Tag Archives: Julie Seyler

Seven Months In (That’s Six Longer Than We Expected)

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Champagne to celebrate!

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I launched this blog on November 19, 2012. I was recovering from hip replacement surgery. Our goal was to see if we could keep it up for a month. We did not want unnecessary burdens on our shoulders.

As Lois said: “As long as we’re having fun. When it’s no longer fun, we’ll stop.”

Seven months later: We are still having fun.

So, my seven-month anniversary toast is devoted to the perfect partnership. I am a deep-brow worrier; Lois waltzes through the thunder. Better yet, she never gets tired of telling me that I do not need to worry. The water in my glass is usually a little below the halfway line; hers is flowing over the top. But we manage to crack up over the same things.

So, here’s to you, my friend!

HERE'S TO YOU

Here’s to you.

Mourning the Photo Album

17 Monday Jun 2013

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27 Photo albums

27 Photo albums.

BY JULIE SEYLER

In 1975, I gathered my loose photographs and consigned them to albums. So began my tradition of carefully pasting and labeling photos from Allenhurst Beach to trips to parties into bound notebooks with clear plastic sleeves.

In the 1975 album, I have a photo from a 1968 spin-the-bottle party where friends of mine first kissed. They are still kissing from what I hear. I have photos from Lois’s bridal shower in 1982, when we cruised around the city in a limo screaming at strangers that “She’s the bride!” And I have photos of the old Howard Johnson’s on the Asbury Park Boardwalk. I love that a bookful of memories lies at my beck and call.

At last count there were about 50 photo albums, but alas there will be no more. I abandoned ship in 2008. I fought the digital revolution for as long as I could, but five years ago I succumbed to the cheaper expense, convenience, and ever-evolving quality of a digital camera. I am sad for the days of yore – figuring out how many rolls of film to bring on a trip (would 24 rolls with 36 exposures be sufficient for a three-week journey through north India?),determining whether to get 4″x 6″ prints or 5″ x 7″ prints, anticipating how all those photos would look when they came back from the developer, and mourning the ones that were ruined (there was no such thing as photoshopping the underexposed image back to life), and the sharing of them with friends over a glass of wine, not on Facebook.

12 Photo albums

12 Photo albums.

For a while, I was getting prints of the digitals, and still putting them in photo albums. But when I went to Egypt, I simply stored the 3000 photos on my computer, and diligently created separate file folders for each location, day trip, and architectural style I saw. I never finished the cataloguing, but I have to say I do enjoy perusing them on the computer. The effect of taking me back to a time and place – the whole purpose of the picture – is not diminished by the medium.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

The Saturday Blog: Converging Paths

15 Saturday Jun 2013

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Converging paths. Path trains. Journal Square, Jersey City.

Converging Path trains. Journal Square, Jersey City. Photo by Julie Seyler.

It’s possible to come from different places and meet in the middle.

There’s No Tiptoeing Around The Hair on Our Heads

13 Thursday Jun 2013

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Hair...a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

Hair…a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

BY JULIE SEYLER AND LOIS DESOCIO

The blog has weighed in on eyebrows, so why not meander onto other post-50 hair issues? Like the way it morphs into a foreign object in strange places (ear and nose hair, mostly on men), or pulls a disappearing act (where’d the hairline go?), or simply re-invents itself from a thick flow of trestly curls into a plate of limp spaghetti strands.

There are thousands of documented scientific, genetic, chemical, hormonal explanations for these unsuspected changes, but they do not cure the shock of the switcheroo. And just as you get accustomed to one specific change, such as adapting to fine hair after a lifetime of dense curls, it becomes even finer – so fine that if you touch it, it ends up in your hand instead of staying nicely in place on the top of your head. Aging is body betrayal on tiptoes.

Here, plucked from The U.S. National Library of Medicine and The National Institutes of Health, is the science that gets to the root of aging hair:

Hair thickness change. Hair is made of many protein strands. A single hair has a normal life between 2 and 6 years. That hair then falls out and is replaced with a new hair. How much hair you have on your body and head is also determined by your genes.

