Spring Racing with Style

Over one hundred thousand people came out to the races on Saturday. The ladies wore their finest dresses and delicate fascinators; the men wore suits, skinny ties and pointy leather European shoes. The champagne was flowing and we all baked in the sun for hours upon hours. Towards the end of the races, the hours melted into a big sunburned blob. I was out a few dollars after putting “20 on Hot Danish for the win” only to see him lose miserably.

It’s hard to understand why people would invest a whole lot of effort and money in one hot, sticky, drunk day.  The true glory and tradition of the races is hidden, just around the back side of the main track. You will find a smaller track lined with multi-colored rose bushes and white-washed horse stalls. Just before the race, the horses are paraded around this mini track so punters can get a closer look at their bets. If you stand around this track long enough you might pick up betting tips.

The horses moved with such grace. Coats shined in the bright Australian sun and perfectly quaffed mains bounced around while they trotted jovially. Enviable. Such a contrast to the drunken mass of “classy” ladies and gents who literally laid it all out on the grass.  I’m not one to judge- the champagne hits hard when the sun is shining so bright. Heading home at 5pm, the ladies swayed on train platforms, towering in their Wittner heels, while the men just barely held them up right.

Oh Vellum…

It’s just a new found love affair with a translucent paper used for architectural drawings. It is a thick matte paper that looks like butter and feels like a freshly powdered face. The thinnest felt-tip pens glide onto the silky paper with ease. When a mistake is made on the paper, (one dollar an A3 sized sheet), I just ask Natasha for the erazer – a razer that delicately scratches the surface layer of the paper to become clean of any marks. Only a haze of white remains, and disappears when photocopied. I love it so much I cannot throw away the dud drawings. I keep them stashed under my computer for writing letters home. I know the other designers think I am crazy and I have no idea where this love of such material comes from.

I want a house made of vellum. Maybe I can cover the vellum in resin to make it rigid, affix large vellum panels to vellum triangles for stability, (think honeycomb). I would live in my vellum house like it was made of cards. The walls would be large Vellum screens, gliding on a single extra long track throughout the rooms.  These lightweight screen walls would move with the strength of a single finger. Lamps and light fixtures would be hidden by white vellum casings for a constant diffused glow, illuminating my vellum house.  The roof, tight like a drum (think of the body casing of a banjo),  would become a symphony each time it rains. I would live in this Vellum house near the equator where it is warm and insulation wouldn’t be needed. Natural light would radiate through the thin walls. What a great studio. A big light box! One can dream…

My first AD’s. All hand drawn on Vellum, yum.

Nick names and such

slab- carton of 24 beers

whinge- to complain

Ta – thanks

cheers – to end an email, to end a call, to say hello

chocky bits – chocolate chips

heaps- lots, a ton of

reckon- to believe strongly,

Lauz (say it as laws) – my new Aussie nick name according to Ben

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In other news, I found the perfect lunch spot, Soupanatural.  This place has an amazing Pumpkin corn bisque served with toast. Perfect snack while it is raining. The lady at the counter said Ta when I gave her money for the soup.  Then I struck up a convo with the cute poli-sci/philosophy student who works around the corner at Backpacking Light- the only lightweight backpacking store in the country! I stopped by the store during my coffee break last week to look at tiny stoves and good hiking shoes (yeah right). He mentioned that he buys all his outdoor stuff from the states (not really the best salesman).

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Australia has been super dry. I look like a raisin and feel like a potato chip. Maybe it is from the chlorinated water at the Melbourne Baths or dehydration from all the lovely cups of cappuccino, dusted with sweet cocoa powder.

