Le Cirque Féerique (The Fairy Circus)

Le Cirque Féerique (The Fairy Circus) by Company XIV closes today. If you have not seen it, well...maybe you should not read on because you will want to kick yourself for missing it.

Company XIV is one of the most evocative mixed media dance/theater companies in NYC. Their theatrical flair and storytelling are so captivating the audience of young and old is sucked into their fantastical cave and I for one was not looking for daylight.

This is the second time I ventured to the Bond Street Theatre in Brooklyn just to see this company and it was well worth the weekend subway drama to get there. A re-telling of seven favorite childhood fairy tales The Fairy Circus delivers a rewarding connection to all forms of live theatre.

In ninety minutes I experienced dance, opera, Lady GaGa, creative costumes, wigs, sets and props plus, most important, drama that the Sun King would be proud to have performed for him. When I left I was wowed by the spectacle this small troupe was able to muster but what I came away with was the spirit and heart shared by the entire team that created the show. I felt like I had been a welcomed guest in their opulent world that demands I enjoy glitter and magic while also experiencing style and technique any dance critic would appreciate.

Yes, this company can be cheeky but they care very dearly about all the rules of dance, so much so they can break them and get away with it. They are original, fun, sexy and talented and their work lets every quality beam as bright as the MAC VIVA GLAM red glitter lipstick that glistened from the lips of the Baroque Opera Trio.

Watch out for the name Austin McCormick, the choreographer and director – plus I think he is in the show as well - because I think he and his Company XIV are a force of artistic nature. You will be hearing from them on a bigger scale in the future, but for now you have a 2pm and 5pm show today as a last chance to catch them.

The Charles Street Inn

Like Countess Olenska in The Age of Innocence the man I loved married another and I could not show the world my heartbreak. Condolences towards my grief were not to be offered or appropriate to accept. I had to watch and celebrate as the bride and groom danced under a perfect night sky: smiling at their wedding knowing that their happiness could only be achieved through my hurt.

Surviving that night with put-on joy depleted my soul and I needed a place to mend. Someplace special, private and pretty to retreat and refill my will to live passionately – I found it at The Charles Street Inn.

When I stepped into the Edith Wharton room, tired from sadness, the irony of the theme made me gasp but I stood strong in the entrance way and passed the first test that let me know my healing had begun.

The Inn saved me, it was the warm private hug I needed. I spent my time there cuddling with the pillows in the large soft bed as the shadows of fireplace flames entertained me with their dance. I soaked for hours in the warm bath adding soap for bubbles and being soothed at the idea of bath jets muting the sound of my crying. I felt the morning sun from the bay window and watched as the changing light through the day altered the shade of yellow that covered the walls. It was a perfect room, a feminine cocoon in which to heal.

The staff smiled whenever they saw me and if they detected my sadness they left me alone to feel it only occasionally checking in gently while delivering pots of hot tea with scones and jam.

Years have passed since I was at the Inn and in such sadness. Looking back, I smile because I now have the perspective of time that makes such memories refreshingly ridiculous. Healing did take longer then a weekend but I know my time on Charles Street was my first step on the path to my ability to smile today.

I am grateful to the Inn and congratulate it on ten years of service to its guests. The Charles Street Inn is a beautiful place that gave me the room to heal in, and the next time I visit I will experience it through happy eyes.

This essay was the 2nd Place Winner in the Charles Street Inn Celebrating Our Tenth Anniversary Contest.

I’m Making Deviled Eggs Part 1

I don’t cook. I don’t boil. I sometimes steam, occasionally nuke, and I do chop (I make a great crudité) but what I do is order or visit friends who do cook.

So, when I was invited to Easter dinner and my contribution to the meal was assigned as deviled eggs, also known as eggs mimosa (even if I have never heard them called eggs mimosa I like that name) I new I was either going to succeed, end up ordering them from a restaurant, or hopefully be forgiven as the source of the food poison.

