World – Page 2 – TalkingGrid

Posted on August 13, 2014August 16, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 4 Comments

Lunch for ONE, at Café Constant in Paris, France

Merci, Monsieur Claude Reich for the restaurant recommendation. I waltz into to Cafe Constant with confidence. I dance in the restaurant at the moment when the corner table becomes FREE! I take my seat, guided by a divine feeling of fulfillment at having made it to LUNCH. The table, from which I can see the entire room, is waiting for me. I am waved into the freshly set table by a pert young man, Garçon. He pulls the table out for me, appraising me in an instant, slightly bowing, and then nodding, “Bon Jour, Madame!”

I am in heaven.

Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France

Sometimes we encounter a spot, a specific location, a space, an entrée so delicious, an invitation so tempting… that being there is… an ongoing lingering pleasure… a savoring… of eternal good taste, forever.

Welcome to Paris.

Take lunch with me, please. Sit down across from me. You are the perfect guest because I can see right through you. I may dismiss you as I please. You are never offended. You care. Yet, you are transparent without substance. You sit. You listen well. Conversation is not your forte. I don’t mind. I’ve brought a book. I am reading, “Paris; True Stories of Life on the Road.” Or sketching… or perhaps I am daydreaming. Lazily watching others chew, sip, swallow, listen, answer, and gently argue over topics not likely to be resolved.

I make a note to myself about the plain lady, looking very Catholic, stern and her prune like mother, an wrinkled replica of the younger woman. She, with her antiquated haircut would be an excellent character in a book. A book… I am not writing a book. I blog. I write about food, fun, and fast times in museum settings. Nothing too exciting, yet a few people care to read my words and I am grateful for their LIKES and shares, donations, endorsements, and trickle of praise.

Frau Kolb is at ease at Cafe Constant, in Paris France.

Indeed, I feed on the positive attention of a few loyal readers that care to know what Frau Kolb had for lunch in Paris during the sexy summer of 2014.

Delicious fresh French food, I savor every firm and well rounded green pea, every cube of carrot, delights me!

Yet, I will not tell you what I eat. I will show you. You can look over my shoulder. Or better yet, sit with me. Yes, take a load off. Relax. We have all the time in the world. No one would ever rush us, here at the famous Cafe Constant, there are is an ebb and flow of patrons, ever so steady and well… I might stay here all day, it is so comfortable… and the people! Behold the polished Asian couple now seated to my right. Wow, they look like advertising, picture perfect. They must be from the future. I gather by their high tech watches, slick designer space gear. I love them, instantly. Yet, hope they don’t notice me taking them in along with my espresso.

Frau Kolb experiences Post Lunch Bliss at Cafe Constant in Paris France, Summer 2014.

I will take care of the bill. Keep your cash. You will need it, later. We will go out tonight, perhaps. IF you have time, after your next engagement, I will be around. Floating. I have a good book with me. I am reading, “Paris, Paris; Journey Into The City of Light,” by David Downie. I have my sketchbook, chalk, erasers and those black wing pencils, I prefer. Perhaps, I will POP into The Louvre and make a record of the wet dream of inter-species perfection, The Winged Victory, the statue… of a luscious female form emerging from the chiseling water, which plasters the wet “fabric,” of stone against her hot winged body. The ancient statue is mesmerizing work of art worthy of its pith. She is eternally ready for an armless flight into… forever.

Me, Myself, & Frau Kolb at Lunch, Cafe Constant, Paris. Summer 2014!

Posted on August 10, 2014August 11, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

Witness: The Mona Lisa, The Queen of Visual Kitsch, Rule the Universe!

We get out of bed and make our way to the museum early. We are on a mission! Armed with a marked up map and specific instructions, thanks to Stephanie at Panoramic tours, we know just where to go, Underground. It is the most direct route. We were going to see HER.

THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE. A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality. “She,” rules the space around her. Yet... how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings around her? — THE LADY with THE ENIGMATIC SMILE. A painting, imbued with a creepy load of personality. “She,” rules the space around her. Yet… how does a painting become more important than the living, breathing, beings that bestow her power?

Of course, we did not expect to have any, “alone time” with her. We knew that she is “everybody’s darling.”

What we got was much worse… we were reminded of how meaningless, insignificant, and trite our Bucket Lists are. We were, 100% a part of the herd of humanity, snapping an image of La Gioconda, before being pushed out of the way by the next, equally determined tourist/pilgrim with a smart phone or a canon camera, at the ready.

Once, she was stolen, by a “crazy Italian,” convinced that she wanted to go home.

(FOOL! She loves to be up there, behind bullet-proof glass, the absolute center of an ongoing panic, a perpetual craze, which occurs with clocklike regularity, from the moment the museum opens, until the last tour bus leaves, in the world famous and celebrated Louvre Museum, in Paris, France.)