“… nearly everyone has some hair loss with aging. The rate of hair growth also slows.

Hair strands become smaller and have less pigment. So the thick, coarse hair of a young adult eventually becomes thin, fine, light-colored hair. Many hair follicles stop producing new hairs.

Men may start showing signs of baldness by the time they are 30 years old. Many men are nearly bald by age 60. A type of baldness related to the male hormone testosterone is called male-pattern baldness. Hair may be lost at the temples or at the top of the head.

Women can develop a similar type of baldness as they age. This is called female-pattern baldness. Hair becomes less dense and the scalp may become visible.

As you age, your body and facial hair are also lost. But hairs that remain may become coarser. Women may lose body hair. Facial hair may get coarser, especially on the chin and around the lips. Men may grow longer and coarser eyebrow, ear, and nose hair.”

Phooey. It doesn’t have to be that way. Errant nose, ear, chin, and hand! hair can be plucked and snipped, shaved and sheared. But here’s the dirt on the hair on your head: Don’t wash it. You can still shower, of course. But just rinse. And run your fingers through it under the spout. Massage the oils out and throughout. Shun the shampoo part starting on Monday, and by Thursday, you will have the hair you had in your 30s. A little grease adds heft and sheen. There’s a reason that the hair follicles, those sebaceous glands, are full of natural oils. Keep any loose hairs in place by not brushing them. Instead: Scrunch. Tousle. Repeat.

And research supports that, along with good nutrition, exercise will keep hair healthy. So, hit the gym, steer clear of shampoo, and add some sweat to the grit. Skeptics might imagine that this combination would lead to nothing but a bad hair day of “limp spaghetti strands.”  No –  you will, instead, sport “a thick flow of trestly curls.”

Me and My Art: The Whole Picture

11 Tuesday Jun 2013

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A Painting from about 1997.

A Painting from about 1997.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I started this blog because we both love pencils – she loves to write, and I love to draw – drawing being a metaphor for creating a visual image, be it with a pencil, oil paint, watercolor, camera or a brassiere.

Beginning in high school, when I discovered Matisse and VanGogh, through to today, when I see some artist I’ve never heard of, I have been intrigued by art. Not because I always understand it, but because of the mystery. A painting may be beautiful, “The Girl with the Pearl Earring,” realistically astounding, (Rembrandt’s self-portraits) or primally powerful (DeKooning’s Women series), but for me, it is discovering something new, previously unseen, that keeps me looking.

So while I had taken a few art classes in high school (everyone remember Mr. Judikic?), I had not pursued it either as a hobby or a profession. Instead, I went to museums and galleries to experience art. But just before I turned 40, a feeling came over me that I had to do something with my hands. I enrolled in a papier-mache class. Who knew a box, a toilet paper roll, the papier-mache and acrylic paint could be so fascinating? I collected armatures in every size from four-foot-long dresser drawers to two-foot cartons to mini styrofoam balls. My living room was morphing into a studio, and my dining room table was a resting ground for paints, bowls and brushes.

The weddong cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

The wedding cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

Then a friend suggested I take a painting class at the Art Students’ League, and from 1995, for about the next 10 years, I spent Tuesday evenings there. Those first three years were magical, and they ring vividly still today. The first year I had Joanna Pousette-Dart. She was a working artist, and scion of a family of artists. She insisted we learn how to stretch and gesso a canvas. An invaluable tool in these days of the ready-mades. When I mentioned to her that I was going to start with a small canvas, she retorted, “Go big. Once you go big, you’ll never go small again.” I immediately began purchasing five and six foot stretcher bars. Joanna would say things like, “The more you see, the more you see,” and constantly remind us to “Look at the night sky because there are so many colors.”