I looked up the basic recipe and as simple as it seemed I immediately saw my first problem - I don’t have a pot to boil these eggs in. No worries, the deli around the corner (and even my gym café for that matter) sell hard boiled eggs to the protein packing patrons of Chelsea. So I will forgo the pot and buy the eggs already hard boiled…or will I? That seems like cheating. No, I will MAKE from beginning to end deviled eggs. It’s not near the accomplishment of making every recipe in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking but I’m committed and I would be happy if Amy Adams played me in the movie.

So first step – find a kitchen. I made an emergency call to one of the few people I know who has a kitchen with things like counter space and ovens. The bonus is it’s luxurious enough for more then one person to fit in at a time. I explained my predicament and I bribed her with the promise of an afternoon of cheap wine and all the left over deviled egg ingredients she could eat and with that a bargain was struck and the time set for my arrival – well lets be clear…I also asked if she had any ground dry mustard, I only need a ½ teaspoon. The other ingredients on the list I could possibly…maybe…occasionally see actually using in the future, but not the mustard. Lucky she has some (I told you her kitchen was great).

And with a kitchen and pot secured I headed to the grocery store. I was there less then 30 seconds when I remembered why I don’t go in grocery stores. Is there ever a time of day when its not packed? Or is it simply that the isles are so narrow and the place so stuffed with twelve versions of everything that it feels crowded? No matter, I will rant on the nutritional value of chocolate cheerios another day. In this moment I tell myself to take a breath and ask myself, if I were white vinegar where would I be?

Vinegar – found. Salt and pepper – I can steal my roommates so I don’t need to buy that or maybe I have enough of those little packets that come with take out, I’ll have to check my junk drawer? Paprika, I had a fleeting memory of seeing paprika once in my cupboard, behind rice cakes and numerous boxes of tea. I wonder, how long has it been there? I never bought it. I suspect my previous roommate bout it but that may have been sometime in the 90’s. Either way, I think I have that. Eggs, the recipe called for eggs that are a week or two old, so I proceed to annoy every single person in the refrigerated section by pulling out and looking at the dates of every carton. Ya, the poor stock guy was watching me as I undid what he had probably spent most of the day doing - sorry. I thought the older eggs would be to the front, but nooo I found just one carton buried in the back and it’s only a week old so they will have to do, (note to self: I need two weeks lead time the next time I try this, if there is a next time, or I have to garbage pick when the grocery stores toss the expired stuff, maybe that’s why these eggs are called deviled?).

Then I notice the item next on my list that I suspected may be my downfall – mayonnaise!!!

I hate mayonnaise. What is mayonnaise? If eggs are involved why is it not refrigerated? The smell, yuck. The texture, hello snot! The color, should a food be that white? I do not like mayonnaise and there I was starring at jar after jar of it. Plus, I had no idea how expensive that stuff is. I’m glad I don’t like it, buying it would take away from my wine fund.

I was not going to buy Hellmann’s I wanted to punish Hellmann’s for ruining all those great potato’s over the years. I love pasta, I love potato’s I never understood why drenching either amazing carb in white, sour smelling goo was considered tasty. But this is NYC and there is always a very expensive alternative and I found it: All Natural, Garlic & Herb Lemonaise! Ta-dah! It even says on the front “Instead of Mayonnaise” and that is exactly what I wanted something instead of mayonnaise. So I paid $6.24 for a small jar but I thought the extra cost was worth the mental comfort of knowing I would not be consciously consuming mayonnaise.

Ingredients purchased I am now in prep mode. A trick my deviled egg recipe outlines is for me to rest the eggs on their sides over night, it will allegedly center the yolks which in turn makes the egg whites sturdier to pick up and handle. Really, who took the time to notice that? But alright, I will make a little bed for the eggs in the fridge and tuck them in on their side for a good nights rest – maybe I should have also gotten an baby monitor just incase the eggs wake up in the middle of the night and need a soothing rub to reassure them the monster is not in the crisper drawer. These eggs are already getting more love and attention then I get on dates.

Day Two - time to transport the eggs and ingredients to my borrowed kitchen. Right, how am I going to do that? If I put them back in their carton my yolks wont be center. And I have gone through all this trouble I want centered yolks damn it! I’m no heathen with insecure egg whites. So I need to make an egg carrier.

