Gary Baseman's Eyes

I got my first glimpse of what the world looked like through Gary Baseman's eyes when I played Cranium seven years ago. At the time, I didn't realize that the creatively klutzy drawings were done by the Los Angeles-based artist. Miguelito had his own run-in with Baseman when he tried to pitch a Cranium-based show to Miguelito and other studio execs in Hollywood. Unfortunately, the suits were on the hunt for mindless entertainment to sell toys to boys. Baseman's brainy show found no takers that day. Unfazed, the artist moved on to other media on which to display his artistic talents. Here's one of the three candy cases that Baseman created for Hint Mint.

A regular at Dominick's, the homey Italian restaurant in West Hollywood, Baseman made a special drawing for the house wine. Upon first glance, the ephemeral illustration of a fairy and her butterfly buddy reminded me of Aya Takano's work. I'm tempted to return next Sunday just so that I can order the $10 bottle of red and save it for the label.

Chicks with Knives But No Waiters

Some weeks ago, I attended a dinner party organized by Chicks With Knives at Phyllis Stein Gallery. I had no idea what CWK's agenda was, other than that they offered a four-course meal for $45. But I wanted to support my friend Bil, who's one of the principals at the downtown art space. On this particular night, the chefs served raw oysters, chicken consomme with watercress, sausages seasoned with garlic and marjoram and an apple torte a la mode.

The menu was promising. And the ambiance -- dining under Deborah Martin's realistic paintings inspired by Polaroids she took on a cross-country trip to Small Town, U.S.A. -- was enlightening. The service, however, left much to be desired. CWK could only boast, until that night, of cooking for a maximum of 40 people in private homes. The double row of tables arranged in the gallery seated about 70 people. As such, the oysters came out grainy. That was the first cue that the night would be a rough one.

CWK wisely asked guests to BYOB. With Miguelito in New York for work, I rolled solo with a bottle of Perrier and a split of Piper-Heidsieck.

Disadvantaged by a ratio of about 3 servers to more than 70 guests, CWK was tardy in delivering the dishes. The consomme, clogged with tender bits of chicken and fresh watercress leaves, was lukewarm. Otherwise, it was flavorful and pleasant.

The circumstances for proper service were so dire that my tablemates and I had to schlepp our own sausages from the makeshift kitchen in the back of the gallery. Sadly, they arrived cool to the table. It was a pity because the mess of meat with sauerkraut, white beans and baby carrots was yummy.

In continuing with the theme of experimentation, the gallery owners arranged for one of their leggy friends to perform a high-end burlesque act choreographed to an urban dirge by Grizzly Bear. One minute, she cut a striking figure in a red jumpsuit. The next, she stripped down to Marilyn Monroe-worthy skivvies. One could argue that her performance embodied the mandate of The Food and Music Club. Yet, I would prefer to have any flesh exposed after my entire meal ended.

Our private dancer left a trail of blue glitter on the tables.

Finally, we were served a dish that was best when cold: a torte piled with thin slices of apple marinated for 24 hours and vanilla bean ice cream.

Clubbing in the Caves

Last Saturday, at Brian Lichtenberg's runway show that closed Los Angeles Fashion Week, I quietly prayed that the presentation would start as late as possible. That's because I wanted to spend as much time as possible gaping at the club kids who crowded the front row.

On this particular night, the guys outshone the girls in their silver lame sneakers.

The scruffies also nonchalantly mixed textures, for instance, quilted leather with pintucks on cotton.

A fake fur stole helped transform a camou wife beater into an evening look.

This fellow almost impaled his neighbors with his ninja deathstar headpiece.

Sometime in the late Seventies, Michael Jackson and Sid Vicious spawned this hipster.

As for the girls, they showed lots of leg. I'm not sure where this particular kitten drew her inspiration to pair a white tutu with orange Dr. Martens. The most polite way to describe this aesthetic is kooky skanky.

Mark "The Cobrasnake" Hunter also chose to reveal more than necessary, donning a sheer patchwork shirt over tie-dye jeans. I used to think he was a more goofy version of Dov Charney, what with his camera constantly aimed at PYTs. With this getup, he's channeling Ron Jeremy.

At last, people took their seats to welcome Lichtenberg's muses. Often hailed as the next Jeremy Scott, Lichtenberg has a knack for creating fun frocks to wear dancing all night long. He stayed true to his Eighties roots, even when jumping back a million years to the Neanderthal era. Think of Daryl Hannah from "The Clan of the Cave Bear," reincarnated as a Balmain girl.

The Star Wars geek in me loved the giant stuffed Yoda head attached to the mini skirt.