After Joanna, I took classes with Knox Martin who was also a great teacher in ways far different than Joanna. Despite the massive glass erections that have erupted on the West Side Highway his presence remains and reigns:

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

My favorite quote of his was, “Monet didn’t deserve to suck VanGogh’s brush.”

At home, on top of the escalating papier-mache sculptures, I had paintings all over the place in various stages of completion. I would get up in the morning, and paint and come home after work and paint. Saturday morning was spent stretching and gessoing and papier-maching and then running around trying to see gallery shows.

The floor with gessoing in process.

The floor with gessoing in process.

My passion for materials led me from acrylics to oils to watercolors, paper, and fabric and beads and thread and anything else that seemed usable. If a painting wasn’t working, I’d cut it up, and make a collage.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Lately, it has been impossible to paint. For one thing I seem to need more sleep, but also because the studio now doubles as a storage space. So I draw and do watercolors and mini-collages. But I know all of my ideas are being stored for when the easel can re-emerge.

the studio copy

Going Dutch in Pennsylvania

03 Monday Jun 2013

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Route 340, Lancaster County, Pa.

Route 340, Lancaster County, Pa.

BY JULIE SEYLER

This past Memorial Day weekend, Steve and I took a trip to Lancaster Pa., aka Pennsylvania Dutch Country, where some of the Amish still dress in traditional garb and wield horse-driven carriages down Route 30:

Amish carriage.

Amish Carriage.

One friend immediately replied, “BORRRING!” Another waxed passionately on the merits of a local restaurant called, “Good ‘n Plenty.” We envisioned quaint colonial towns, and restaurants brimming with local farm fresh produce. What we did experience was not boring, but neither could it be called dynamic. Rather, our three-day sojourn in Lancaster can be viewed through two separate lenses: On one side of the frame is an image of the canned string beans served at Good ‘n Plenty – limp and dull. But what one sees through the other lens, is best summed up by the landscape – flat, but filled with a quiet lushness, and richness of color that screams beauty.

Saturday, the day we arrived, we spent trolling Route 340 in Intercourse. It is a town inundated with front yard garage sales, standard souvenir shops selling mass-produced chochcalas, and boutiques decked with only the finest handmade quilts and textiles.

(The area is also dotted with lots of poetically phallic silos):

Landscape. Pennsylvania Dutch Country

Landscape. Pennsylvania Dutch Country.

My first reaction to the boutiques was anticipation – I love to shop when I visit a new place. But by the time I stepped into the third quilt shop, I was a little numb. So it was definitely time for a beer. We stopped at a local brewery called the Rumspringa, enjoyed a couple of stouts, bought souvenir glasses, and headed into Lancaster, the capital of the United States for one day in 1781, and now known as the oldest inland city in the United States. Not a whole lot going on in downtown Lancaster on a Saturday in May. But there were lots and lots of brick buildings that were quite lovely when seen basking in the late afternoon sun:

Sunset light in Lancaster, PA.

Sunset light in Lancaster, Pa.

A local recommended dinner at a restaurant called The Belvedere Inn. It was good. The chef came out to chat with us, so we asked him for suggestions for Sunday, as we were a little lost on a game plan for the next day. He thought Muddy Run State Park, where we could rent row boats, and tour the reservoir might be interesting. So on Sunday morning, after a hearty breakfast, and a tour of the farm we were staying at, we headed off to sing, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

Rowing on the reservoir.

Rowing on the reservoir.

I want a tractor.

I want a tractor.

Then it was time for another brewery – this time Stoudt’s in Adamstown. Adamstown, like Lambertville, N.J., and Hudson, N.Y., is renowned as one of the premier antique shopping meccas in the Eastern United States. We walked through one of the markets filled with old lamps, tables, headboards, china, flatware, paintings, but weren’t really in the mood to peruse, so we headed back into Lancaster. Sunday afternoon was more dead than Saturday, so we wandered through the cemetery of the St. James Episcopal Church:

Cemetery at St James Church, Lancaster, Pa. jak

The next day we decided to visit Longwood Gardens on our way back home. In 1906, Pierre S. DuPont, a scion of the DuPont family, purchased a modest farm for the sole purpose of conserving, and protecting the surrounding woodlands. Ultimately, it morphed into a public garden. It was spectacular:

The Water Garden.