Remember in Jr. High when you were given an egg baby and you had to make it a carrier to keep it safe, the lesson being if your egg baby broke you clearly were not fit for the responsibility of children. Ya, well I made egg baby beds for my tuned yolks. Snuggled together in take out containers swathed in paper towels I had batches of sleeping egg babies ready for the journey to grandmas.

To be continued…

I Know I Can’t Spell!

I would like to thank all of you that have corrected my spelling over the years. I am so glad I have humored you with my ignorance. No really, I do hate it when it’s pointed out that I can’t spell. And the message is always delivered in the same tone, the tone you use when telling a friend their zipper was down during their entire presentation or a booger was hanging from your nose on a first date. The message is delivered as if my inability to spell is a gentle secret that I don’t already know, but they want to spare me further embarrassment. It seems like people want me to respond (in a whisper) “oh, really I can’t spell? Well golly, thank you for telling me I will start getting every word correct from now on.” I WISH it was that simple.

I usually want to say something in reply along the line of, “do you think my complete inability to spell words beyond a basic few is a fact that has escaped me over my thirty plus years on the planet?” But I don’t, because everyone is just trying to be helpful, and I know that.

In all seriousness, I’m thankful and simultaneously embarrassed when someone pulls me aside and tries very nicely to tell me that I am using the wrong word. I always know what I mean - even if the page doesn’t always reflect that. I try and use words that I know I can get correct but I get frustrated because my vocabulary is bigger then my ability.

I don’t know where my spelling education went wrong but it was early on. I remember being petrified in third grade at the class spelling bee. The top five finishers got a lollypop from the lollypop tree. I will now admit that once in a fit of frustration knowing my goal was just to survive the first round - let alone allow myself to dream of a top five finish - I took a lollypop after class. The lollypop was rootbeer flavored and that was my first conscious “fuck you” moment. Fuck spelling, I didn’t want to spell their stupid words anyway (insert stomping foot like a small child). Funny, I always knew how to spell fuck – thanks dad – but that word was never in the bee.

My biggest issue is I have no idea when the word is wrong. In my brain it’s correct. I know what it’s supposed to say…my problem is I don’t always know what it says. I admire all you lovers of words out there. You know who you are. The people who enjoy the nuance of silent letters and find it charming to see the Latin root of a word alive in the current English, oh please. Well you all can start a meet up group and enjoy it together because I am going to start my own meet up group. I am going to find others who got screwed by experimental education and we are going to get loaded and blame our mothers for not running our flash cards often enough.

I learned to sound everything out but I somehow missed the lesson about that method being a completely ass backward way of teaching a language as complicated as English. Oh and don’t even get me started on conjunctions and hyphens, I really don’t want to go there (or is it their? – I don’t know they sound the same to me).

Now, I don’t want you to think I don’t want your help. If you see something that is more then a typo please let me know, all I wanted to do is let you all know this is not a dirty little secret. I own it. I know it, and I am grateful every day that spell check exists.

Three Old Friends

I visit the Three Musicians every now and then. Pick a random day and stop into the MoMA and say hello. This painting is a story I have always understood and it impacts me every time I see it. The size, color and characters fell like a party. A deconstructed party, but aren’t all the best parties deconstructed? I first saw it in an art class when I was in 5^th grade. I remember the image illuminated from an old slide projector in a classroom with window shades that did not keep out the light. I remember it being faintly on a screen, but I saw it very clearly. We have been together ever sense.

I don’t know why it stuck, I could not point out one other image from that slide presentation, and I certainly never imaged being able to see it in person, but the Three Musicians has always been mine - a work of art that hits me in all the right spots. It makes me feel happy or it lets me be sad. It is calm, but also frenetic. It is serious and whimsical. It is a mess of contradictions but in the end makes perfect sense. When I stand in front of it, as close as Picasso once was, I feel comfort in the idea that art can be everyone’s friend.

This is Me?

I don’t claim to know what is going to happen to me when I die. The heaven idea sounds really good, but not too realistic. The hell idea sounds really bad and completely realistic. Purgatory, well that just sounds like a version of how most people live. There is the whole – nothing happens but death theory, which does not bother me in the least. And then there is my favorite idea about life after death – reincarnation!