I am such a Yoda fan that seven years ago, when a movie critic at a newspaper where I used to work reviewed "Star Wars - Episode II: Attack of the Clones," I begged an editor to send me the pointillistic portrait of Yoda that the paper's art department created. I'll always remember Pauline Kael's succinct description of the little green dude: He looks like a wonton and talks like a fortune cookie.

Cutouts for a cutie.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the emerging trend of accessories for accessories. After all, in a recession, even shoes can do with a bit of refreshing. Here, it's Mondrianesque spats.

This looks like a hula skirt for the ankle, according to Miguelito.

Indeed, Miguelito said the brown shag gave him a flashback to when he was 9 years old, visiting the musk ox exhibit at the Minnesota Zoo.

Lichtenberg's designs could be deemed unisex. That is, if you're a very skinny and brave boy. Though this knit tunic reeks of Rodarte, club kids of any gender will surely eat it up.

Chocolate and Tar

Last week, I received a surprise package of MarieBelle chocolates. A gift from a designer, the iced box included a stylish lunchbox filled with packets of Aztec hot chocolate and a neatly tied box of truffles. Just a shade hipper than Tiffany's signature blue, the combination of azure, copper and brown brightened my paper-infested cubicle.

Inside the box, the chocolates were even brighter and more colorful. I'm not sure how the pictures were painted on the thumb-size squares. The tableaux vivants imagined various scenarios summoning different flavors and disparate emotions. The woman walking briskly while holding onto her hat on a windy day must have just had a shot of espresso. The curvy swirls went down as comfortingly as a cup of Earl Grey tea. The stockinged legs were bared after a gaggle of girlfriends kicked off their shoes drinking a round -- or three -- of pineapple daiquiris. The package didn't arrive a minute too soon. I feasted on the cacao after a stressful day polishing the bureau's page-one story for the next day's paper.

My senses continued on a dark path to Valerj Pobega's fashion presentation. A dark-haired beauty raised in Sardinia, Pobega is married to Mattia Biagi, an Italian artist who stands his own ground in the style department. The couple collaborated on the fashion and art installation shown inside Biagi's ginormous gallery. Pobega staked a small circle in which she displayed her long, languid gowns. The black one-shouldered sheath was too pedestrian for someone as sophisticated and cosmopolitan as Pobega. I liked the frock that was pitch black in the front and sheer in the back.

The rest of the brick-lined gallery was filled with white shirts, hats and sneakers. Sounds boring? Hardly, if you consider that some of the pristine pieces were dipped in black tar.

This looks like something that Wednesday Addams would have hung on the line to dry so that she could wear it to school tomorrow.

Privacy Policy

Have you noticed the pop of orange at the top of this blog? Those are ads enabled by Google. I recently learned that I need to modify my privacy policy to include the following information regarding ads. I actually have never posted a privacy policy. So I'm just going to list what Google wants me to convey to you.

* Google, as a third party vendor, uses cookies to serve ads on this site.
* Google's use of the DART cookie enables it to serve ads to users based on their visit to this site and other sites on the Internet.
* Users may opt out of the use of the DART cookie by visiting the Google ad and content network privacy policy.

Carine on CNN

I'm still cuckoo for Carine Roitfeld, the editor in chief at Vogue Paris. I feel disloyal that I'm way behind on reading the French glossy. The one edited by Princess Stephanie of Monaco is gathering dust and the current issue with Lara Stone on the cover is sitting in the magazine rack next to the toilette. Mon dieu! I liked how Roitfeld rationalized staging a fashion shoot at a French agricultural show. Why not accessorize couture dresses with couture farm animals? Bien sur! Here's the CNN profile divided into three sections

I Heart Carine

As I mentioned before, I'm slightly obsessed with the French Vogue staff headed by Carine Roitfeld. CNN has posted snippets of its profile on the Paris-based glossy's editor in chief. Scheduled to air on Wednesday, the segment will serve as inspiration for how I should handle the rest of Los Angeles Fashion Week.

Riesen, Veggie Leather and Blinis

Fashion designers have been mining the art world for inspiration for decades. Collaborations with artists also have picked up steam over the last few seasons. On Sunday, I was on my way to see a fashion presentation-cum-art installation at a photo studio. Along the way, I spotted this mural injecting hope and life into a rough strip of South La Brea Avenue.

I also came across this courtyard that housed an adorable pair of statues. They remind me of Ruben and Isabel Toledo.

At last, I arrived at the studio where the fashion label Whitley Kros set up an art installation comprising of pieces from its fall collection with bits of Riesen chocolates, Polaroids and Post-Its. The walk-in inspiration board was the creation of Whitley Kros, a fictitious girl who was prepping to jet to Eastern Europe. It was a good thing the installation was already in a disheveled state. The hyper toddlers who ran circles around the room didn't have to worry about putting anything back in its proper place. Also milling about was a beardless Devendra Banhart, who could be prep's new rep in a purple sweater, white jeans and pink Keds. Chan Marshall/Cat Power was in the house, as well.