The Water Garden.

Cricket on white flower.

Cricket on white flower.

All in all, the weekend was mighty fine. But we probably won’t ever go back to Lancaster, Pa. Except with a U-Haul for antiques.

“Old” Age is Not a Number. It’s a Measurement

31 Friday May 2013

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"Mirror mirror on the wall? Am I old?"

“Mirror mirror on the wall? Am I old?” By Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Age is a fascinating racket. At 30, I wailed I was old. That seems like such a quaint thought today. There are those who say age is merely a number, and has to nothing to do with anything. I disagree. Age is a measurement; a tool we use to mark the passing of time when we are shocked that we graduated high school 40 years ago. So I play the age-boggling game.

For example, I have a friend that I have known since I was 12, when we both had Miss (this was an era before Ms., when one was either a Miss or Mrs.) Isaacs for 8th grade history. My friend just became a grandmother for the second time. This makes no sense to me because it was yesterday when I was taking pictures of her pregnant with the daughter that just gave birth for the second time around. My girlfriend, through my eyes, looks exactly like she did when we were on the cusp of becoming teenagers. Her daughter, who for me stands as a symbol for the child-bearing generation, also looks like a teenager, but not a grown-up teenager in the way I thought we were. Rather, I see her as a teenager playing house. But she’s not – she is an adult woman raising two children with all the responsibilities that goes with that. My girlfriend is now cast in the role of Nana. And that’s one mind-boggling aspect of the aging process.

Another mind-boggling aspect of the aging game is what does “old” look like? I see a woman who looks older than me. Why do I think that? When I look again, and try to pinpoint her age, I realize, “Whoa, she may be younger than me. Or maybe only 60, tops. And that’s only two years older than me.” That means to a stranger I, too, may look that old. Ergo, “old” is a mere perception conjured from the point you are at any given time. I still remember my French teacher in 9th grade. She was so old. She was 24. But then, I flip it, and figure I bet I still look pretty “young” to my 85-year-old buddy, Alan.

Some, like Lois (aka,Lola), fabulously defy the fact that they may be getting old. For me, a documenter, analyzer, and dissector of every stage in life, I just want to make sure I embrace “now,” because one day I may really be “old.”

At the Cape of Good Hope. May 29, 2011.

Julie, at the Cape of Good Hope. May 29, 2011.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things …

28 Tuesday May 2013

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Allenhurst AM

Allenhurst in the a.m. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Is it accurate to state that we on the right side of 50 can automatically conjure up that scene from “The Sound of Music” when the seven Von Trapp children are jumping off their beds while Julie Andrews, aka Maria, is trilling “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens?”

I am not saying the vision conjures up the same feelings – there are those who embrace that movie, and those who disdain it. But what I am saying is that it is a cultural set-point of the mid-60s. Because of that scene, and that song (and nobody but nobody does a better interpretation of “My Favorite Things” than John Coltrane), I love to think about, and make lists of my favorite things – many of which have changed; others of which have stayed the same.

So something like sitting on the beach before the crowds arrive, watching the sea slurp in and out, and the gulls swoop up and down, is a no-brainer favorite thing since way before I started coasting past the half-century mark. However, a super-chilled gin martini with a single olive on a Saturday evening is a new favorite thing – the gin factor making it “new.”

Frosted.

Frosted.

But the best-of-all favorite thing evolved soon after I became a pasta addict in 1986 following a trip to Italy. The favorite part is not simply eating spaghetti, it’s eating spaghetti at 6 a.m. on a rainy Sunday morning with a glass of fermented grape juice.

Spaghetti for breakfast.

Spaghetti for breakfast.