion blogger releases a picture book… I want it. It took a few years, but my sweetie finally gifted me this at our Solstice/Festivus celebration (we do not air grievances.):
The Sartorialist book, a collection of photos from the popular blog by Scott Schuman, is probably one of the most gratifying visual feasts I have partaken of since childhood. Certainly I enjoy roaming Flickr, but few things can still beat the experience of an image printed on paper that invites the thumb to page then pause, page then pause, page then think.
This street style blog certainly has its share of harem pants and Japanese cartoon references – but it also has almost more men then women, a few people that are not “model pretty” as one hilarious send-up flow chart accuses, and here and there shot statements as the photographer reveals sometimes startling, fascinating, hilarious things about some of the men and women he shoots. The book is not a lesson in defining beauty, not really. It’s a lesson in curiosity. More than one image defies assumption, from the homeless-looking man to the plus-size woman who redefines flamboyance. While this photographer focuses on technique and personality, what good style means and why it isn’t any one aesthetic, it’s also about looking at what the photographed tells us of the photographer. He is showing us what he sees in the people he photographs. If you look closely at these people, you can also see in them how he sees the world – by revealing the people, the photographer also reveals himself.
It isn’t a recipe for cake, or course, but it’s a damn good visual feast.
Note as of 9/22/2018 STOP MESSAGING ME ABOUT MARC DE PASCALE. How he died, from what little I know, was tragic. It also does not tell me if he had any legitimate claim to Romani heritage, which was the reason I wanted to know more. Since none of you have addressed his sources or veracity, perhaps you need to dial back your “help.”
When I went to Powell’s, I did bring home quite a few books although I admit that my impression does not compare with the rhapsodies issuing forth from everyone else I know who’s been there. I have some posts on Portland, a series of short observations ideally paired with images, to issue once I complete my movie editing sessions that will explain this further.
One of the things I picked up was the out-of-print Book of Spells by Marc de Pascale. I cannot find anything now on who Pascale was (or is), whether this person is still living and whether “astrologer” was de Pascale’s full time job, or if this was another author working in a steel mill or as wait-staff somewhere. ((I know from experience that to this day, full time astrologers/fortune tellers/what have you must still supplement their income with hard jobs.))
This book, printed by the now-defunct Tapinger Publishing Company in New York in 1971 , would fail the modern Wiccan “good book” test. It offers no bibliography. It gives no third party sources, historical references and, possibly more sinful, no authoritative voice introduces us to the author. It simply expects the reader to take de Pascale’s word that yes, the author lived with gypsies and the gypsies taught stuff. de Pascale offers no explanation as to where the occasional Voodoo knowledge appears.
Even so… it’s a pretty good spellbook. While it has the moral admonishments also popular these days, it’s not too heavy-handed, the spells are accessible … and they ring true. Nothing in the ingredients gets ickier than urine, and while the talisman-making section sound overly complicated, in this day of DIY crafting the only raw materials beyond reach include the rubies and topazes.
I like it – I’m happy to keep it on my shelf, and maybe take a crack at one of those “successful business” spells.