Seeing her… I did NOT see her. She was invisible. I saw the flash of cameras, the crazed LOOK of… hunger? Yes, HUNGER for… what? Recognition, perhaps… we seek to see THE ORIGINAL, THE MOTHER IMAGE from which all the tacky little key chains, coffee mugs, calendars, and other scraps or fragments of the sacred, the untouchable, THE ORIGINAL, the a priori … which is stamped on the faces of the ART STARVED crowds… “Art starved?” You ask… Well… Yes, that is what I witnessed.

I saw adult infants reaching for the teat of certified beauty and established aesthetic certainties. The queen of conformity, The Mona Lisa is the mental rabbit foot, the proof that one is CULTURED, cultivated, worthy of living. Having documented the sight of her with a selfie, we are FREE, to turn on backs—forever—on the little revered painting by Leonard d’ Vinci, the original Renaissance Man. (I believe, we all want some of the milky charm that sprays from this eternal fountain.)

She and she alone sits and is worshiped by i-phone clicks and selfie sticks, wielded with an alarming lack of grace. She is photographed so many times per day, and visited by so many people, NONE of whom really see her. Instead, they ignore each other, pulling and tugging—fighting—to see her?

We all wish to solve the mystery. She is a treasure, that is for certain. Yet, why? How is it that a painting can stimulate such visual appetite, cultural hunger? The standing whiff of desperation around her is a grand spectacle. Frau Kolb was a part of it; flaunting her own needy and naked desire to be beautiful, famous, loved, and celebrated. We all want a piece of that excitement. The thrill of being seen as significant, worthy, ein Schatz (which means, “a treasure,” in German). We all want to be valued, special, celebrated or at least accepted. Don’t we?

Well, long ago, a German cultural critic, Walter Benjamin (15 July 1892 – 26 September 1940) wrote an essay which, I’ve tried to read, many times. Yet, I simply don’t understand it. He speaks about, “the Aura,” of the work of art and… how that aura was lost via reproduction, which is not… or is… I can’t tell which… a BAD thing. Opps! (I know… I studied art history, I really should be able to understand what Benjamin or Theodor W. Adorno, who responds to him. “Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” is the article by Benjamin which I regret falling to comprehend, because that is the heart of the matter…) Mona Lisa’s pull is in the ease with which her high impact and mysterious image can be turned into endless reproductions! Yes. She reproduces like it is nobody’s business. She sells!

Mona, with her come-hither looks is forever… a siren, beckoning tourists, to the crush… to the HORROR of Invisibility. Since we are all NOBODY in comparison with the famed Dame!

Leonardo d’ Vinci’s Mona Lisa is reproduced in cheap prints on coffee cups, deli napkins, and shopping totes… enough “kitsch,” (A wonderful German word, which art historians LOVE, which means… crap art we get a KICK out of like… whoopee cushions of culture…) to populate a cosmos of gaping landfills. Clearly, the tightly guarded ORIGINAL work of art was painted by Leonard d’ Vinci, a time traveling genius, who had the political savvy to die in the arms of a French King, (no less!). Moreover, Leonardo may have understood, precisely how to make an immortal image, one which could easily be pressed and passed on, a type of female figurative currency. Yet, she is nothing special, really… She is not even… BIG… she’s not even Marilyn… platinum blond….but she is pure POP, contemporary art, that is for certain. Who among us can verify that the painting we think we see is not a poster?

The “painting,” sits behind bullet proof glass and must have a red velvet rope around her. I mean… if she were not the real thing who among the millions that snap a picture in a year could tell? Certainly NOT I! I got no where near enough to see the genius, the otherworldly, Uncanny hand of the master! One barely has time to snap a selfie before being pushed out of the way by someone convinced that their need for a selfie is greater than yours.

Frau Kolb among the crowds, visiting the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, France. Summer, 2014

I believe that when The Muse of Talkinggrid, Ms. Crane said, “Fuck the Mona Lisa!” She was nailed a sentiment I share. Why all the fuss? Mona Lisa’s tripped out, picture perfect, made for selfies image, is as vapid as that of two bit hussy. We refuse to be humiliated! We are better than THAT! Well… actually, we (husband & I) fought the crowds to see her. We pushed. Shoved, each other… Actually, Harmuth never pushes, but is not a person anyone can dismiss. Ms. Crane is likely not to have pushed anyone because she is,The Muse, after all and people really do respect her “Aura.” Frau Kolb is convinced that “the Aura,” of La Gioconda is one more example of a sheepish desire to fold into the herd, while feeling superior and civilized.

I did not see a single person that looked satisfied by their brush with the inordinate tourist crowds mobbing Mona. After grabbing a snap of her, across the room and over the heads of a gaggle of other anonymous gaping gawkers, every visitor I saw looked cranky, disappointed. One and all, we are NOTHING in the face of Mona Lisa’s FAME, her radiant reputation! She rules.