What is not great about that? The idea that we are all just recycled souls getting a new go time after time - that sits very well with me. One lifetime I’m a Japanese farmer during the Ming Dynasty and the next I’m a cowboy settling the old west who’s shot in a bar brawl, no matter where I land in the history of time I get another chance to live again.

I think about this every time I see the painting Bohemas au café from 1885 by Jean-Francois Raffaelli. I distinctly remember the first time I saw it in 2005. I turned a corner at the Monet museum is Paris and there I was. It popped into my brain instantly, “that’s me”. I had never seen the painting, I had never heard of Raffaelli but I was looking at a picture of myself from 1885. It sounds completely hokey, I understand. But I believed in that second reincarnation was possible and I had been a pipe smoking fat man with a cane and top hat outside a café in Paris. Great!

Really, I don’t know. But this is the type of stuff that comes to mind when I am out and about seeing what the world has to offer. Maybe I was just seeing me now, switch the beard and pipe to a glass of red wine and lipstick and you got Kristen circa 2010 New York. No matter, I still like the idea that I come back over and over. I just hope my past and future selves enjoy their life as much as I am enjoying mine.

IN MY LIBRARY

Reading about people from a new perspective is fun to me. Which is why I rarely miss the Sunday NY Post and the “In My Library” column.

Each week a “name” of some sort (actors, politicians, authors, scientist) choose four books from their library and let us know why they love them. I choose to believe some publicist didn’t make the selections for them however there have been a few I highly suspected. It is one of my NY fantasies to be the feature of this column before the printing of newspapers completely disappears but since I don’t have a life worthy of a publicist to get me featured I’ve decided to feature myself this week.

IN MY LIBRARY - Kristen Kentner

I was not a reader growing up I was a TV watcher. I never had a love of words and was extremely intimidated by any book over one hundred pages or with no pictures. Knowing this is how my life with books began it makes me happy that I now own more books then anything else. When I was nineteen I donated the 476 VHS videotapes that had made up my movie collection and I started to read. I had to. If I was going to make it through college with a bunch of people that had been reading their whole lives I had to make up for a lot of lost time. Since that time I've covered the classics, business books, children’s literature, romance, biography…you name it, I’ve tried it. Along the way, I’ve discovered a love of history that I didn’t know I had and have made friends with characters I only new from their movie persona. I could list hundreds of books that have made an impact on me but lets start with four.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

by Shel Silverstein

One of the books I did read as a child and it has always stayed with me. I don’t know anything about poetry but the characters in this classic are so alive that I never cared what this book was characterized as. The illustrations are witty and wonderful and the poems cover nose picking, pancakes, garbage, deserted homes and most poetically childhood.

This I Remember

By Eleanor Roosevelt

Biography and memoir are two of my absolute favorite genres and choosing one to highlight is not easy, but Eleanor Roosevelt and I connect when I read this book. What puts this story ahead of the others is the complete honesty she shares about how hard she had to work to become the Eleanor Roosevelt history recorded. She may have been born into privilege, but nothing came easy for her and I admire that. This is not a gossip filled biography like the ones popular now. This is a memoir of a journey.

America

By Charles Kuralt

Could you imagine taking a year off to spend one month in twelve different places you love? Well, add that to my lotto dream list because I can and the idea first entered my mind thanks to this book. Travel books are very special to me because I don’t get to go many places, but they can be brought to me. Charles Kuralt is the master of travel writing and even if I never considered going to Ely, Minnesota he makes me want to pack up and hit the road. Charles Kuralt had the ability to find the most special thing any place had to offer and the even better ability to perfectly capture that thing with words.

The Most Beautiful Libraries In The World

Photographs by Guillaume De Laubier

Text by Jacques Bosser

Forward by James H. Billington, The Librarian of Congress

One day I am going to own a coffee table to display all of my amazing coffee table books, and this one will go on top of the pile. This book reminds me that all books used to be so revered that their homes were built with as much care and spectacle as a cathedral. I want to live in every photo and travel to every library featured…a book about how beautiful books are…and I look at it over and over.