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Oscar De La Renta, Dominican Fashion Designer, Dies at 82

Like both my parents Oscar De la Renta (1934-2014) was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.  Like my father, he was a dominos aficionado.  He was born, “to a Dominican mother of Spanish descent (particularly Canarian), Carmen María Antonia Fiallo, and a Puerto Rican father, Oscar Avelino de la Renta.”  My mother was Dominican of Spanish descent and her mother was a fashion designer.  My grandfather, Rafael Ricart, was a politician, poet, and prominent business man.  His cousin was Octavia Ricart, wife of Trujillo, the dictator’s, son.  So… I imagine that at some point my grandfather and his woman, Maria Dolores, the fashion designer, may have interacted, socially, with De la Renta’s family.  It may not be true, but when I heard, last night, over dinner with my family, that De la Renta was on the way to the Big House in the Sky, I wept a tear, of sadness that I never met the man.

His story, the excellence of his work as a fashion designer, touch me.  “De la Renta’s heritage mixes Dominican great great grandfather José Ortiz de la Renta was the first constitutional mayor of Ponce, Puerto Rico to be elected by popular vote.” Last year I visited Puerto Rico, for the first time.  We stayed near Fajador, at The Waldorf Astoria Casitas Resort.  It was very luxurious but what really made the trip great was the instant kinship I feel with Dominican Republic’s English speaking, neighbors.  In San Jan,  we visited a museum focused on the stories of the Caribbean people.

De la Renta was a citizen of the world. “At the age of 18, he left the Dominican Republic to study in Spain, where he studied painting at the Academy of San Fernando in Madrid, Spain.” He studied painting!  I understand this step to his total mastery of color and form in fashion.  (Frau Kolb paints!) The study of color informs every outfit I’ve ever put together.  In New York, one may wear mostly black, yet… this is only as a means of entry anywhere and protection from urban grime, a film that covers subway seats and hotel beds… Fashion is for me more than a mere spectator sport.  Ease may spring from an aesthetic approach to living.  Wearing clothing that fit, flatter, and reflect one’s values, distinguishes an individual.  De la Renta, knew that people want clothing that helps them look attractive yet blend in.  He was not the most daring of designers.  De la Renta was at the head of a clothing empire, selling everything from perfumes to masses and evening gowns to the elite.  (In New York City, fashion is an everyday fact.  People may wear layers of black, but the awareness that fabric and cut matter, is profound.  On the streets of New York one may read another’s fabric choices, noticing the leather, the cashmere, the better silk blouses.)  To live in harmony with one’s environment and to add an understanding of color… yes… that might be the ideal fashion state.  What more ready self expression than an owning of color theory and clever implementation of the facts, yielding appealing results; black recedes from the eye… HOT PINK, packs punch!

De la Renta, dressed generations of world-class Fashionistas. Jackie Onasis, first lady of American style, wore his designs.  More recently, we have the image of fashion Icon Sarah Jessica Parker strutting, rocking, making an occasion in one of his fantastic frocks.  Spanish goddess, Penelope Cruz and less attractive Hilary Clinton and most… interestingly… Nancy Regan were among his notable political showpieces.

Oh!  How I love to think of young De la Renta, just after he, “began sketching for leading Spanish fashion houses, which soon led to an apprenticeship with Spain’s most renowned couturier, Cristóbal Balenciaga.” (I love Balenciaga!  The best boots I’ve ever had, bought at Barney’s New York in Beverly Hills, and still in operation and favor, a decade later).  It is said, by the writers of wikipedia, that De la Renta, “considers Cristóbal Balenciaga his mentor.”  Imagine that!  (Those relationships, ever so vital, the people we meet, when we are young, and impressionable, turn out to be… our mentors!) I am beyond ready for an excellent bio-film, in which this pivotal moment in the mega designer’s career is explored.

“Later, de la Renta left Spain to join Antonio del Castillo as a couture assistant at Lanvin in Paris.” Again, I can relate to this aspect of his biography in that I adore Lanvin flats.  I was wearing my favorite golden pair we visited the Eiffel tower.  I wore them with a Missioni dress I treasure one of a couple Missioni dresses, which are my go-to, public wear (easy, never too much, Missioni’s knits fit me.). I wear Lanvin flats, habitually.  I’ve had them in “Gunboat Metallic,” and “black velvet.”  I wear them religiously because flat as they look, they conceal a little (magic) heal, which makes them the most comfortable walking shoes with style, I’ve ever known.

I’d love to be a De la Renta woman, that top-notch Fashion forward, clothing conscious woman that distinguishes herself from all others by the monumental quality of her stunning gowns.  Yet, I’ve not worn many a formal gown. I am a California Beach Mom. For many years, I’ve moved in a world where flip-flops are de rigor  and hair combing is optional.  I can count the number of formal events I’ve attended, in my entire life, in one hand. Fashion for me, is less runway and palace, more Gallery and Museum.  Anything, I wear to the the studio becomes trash.  Yet, I’m a stickler for quality in clothes.  I believe in investing in wear that one can depend on.  I’m a fabric fanatic, forever fascinated with cashmere, silk, and cotton.  The significance of wearing comfortable clothing that looks distinct is not to be dismissed.  Yet, the dream of being a princess attired for the world stage is one that De la Renta’s women brought to life.   De la Renta, in his life, designed the dreams to cloth naked souls and give shape to ambitions larger than Texas.

 

 

 

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Lunch for ONE, at Café Constant in Paris, France

 


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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
Cafe Constant; Rue Saint-Dominique 75007 Paris, France


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IMG_3907Cafe 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.