The actual work of art, as it hangs for “public pleasure,” at the Louvre, the painting is erased by the mass unseeing of the image under a storm of “distracted,” self absorbed, self appointed, “art critics” of mostly ZERO integrity (this, of course, includes me… I too have fallen, stooped, and hustled to see the Lady behind glass… only to encounter what I knew would be a monumental waste of human energy, in search of sacred… something… Which, of course was NOT there. There is only a flimsy experience of emptiness, in an overcrowded museum hall, where all the other paintings are made utterly invisible, erased, by the frantic crowds clicking images of themselves and the beast that is desire for recognition, reputation, and singularity; which may be the fuel that gets all the tourists out of bed and ready to face challenging crowd conditions for so little reward, paying for the privilege of being one more ART LOVER! Hah!

We, at Talkinggrid, admit to being vain. We want, no less than anyone else wants, our “brands,”to endure; our own five centuries of fame. We want to be Marilyn, the American La Gioconda, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, and The Venus de Willendorf rolled into ONE, mega MOM, a super being, with an ample bosom, ready to feed the entire world. Yet, few are willing to do the exercise, the calisthenics required, of those that seek enduring glory. Few are going to die in the embrace of royal patrons, either.

This fortunate young woman is tall enough to get her Mona Lisa Selfie, without losing herself in the throng.

Posted on August 5, 2014August 11, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

Je thé… Me, Taste Paris, with Jacky Larsonneur

We were early, the first customers of the evening at Je thé… me, a romantic restaurant known for its good food. We crossed the thick curtain covering the door and into a comfortably furnished, tight, dining room. The host, Jacky Larsonneur, tall and erect, is standing at the center of the room, his mischievous blue eyes sparkling. He pounces on us with the grace of a well fed tiger! We were to be his willing prey for the evening. We loved being the center of his sage and savvy attention.

He ushered us to our padded seats and fully welcomed us to his place, with a touch of formality which would be soon brushed away, he instantly signaled that the ancient rules of hospitality were in effect. We had arrived into the care of Je thé… me, a space where we could put our guard down and swallow the delicious fact that we had entered a restaurant unlike any other. Larsonneur has deftly owned and operated the enchanting restaurant for almost three decades. The space is a home away from home, a well polished jewel of romantic corner kitchens, an absolutely perfect, quintessentially French spot. I’ve quietly dreamt of such places my whole life. In New York, we attempt recreate the energy of such spaces… perhaps Balthazar’s succeeds. The shelves are filled with books, tea pots, and other “comforts of home.” The warmly furnished room is acutely inviting, a place to melt away stress and enjoy a fine meal. The Germans call this feeling, “Gemütlichkeit,” which loosely translates to, “cosy,” or “warm and familiar.” It is a complex word, really… yet it fits perfectly in thinking of the warm embrace of the space, the restaurant, Je thé… me… such a sensual name… such an excellent evening, about to unfold.

Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé... me in Paris, France. — Le Vin, the wine, cements a new friendship at Je thé… me in Paris, France.

“English?” He asks after a few pleasantries in French. He introduces us to his menu. It was poetry in food, just delightful. Salivating over the options, we allowed him to guide us, making recommendations, choosing which wine we drank. At ease in the roll of Culinary Guide, he takes us on a marvelous trip into a familiar yet new world of flavor. We eat and drink with silent reverence. Other guests arrive. First a man with two beautiful Asian women, who sound 100% California. They are seated on the other side of the attractive room. Later, they come to appear flabbergasted, mouths open, eyes bulging, at the wealth of attention we receive from our talented host. Shortly after an older woman and her (likely) granddaughter appear and are seated. Finally, a young blond couple from Denmark take the table next to us, where they proceeded to make-out passionately for two hours. Did they eat food? I don’t know. I was busy scarfing DOWN my entire plate, making every morsel vanish, worshiping drops of reduction sauces, expertly prepared.

I am transported to a purely sensual zone. Ms. Crane, The Muse, sits next to me on the bench, laughing, making funny comments about the cast of characters around us, the universe, and beyond. Hours slip by, we don’t fret. This is a time reserved for eating, drinking, and conversation. My adoring Big German Scientist husband, enjoys the view, across from us and documenting our good time without being intrusive. Speaking of welcome intrusion… did I mention that Jacky planted his laptop on our table and sang to us, old French songs? He did. He sang to us! He serenaded our table! (How’s that for entertainment?) He has a marvelous voice. He popped his laptop on our table and shared with us a video of him, on youtube singing in a choir as a young boy. He was an angel. He sang solo, brilliantly! The camera loved his blond boy beauty. Oh, Jacky! You are a restaurant man beyond compare! What talent! Pure charm! Je thé… me.

The food was divine. Yet, I refuse to divulge the details of what I ate. Eat bite was a discovery, an explosion of flavor in my mouth. No, I won’t write a laundry list of ingredients. No. Exactly what I ate doesn’t concern others… Unless, of course, they man-up NOW and venture beyond the barnyard gate, to Je thé me… in Paris! Once there, I can imagine, a parade of pilgrims, FRANCO-FOODIES by the herd, hereby and henceforth, respectfully paying homage to Larsonneur’s impeccable hospitality, good wine, and super-fresh French food with bus tours (god forbid) and other (less tacky) fanfare. I will just say: that if one does not live to visit Jacky Larsonneur at Je thé… me, is simply missing out on enjoying living, breathing, singing history in action.