This jacket combined the trends for plaid and motorcycle jackets.

I wore Dr. Martens when I trekked across France during my junior year abroad. But they were a reliable black, not a whimsical baby blue like these boots.

This is one of Whitley Kros' designers, Marissa Ribisi, who's married to the musician Beck.

On the other side of town, a crew of designers staged their runway shows at the Los Angeles Theatre. The Battalion is one of the funkier eco-friendly lines. It incorporated faux fur into its collection inspired by American colonial explorers, the French Libertines and native Americans. Still, I don't get why the designers, Linda and Chrys Wong, packed gray headbands in their gift bags.

I liked the veggie leather that they cut into vests and leggings.
The flare is going the way of the mammoth. Skinny legs are here to stay. So is the Goth girl, who was molded in myriad forms by designers from Los Angeles to Paris. This is The Battalion's noir nymph.

This is Maxine Dillon's version of dark drainpipes.

The Goth girl took a trip to Russia for Single's presentation at the Russian resto Maxim. Don't you feel like you're floating inside an amber bubble?

The bubble burst when a bartender asked me brusquely in a thick Russian accent what I wanted to drink. Despite the brut label, the champagne was a little too fruity, as if it was aCalifornia sparkling wine. I should have asked for vodka.

The vodka would have gone nicely with the Russian buffet: caviar with blinis, eggplant stuffed with crushed walnuts, Buffalo mozzarella-caprese salad, cubed beets, chicken salad and the Slavic version of baba ganoush. I scarfed this all down while the stereo speakers blared a Russian cover of "Those Were the Days, My Friend."

The Single girl may be dark this season but she still glows with glamor.

The audience also liked to shimmer, right down to their shoes.

Saturday of Spontaneity

After a series of missed meetings with out-of-town visitors and aging punk rockers, Miguelito and I decided to spend our Saturday night sans a set schedule. The burst of spontaneity first threw us into the middle of a party feting the opening of Society for Rational Dress' new store in downtown L.A. The coolest person there was a 2-year-old girl who wore a big smile, pigtails, a striped oxford, brown leggings, sparkly legwarmers and Velcro sneaks that glinted in metallic pink. Shamed by her spirit and style savvy, Miguelito and I dashed to a mini concert that The Bird and the Bee was scheduled to play at a fashion showroom. The fire marshal prevented us from entering the venue. We made the most of loitering in the dingy alley behind the building by accosting Quest Crew, aka America's Best Dance Crew. Four of the seven members in the all-Asian group were hush-hush about their next venture -- something about a movie -- but they were sweet enough to honor my fangirl request for a photo with them. True to their rep, they drove away in a black lowrider.

Feeling peckish, Miguelito and I had to think of a place for dinner. We had ODed on Asian food after our previous post-fashion meal at Chosun Galbee so we drove to the gritty Toy District to check out Church & State. No one had told the packed restaurant that there was a recession. Buffered by attempts to sit at the overflowing bar, I spotted a lone table on the brick patio. With no heat lamp looming above, the table was probably intended as a refuge for smokers. Miguelito and I commandeered it. Our strategy to withstand the cold was to order lots of hot dishes, starting with French onion soup.

We were a second away from ordering the fried pig's ears until we reverted to our marrow obsession and ordered the roasted bones. This was the first time I saw it split in half lengthwise. The accompanying salad was also different. Instead of the usual medley of Italian parsley, onions and capers, we had cubed radishes and parsley. The radishes offered a crisp bite that offset the rich marrow. What if someone had tried some sort of spread made out of wasabi for the marrow?

Though we were stuck in the restaurant's equivalent of Siberia, we never felt deprived of attention from the servers. A steady stream of them came to check on how we were doing. Miguelito's theory was that the servers, unlike their bozo counterparts at other restaurants in L.A., were trained well to be attentive, always in anticipation of the customers' needs. Also, because the inside of the restaurant was so hot and loud from the lively patrons, the servers probably thought it was a relief to go check on the two of us outside. They came out right away with our sizzling croque fromage, a panini filled with a melted motley of Gruyere and other cheese, caramelized onions and grainy mustard. The flood of Dijon vinaigrette dressing on the salad made it too hard to eat, however.

Sticking with our "shared snacks" strategy, Miguelito and I ordered half a plate of the grilled sea bass with capers and spinach. It was delicious. We gobbled it up so fast that our waiter, Kyle, asked if we wanted the other half of the plate. We declined, but we wrote him and the hostess, Michelle, a rave review for their bosses to read. Fortified by the yummy food, we braced ourselves for karaoke chaos at Alejandra's 26th birthday party in Koreatown.