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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.

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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!
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.

 

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

 

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Meeting The Muse, Ms. Crane & Frau Kolb Paris Before Midnight

Evening slowly wraps itself around the glowing Eiffel Tower in a cloudy shawl of sunset orange, royal blue, and burnt electric gold. Tourists, girls in their pretty flower print dresses, sway in a stiff clean breeze sweeping across the Seine, looking up at the bright lights, many sights. We return to our room for showers and a change into less comfortable and more stylish attire. (I put on my travel socks, designed to squeeze the swell out of my foot. They look presentable with my silver 1920’s style beaded mini-skirt, velvet bustier, and white tux jacket.) My male half, HC Kolb, also adorns himself with a good hair brushing and other gestures of appropriate fastidiousness in manly grooming. He arms himself with a high tech camera lens and we are ready to GO!IMG_8865

This meeting with Ms. Crane, The Muse, is a momentous occasion. For those of you regular readers of Talkinggrid, that are familiar with The Muse and our art adventures in Los Angeles, California, remember that The Muse VANISHED into Europe months ago, then suddenly she was spotted making waves and causing excitement, first in Dublin, Ireland, then all over Europe! The Muse has now deigned to perch in Paris for a spell. Who knows how long the city will continue to enchant her? Questions regarding the mysterious and alluring Muse, abound. Frau Kolb is on the case, giving chase to The Muse, across the North American continent and The Atlantic Ocean, Frau Kolb is almost re-united with the one and only, Ms. Crane in Paris, France!

Blessed are those mortals that witness the splendor of The Muse in the exciting embrace of the midnight summer dazzling linguistic and material luxury, of long Parisian nights filled with wandering Lovers, Seekers, and Other Dangerous Folk.IMG_8867

 

We arrive at the appointed spot. I sit. My husband snaps an phone photo of me anticipating the arrival of The Muse. However, she is graciously waiting, having found a perfect table, downstairs in the sexy red velvet bar where “American Style,” cocktails are served to a rushing cascade of crashing notes in a bellicose serenade of frenzied cat-fight piano playing, in the “American Style,” I assume… just the kind of playing one imagines happens in the snug, tight, sexy space of “Harry’s American Bar,” a joint straight out of countless literary and cinematographic fantasies I’ve harbored since birth.
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I felt as though I was slipping into the pages of a well wore book, a beloved fantasy. Yet, not exactly, since I was at my wits end! Where exactly was The Muse? I took the initiative. I marched downstairs. She was there LOOKING FANTASTIC! Could a human be more beautiful? More well proportioned? More striking without lifting a finger? NO! NO! NO! Ms. Crane, The Muse, is perfection embodied. She is. In Paris, France, where Beauty most routinely lounges in every corner of the city, Ms. Crane is the most superlatively at home being. She outshines The Eiffel Tower. I can attest to the intensity of her charm, being that in Los Angeles she ruled my world and her effect is clearly not based on location, location, location. Paris suits The Muse, just fine.

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Upon Arrival in The Paris of Frau’s Dreams!

On Thursday… I think this is the first day I was here. I arrived early and exhausted, having guzzled entirely too much Champagne on the plane and barfed several times before landing. I even left my hot pink mobil on the plane and had to turn around when I was already on line to customs and the man, my seat mate, travel buddy, who may have kissed me on the lips, after my first few glasses, departed leaving me his telephone number scribbled on his plane ticket.

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Fortunately, I got my phone back, took a taxi, and made it to sleek and immaculate Hotel Pullman, in view of the Eiffel tower. At first the room looked tiny; the balcony, a joke. I began to unpack and put my swollen right foot (which ALMOST caused me not to travel, to chicken out on this seminal voyage… which would have been really terrible) up. In contrast to my expectations, I waited for Hartmuth to arrive before venturing out. As I rested the room grew bigger, unfolding into a lovely well-furnished space to spend a few days. I read one of the many guide books, short stories, and novels I’d hauled cross country and the Atlantic Ocean. I floated off into jet-lagged sleep and when my husband arrived I was dressed and ready to venture out.

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Frau Kolb is in bliss/shock to arrive in Paris!

Slipping out of the Hotel Pullman, onto the Paris street, “Gustave Eiffel,” we walked like jet-lagged in love zombies, hand-in-hand to the monument. Seeing it up close for the first time is quite the shock. It is so beautiful.  She is perfect.  I love grids and she is the grid going to town. She is divine. She. “La Tour,” they call her because she is undeniably a lady, a lady that loves her visitors, and welcomes all from every corner of the planet to drool over her long and lovely legs. We did not have the strength to climb La Tour immediately. Our bodies demanded nourishment. Thus, we pushed forward a few steps and went to the Cafe Champs de Mars.

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We ordered, “Deux Coupe Champagne,” pate, and escargot. Tears of joy, washed down my face as I took my first sip since barfing on the plane to Paris. I was HOME. I was living the dream, inside the picture, which I’d carried in my head of Paris, made complete by the handsome French waiter, in white dress shirt black vest and neck tie, everyone dresses better in Paris…. even the homeless show so traces of style. My husband squeezed my hand and kissed me. I relaxed and took a sip of sparkling water, feeling blessed to finally be an American in Paris. I’ve dreamed of this very thing, my entire life. So far, there was nothing but bliss in being here. Puking and swollen foot aside… Frau Kolb has arrived.  Paris embraces. Frau melts into a happy pat of Parisian sidewalk joy, nibbling on a chewy (delicious) snail (thank you snail for giving me your LIFE) in butter and herbs.

Merci!