There is no television in the historically preserved room. By and large, French restaurants do not bombard you with advertising while you are eating. French food is to be taken s l o w l y, quietly or boisterously depending on the mood. The music, wine, and incredible quality of the food all collaborate to take you to sacred heights within yourself and in communion with tradition. French food is famous, of course, but when you actually sit and eat food that deserves this degree of reverence it changes you.

I will never again be the same woman. I have changed from the inside out, a part of me, my heart… I think… is now––forever–– French. I do not know IF the Potato Eaters at the other tables felt the same AWE over the delicate, fresh, innovative, yet totally traditional FRENCH cuisine, prepared sensitively, and served with intimate flair.

At our table, Ms. Crane, Hartmuth and I were swaying in a whirl of FOODIE JOY beyond general comprehension. It was a secular, intensely sensual, culinary-come-religious-experience. In this mood, of beyond bliss, the hours passed and we continued eating. Finally, we begged Jacky to pick our desserts. He brought one for each and each was pure perfection with the entree, eaten. WE had NEVER had such a meal, such service! The wine… ah… it was sublime. I shall never recover from this re-introduction to what food can be. Food is a potential space-ship with direct shuttles to heavenly JOY! Now, from the shelf, tumbled one of the encyclopedias on France. (OK, I admit, that I could not resist pulling one of the books off the shelf and perusing it, while the ice wine was being retrieved.) The book popped open, before us and there was Jacky, turning the pages to his Chateau… really? Yes, he pointed to a picture in the book and said that this was his family’s country property. Oh… now my American mind wrapped itself around very foreign concept. His Chateau… WOW!

That our host enjoyed our company was demonstrated in that he invited us to stay with him for a few more bottles of wine. We were out till the earliest hours of the next morning, sitting, conversing, laughing like lunatics well past midnight, playing, and dancing with Jacky. The Muse, Hartmuth, and I Frau Kolb… this evening could be the stuff of legend and myth. We were early, the first customers of the evening for Je thé… me. We crossed the curtain and into the room and found ourselves in a new relationship with the world, with life. We were welcome, ever so welcome, so we stayed and renovated our selves, with intensive healing doses of hilarity, studied frivolity, and unfiltered joy expressed in hearty appetites.

The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé... me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014! — The Muse, Jacky Larsonneur, Hartmuth, and Frau Kolb at Je thé… me in Paris, France. Summer, 2014!

From the ether of fantasy and wishful thinking, surrounding Paris and The Muse, that which prompted this life-altering trip to a new return destination, a NEW cultural base for Frau Kolb & The Talkinggrid from which to learn and grow, the health and happiness of yours truly and those that truly crave a slice of a very good way of life, the French Way. I will return again and again to now beloved Paris, France and specifically to see Jacky Larsonneur and the most romantic of restaurants, where we feel in love, not just with the food, the wine, the host, but also with Paris, Je thé… me.

Posted on July 31, 2014August 4, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 4 Comments

Race to the Top of The Eiffel Tower?

What a Huge Turn ON!

What is it with humans and our “sky scraping,” towers? WE crave heights! PEAK experience(s), which should be, theoretically, mired by the fact that everyone else on the planet seems to agree about the arch significance of the ever present, “Bucket List,” a standard compendium of minor glories, subtitled, “Travel Triumphs That Must be Experienced by All Humanity.” Every nation’s monuments appear to be made to be seen, recorded, and spun into Profile Pictures, galore! Take for example, visiting the Great Wall of China or the Egyptian Pyramids… If you make it either of those important sites, you will want to celebrate by taking pictures and posting them to the zippiest internet site available so your “friends,” will ogle and envy your good fortune. Right?

The same is the case with a virgin visit to famed Paris, petty travel glory ignites envy. Just yesterday an on-line friend confessed to being “jealous,” that Frau Kolb is in Paris, the famous City of Lights. Who can blame anyone for a pang of jelly-feelings when faced with another’s APEX moment, a glorious moment during which time stands still and we appreciate reality? Yet, there is nothing to envy. We’ve all had such moments and looking around I could see countless others having their photo opportunity, memorable moment, a golden instant pressed like a butterfly between book pages, a preserved out-of-breath, orgasmic arrival. However, those that know my secret… are aware that when life-threatening advanced breast cancer returned last year… there was no guarantee that I’d live long enough to hold hands with my husband to climb UP and UP and UP to the SUMMIT Level, to this immortal PEAK, a magical point, from which you can see far and wide over all of grand and intricate, studied and admired, cherished and enjoyable, Paris. To envy my ticket, which is an ongoing relationship with mortal illness, a grand motivator, indeed, a spur toward worldly milestone counting, daily writing, and well…no one really envies the price I’ve paid, for the life I live, because that would be insane.

You get on line, to pay, and wait your turn to start going up,up, up… everyone is more than happy for the privilege of scaling France’s most prominent national symbol, a monumentally scaled architectural art object, and space-age cash cow (the tower is the world’s most visited paid monument). My husband and I are sporty people and despite my swollen foot, I am faster than most tourists, bellies bulging, and all that jiggly jazz, but NOT faster than the fascinating Tattooed French Lady. She was very thin and had very short hair. Tattoos in the pattern of leopard skin and high-end Fashion brand logos (CoCo Chanel, Givenchy, and so on…) covered her arms in permanent sleeves. Her Lover, perhaps her husband, an adoring pierced man, a few inches shorter than her (and she was not tall) was one step, just, behind her. They waited on line with us and climbed at almost exactly the same rate. By the time we reached the first platform level I felt as though I knew her, them, a little. Perhaps… this feeling was illusionary. But, I was feeling connected with humanity as we reached higher levels, together.

The couple, I observed, without thinking if they noticed me noticing them. It seemed to me that they were Parisians. They were among the few locals among the mostly international tourists. She was more emotionally reserved than him and kept quiet as he nibbled on her neck and we all waited to buy our tickets. I noted how much more demonstrative couples in Paris are, not only were the pair behind us on line comfortable engaging in loving touch while waiting to race us up to the first and then to the SUMMIT Level, near top, where a little room, houses a funky little instillation of dummies dressed up in period costumes representing Monsieur Eiffel and his big hat wearing corseted daughter and a phonograph bestowing mustached and tweed wearing mannequin representing the celebrated American businessman, Thomas Edison.

We looked in, along with everybody else. We took our pictures, perhaps no different than any others, perhaps better. Who knows? Who cares? We marveled at the expansive views and the gathering crowds behind us. We were ecstatic to be there, having climbed The Eiffel tower along with thousands upon thousands of others and still feeling special to be there. (It doesn’t matter that almost seven million others, per year, make the same secular pilgrimage, to the heart of Romantic Ideation, The Eiffel tower is impressive and I now consider it my favorite national symbol.) This blissful “special,” feeling is replicated over and over, day in and out, each group of people, individuals, routinely loud Americans, every type of Asian combination and permutation, Europeans, lots of determined Germans, focused Russians… all the people of the world, except perhaps Australian Aboriginals and Native Amazon dwellers, were in redundant evidence. All gawking, photographing, and snatching at a moment so significant that it blurs into utter meaningless imagery bought and sold all over the world, little trinket Eiffel tower totes, tee-shirts, towels… every possible object can be bought with Eiffel Tower or Mona Lisa print on them, at Walmart, I am sure. I’ve seen such things. You have seen the same junk for sale. You may have Paris, Eiffel Tower, Wallpaperin your bathroom, perhaps.So… do I, feel that it cheapens me or The Tower, that everyone agrees it is a place to kiss a beloved, pop-the-question, and bask in the absolute Must See emblem of the much visited and celebrated city of Paris? No, not at all! The Eiffel Tower is perfect. It is a dazzling structure, “after all these years.” Its capacity to withstand the onslaught of projection, massive idealization, dreams, and desire projected upon it. La Tour amazes me by standing up to all the attention! I’m convinced: The Eiffel Tower must be a LOVE Magnet. It must be catching and emitting all the waves of lust and desire that circulate the world’s streets, channeling all that flirty energy to France, the WORLD’s (Erotic) Fantasy (Romantic) Capital!

I’m convinced that The Tower is emitting a special frequency which excites in humans a sexy turned ON, feeling. You will note its effect particularly in and around Paris. The closer one is to the Tower in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, in either location or sentiment, then the more likely one is to feel this BUZZ, this sacred electricity which radiates from the groin, the head, the heart… it is entirely human. It is: concentrated Romance, in its purest form. To prove my theory, I observed and counted and photographed countless couples kissing, curled up together, a pile of arms and legs mingling on lawns park benches all over pretty Paris. I would post my records, findings, but I fear that such action might result in trouble for someone that doesn’t want to be identified on their afternoon stroll and make-out session with someone else’s main squeeze. So… I demonstrate self control.

Whatever the reason, it is plain to see, that “Romance and Conquest,” are in every tourist’s eager eye as they climb or ride the elevator up to the summit of the world’s most celebrated and replicated radio tower and phallus symbol since The Tower of Babel was leveled by punishing confusion, dispensed in a sudden gaggle of new tongues. Just as, the post-coital looks of satisfaction etched on the faces of the fortunate visitors as they exit the monument in droves is easy to decipher. The code of conquest, over the desired object, in this case imaged as a woman, built to be explored, endures.

Posted on July 28, 2014July 28, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

The First Steps: Walking in Paris

After our first Parisian Cafe Lunch, we walked. All over the world, walking is NATURAL! Walking is FUN! I love walking, on sidewalks, in Paris, in New York, and London. Frau Kolb walks everywhere. We hit the streets, for a few hours, of neighborhood window shopping and mental preparation for THE MAIN EVENT!!!

Yes, I admit it. Frau Kolb has an agenda. Frau Kolb is on a special mission in Paris. Frau Kolb has flown across the United States of America and The Atlantic Ocean to see HER, The MUSE. Well, there are three embodiments of femininity that are now associated forever to Paris in Frau Kolb’s mind. The first is La Tour, the Eiffel Tower. She is beautiful, beyond belief. A perfect structure, calling out to visitors from every corner of the round planet, she beckons and they come in droves and have for well over a hundred years! She is entirely delightful, worth every effort and amazing, as a source of pride and a point from which one can see all Paris from her busy heights. She offers the best perspective over Paris. Presenting the entire city for eager eyes to take in. But one can never forget the fleeting, shifting, ever-changing glamour and thrill which is being high up, over Paris. What a perfect structure! Absolutely, my favorite tourist attraction, in the world.

The Mona Lisa, queen of the Italian Wing in the Louvre Museum, Paris. She is, after all, the attributed work of all-time-genius Leonard de Vinci, the time-traveling Master of Scientific Creativity in Art. She, too, like the tower, pulls in visitors, cameras clicking, maniac desperation for a glimpse of her famously enigmatic smile, grips the public. (I pay homage to Mona’s marvelous appeal in coming posts… and pending pages. You must only return to Talkinggrid to witness the coverage of La Giaconda’s madding appeal.)

Paris's Italian Draw, at the Louvre, behind glass...Tourist hordes & Frau Kolb pay paparazzi homage. — Paris’s Italian Draw, at the Louvre, behind glass…Tourist hordes & Frau Kolb pay paparazzi homage. However, in the words of the one and only chief, living MUSE of Talkinggrid, Ms. Crane “Fuck the Mona Lisa!” What a refreshing position! This option had not occurred to me! Talkinggrid’s Instant Expert on all things Paris, Ms. Crane was brimming insight into the necessity of avoiding the hordes, the “selfie girls,” among the ravaging armies of tourists coming from ALL OVER THE WORLD to snap a picture of her little tight lipped, butter won’t melt, is-it–smirk (?), FAMOUS smile. According to Ms. Crane, “She’s not worth it.” She is rather, “small.” Mona is closely guarded and behind glass. This painting is the ultimate untouchable object. (Who can resist?)

Ms. Crane in Paris. What could be better? Now, Frau Kolb had a real reason to rush, to arrive, to be in Paris. Her glowing presence, more important to me than the mystery of the Mona Lisa’s smile or the breathtaking sparkle of the Eiffel Tower. Muse Crane’s unique radiance, fuels Frau Kolb urgency to visit Paris in July 2014, for the first time, and not sooner or later. One simply must see the most beautiful living MUSE ever known, in the city most famous for its beauty. It had to happen. There was no choice. Ms. Crane’s pull is so strong. Her soul, her AMERICAN sense of FREEDOM, is so beautiful, one would gladly fly across the ocean to witness her bloom in the ancient center that is Paris, France and listen to her thoughts on life, love, and business in this magnificent city. Wise beyond her years, Ms. Crane, inspires thought, action, and admiration wherever she goes. Thus, Frau Kolb follows the Muse, wherever she may frolic.

As we walked around, performing a quick inspection on the pretty surface of marvelous, manicured, Paris, taking our first steps and photographs to share, Frau Kolb was anticipating the pleasure of communing with THE MUSE in her new perch, Paris, a worthy pedestal for Ms. Crane’s world class appeal.

Posted on July 24, 2014August 17, 2014 by Frau Kolb

ASML Executive, Thunderstruck by Malaysian Plane Tragedy

On a flight out of San Diego, I spoke to Claus, first, I’m sure. I don’t know what precisely about him said to me that it was OK for me to break the ice with a little conversation. He had a friendly air, even though he appeared engaged with work on board the cross-country flight to Newark, New Jersey, where I would was to connect to my flight to long awaited, romanticized, and idealized PARIS. He was busy being productive, clicking screens, texting with the air of business drive. We were seated in the business section, after all. So I felt compelled to write about my departure and surroundings, noting every fluctuation in group mood and seat mate’s work flow. Charts and graphs, very important looking, lit up his lap-top screen. I watched him work with growing fascination. Taking a few notes about, “productivity,” and “dynamic people,” inspired by watching Claus blaze from file to file, taking in what looked like highly complex information, at a super quick rate. I’m always curious about fellow travelers. Yet, I don’t always engage others in conversation. This was special.

He was wearing the black sports uniform of an affluent man. He looked ready for a run in any of San Diego’s frightfully exclusive neighborhoods. I felt an instant kinship with this man. He being a “Road Warrior,” as I am well acquainted with his ilk of being constantly going, moving, creating, leading, and facing the ups and downs that life hurls at us all. My husband is such a man and this man’s energy was much like that of my beloved Dr. Hartmuth C. Kolb.

In our initial banter, Claus made the following comment: “The stock market is where the world decides what is important.” He was referring to his company’s performance as a world leader in high-tech semi-conductor business (forgive me if I failed to understand Claus’s business exactly, I’m sure that there will be corrections made to this initial draft, thank you for understanding). His savvy comment really got my full attention. I enjoy (for conversations sake) a good, solid blanket statement! I thought to myself, “What an interesting person! I’d like to know more about him,” Thus began an unofficial, off-the-record interview with this tall, fit, senior executive at ASML.

I asked:

“How old were you when you built your first computer?”

In a blink and with a boyish smile, “Eight!” He answered and then his grin broadened and he said, “but it did not work!” with a laugh, he continued… “I just loved building things, taking things apart.” We both laughed appreciating the beautify of assembling and disassembling, creating and erasing.

Then I asked Claus,

“So how old were you when you built your first working computer?”

“Over 18, in college, it was an assignment or something… but that was easy, by then I really had a sense for how these machines worked.” Listening to him a felt a familiar rush of admiration, because I have nothing but affection and respect for intelligent people, the ones that invest their youth in learning, becoming social leaders and thereby providing jobs, products, and services to the world.

So, feeling this way, I asked him, “What three acts define you?”

Easily he answered, “One is building machines, the second is exercise/sports/fitness, the third is fuzzy… but clearly, his relationship to wife and child… filled the plane with warmth for his work, recreation, and family. I felt myself to be in the company of a man much like my adorable husband. Therefore, I mentioned to Claus, that he reminded me of my Dreamboat. They have much in common since my husband built his first working computer at age 18, while in the army, inside his private locker, for relaxation. Ha!

Then I asked him, on a lark, “IF you were to get a tattoo what would it be?”

“I’d want a crude dagger henna tattoo, noting permanent!” We both laughed again at his quick reply.

Then he gave me a HOT San Diego Tip: Go to Whole Foods in Del Mar at 1pm on Saturday, during the Del Mar racing season, which is now, and prepared to be amazed by all the BEAUTIFUL WOMEN!

Being that I love looking, I made a note of that and everything else Claus said. He was funny, entertaining and then he went on, “These are not first wives…” Hah! “This are the second and third wives, the Mistresses, they are AMAZING!” I thought, “WOW! I really have to make a point of seeing this spectacle of fine females on parade while organic grocery shopping in one of Souther California’s most desirable locations.

“You know how you can tell that they are second and third wives, not the first time around?” He asked me. I answered, “Because they are way too beautiful to be affordable by young men, these are the trophy wives of the triumphant males.” He seemed even more amused that I was not under any illusions about the facts of youthful beauty and its exulted status among those that can command dreams and shape the world to fit their fancies. We laughed a little more, savoring the fact of knowing a thing or two about life and yet not feeling cynical about our own lives, observing the patterns of others. Then he went on, “They say that the first wife is for love, the second for hope over experience, the third is a choice between rental and retail.” Again we chuckled, because we have in common knowing these facts to be true for many, yet not having fallen for the social traps, since we are both happily married to our one-and-only first spouses with whom we have our respective children, a source of pride and outstanding joy.

Thus, he told me of his son’s computer building antics and the boy’s delight at bossing father, Claus, around.

I enjoyed every second of our jovial conversation. Yet, just as we were parting, having turned on our phones to communicate with the world, Claus’s entire demeanor changed. The Malaysia Airlines flight had some of his companies’ employees on it. Claus was immediately crushed by the news. I was there to witness his sudden encounter with life’s bitter, cruel, edge… taking notes and talking come naturally to me. This person’s pain hurts me, too, and brings home the fact that we are all connected, involved, and politically intertwined ONE people of the world, wherever our location our lives are intertwined with those of others, around the world, through commerce and culture.

I send condolences to the Dutch people (I have family in Amsterdam). I send condolences to all those affected by this senseless tragedy.

Posted on July 18, 2014September 6, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 2 Comments

Le Grand Art Adventure: Frau Kolb in Paris

Paris! Strange to be on a plane, going to a place so familiar from film and literature, that it feels more like a homecoming, instead of an arrival at a new destination. Paris, weirdly, is tremendously familiar, it is almost another home.

Does everyone feel this way, arriving in Paris?

So many have visited Paris before me, before us… Paris is a city that dwarfs the biggest ego. Considering who I am, and what interests me most (Art and History!) it is strange that I’ve before never visited famed Paris before, today. It is a momentous occasion in the history of Frau Kolb!

Have you been to Paris?

Indeed it is odd to think, that I, Frau Kolb, experienced globe trotter, am a bone-fide virgin to Paris. Paris, old and self regenerating center, holds unique appeal. Yet, Paris is a virgin to Frau Kolb. A ripe and fertile beckoning. The dynamic, conquest driven, Frau Kolb, cannot resist the call of legend. One more big goal checked off the bucket list. Ah!

The murmuring of the Seine, snaking around the watery core of an ancient multi-layered city.

So… here I am loaded with guide books and ready to add my experience of it to the wealth of history which defines this rich old dame. She dazzles, I hear. “The City of Lights,” They call her! I listen to her name, whispered, shouted, co-opted. A wistful nostalgia for other times grips me. I feel one with Josephine Baker, mistral performer and emblem of beauty. Her banana peel dress forever revealing, appealing. This trip has, is a dream come true and I am delighted to be able to share my observations and discoveries with you. Thank you for reading.

I am applying my sacred SEVEN BOOK RULE. Yes, this is the key stone of Frau’s success in many aspects of life, not being perfect, yet being certain… confident. Paris, is wondrous to read and apparently to write about. So many books are available about this city. Paris is a city that has inspired artists, architects, writers, and others without professional claim to aesthetic understanding. Paris is a Grand Muse, so much is written about her, she is famous, beyond measure.

I’ve arrived! Behold the legions of tourists! I am among them. Camera clicking, what has been photographed countless times, but never before by me. I’m so happy to be here, realizing a life goal.

On the plane, I dealt a serious blow to TIME by reading, a tidy little hard-back full of simple colorful images, stark in its naive and charming comparisons between the two cities, “Paris Versus New York,” by Vahram Muratyan. I am a New Yorker. Born and Raised in Manhattan, I know the grid and its ease, the speed with which one can traverse worlds, any day in Manhattan. I know about bagels, yet baguettes were always an option. The beginning of his book works much like the beginning of this post. He introduces us to Paris as a woman, an individual of unique strengths and mysterious, enduring, character. Seductive, Paris, is even to those that call her home. She is like New York, only older. I storm through that picture driven book, soaking up a few of his impressions, and moving on, but not before asking myself about that book I was reading yesterday and last night, “Paris, Paris.” by David Downie, until I passed out, exhausted from PACKING FRENZY and FRENCH STUDY, went… I pick up a thick paper back, I’ve hauled a number of books with me onto the “Business First,” seat my Dearest booked for the trip. The book I chose is… not high brow, not an elegant seemly tome but a door-stopper, heavy in page weight and light in content; Edward Rutherford’s, “Paris,” pops into hand. Now, I don’t know if you know about Rutherford’s work. You might. It is likely that you know it like I do, as a secret passage into the annals of history light. He weaves a pleasant tales into the fabric of known history often placing his characters as witnesses to the great events of a historical epoch. I started reading Rutherford when I was a girl. “Sarum,” was the first book of his I read. I enjoyed it very much and followed up by reading others of his books. Eventually, the formulaic style of the author wore out my interest and I’ve not read one of his books in almost a decade. This, too, is a type of return to the known, the familiar author, with his soothing uncontroversial, light writing style fits the mood of this maiden voyage to picturesque Paris!

Posted on July 16, 2014August 20, 2014 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

Night in Venice, California Frau Kolb

THURSDAY, 24 APRIL 2014

That was yesterday:

This morning my body was glued to the bed. James Katson, a recently acquired Facebook art pal, and selfie addict, also had the same experience of sleeping really deeply, last night. We are also both interested in the works of Stephan Zwieg, just like our hero: Wes Anderson director of Hotel Budapest. Anderson is my Darling.

It turns out I met him once… maybe that was him, sitting with Owen Wilson, another actor dream boat; a genius in his own right; as proven in his seamless performance in Woody Allen’s, classic, Midnight in Paris, one of my favorite films: EVER! I’d LOVE to work with… that drink soaked evening at Hal’s in Venice Beach California, after chemo, and binge shopping at Barney’s New York in Beverly hills. I was wearing this great blond wig, so I LOOKED al’ right.

Here is a picture of me earlier that evening at Nite Spa, in its former location, a dilapidated little house, which served as a hub for a bevy of fine females that congregated there for years. We’d get our wine and sit back while a lovely girl, my favorite will always be Christina, takes care of our nails. We get facials, designed to curb the effects of the party life and hectic schedules which prevail for Los Angeles residents. It was our hide out. Now, the spot has moved to Mar Vista. I’ve got it on my calendar to visit. Chill out and enjoy the services of the new French, aesthetician, they’ve hired.

Who know’s perhaps, we can even plan to bring some (more) ART into the space. I know my artists friends are ever ready to show their work. (I’m always thinking about how to maximize opportunities for my art-pals.)

My dear friend, Julia Martin, the proprietress of Nite Spa, has invited to me to organize an event or stage a performance at her new NITE SPA MAR VISTA Space. What shall we do? I don’t know exactly. I’ve put on my thinking cap. It is a three-foot long cone. I wear it and all I see is Owen Wilson and Wes Anderson… partners conspiring on the next project… at Hal’s in Venice.

Interesting…

I will keep you posted on how this develops.

Thanks!