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The above photo is from our Saturday afternoon trip to Vic market. The delis and bake shops are in the main building and the fruit stands/clothing line organized stalls in the open air section. A special section is reserved for the meat. Pink bloody flesh bathed in fluorescent light, so unappealing. We were there late when everything was going on sale. When a lady screams 50% off,  people surge toward her booth like they are preparing for their last super. I am confused. How many pounds in a kilo? Am I getting a good deal? Can I barter here? I try to get 50 cents off my tomatoes by flashing a smile towards the hesitant farmer- deal!  In the bag! Natasha buys a dense walnut loaf because it was the only remaining variety. The baker with a large rosey face, hands over the bread and it feels like a brick. For dinner we cover the bread in pesto made with capers and gobble it up with a Brazilian dish. I don’t know the name but it’s deep fried chicken with Okra and spices. The thick, slimy soupy goodness is had over white rice. Surprisingly tasty.

On the train back from the market an interesting family of three joined our train. The Mom, had a shaved head and rolled a stroller trailed by her daughter who appeared to be about 7 or 8 years old. The girl had thick long red hair and a large cookie which she held in adult sized hands. She had an adult sized torso but short, straight legs. She had to roll face first onto the felt train bench because her legs couldn’t bend. With feet stuck straight into the aisle, she munched away. It appeared that her fingers weren’t bending around the cookie properly. I tried not to stare. She looked up at me and smiled a big chocky chip grin. Her mom ripped off a bit of the treat and fed it to her baby who had the smallest little hands. I wish I could remember having hands that small. The Cookie girl and her mom distracted the baby with a slinky. As we all exited the train at Newport, the mom, who had a tattoo creeping up her neck, told Cookie off in a stern Mom voice. Cookie replied “Okay Mother of Death. Mother of darkness.”  I realized that we cannot choose our own nicknames, they must be given to us. Since she is the Mother of Death, I will live with Lauz.

Playing with the light

Sliced my finger with a utility knife to make this little mock-up.

The Melbourne City Baths

Every Monday a box of fruit comes into the office. A great idea. When someone gets cranky from low blood sugar, they are directed to the communal fruit box. I grab an apple before I head off to the pool after work. Oh and speaking of the pool, it is my new love! While I was turned off by the massive sales pitch to sign up for the gym, I am now thoroughly enjoying my membership (and the backpack, cap, goggles and water bottle that came with it). Here is a visual of the building. It is 140 years old.

Now for the best part- the spa/sauna. As soon as I hop into the 30 meter pool to swim laps, I think about relaxing in the sauna. I only get in 15 minutes of a workout, but it is enough. The place is a drug. Once I throw in a facial at The Smooth Day Spa, I will never leave. I get home at nearly 9pm. I walk down the dark driveway towards a well lit house. When I open the door, dinner smells scurry out and I sit down to join my new family for a late Brazilian dinner. Always so late; never disappointing. Big meat eaters.

Press love for the Impulse Circuit

Our project, Impulse Circuit, is getting a little love from the press. Check out the video from the expo and see Ashley eloquently describe the project in detail. And, this  article en Francais! Oh and the Daily Bruin has an article on us, I believe it was on the front page last week.

In other news,  I have moved into a new place in Newport. I now live with a beautiful Brazilian couple.  One, a lighting designer at the office and the other is an architect at one of the largest firms in the city. We all live in a quiet suburb of Melbourne with a flower/fruit shop just down the street. The flower shop guy lives above his store, so he can afford to stay open late.  For the house-warming party this weekend, I bought some beautiful yellow and orange Daisies and arranged them with a delicate purple flower.

It was Natasha’s Birthday on Saturday too. All of her Brazilian friends, some people from the office and many architects from Bernardo’s office stopped by. It was a great group of people. I am learning more about Brazilian culture, food, and lifestyle than I am about the Aussies. We had Canjika and a cake made with fennel seeds. Yum. The party lasted for about 12 hours- from 1pm-1am. I even tried BBQ chicken heart. The plate was passed around and everyone was indulging.  Didn’t want to be rude but I just didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Oh it was so chewy and lasted way to long in my mouth. Not a big fan of organs.

At work the other day I had my first AUTOCADD test. Take a plan, from the architect, and input a series of numbers and codes that correspond with detailed drawings of lighting fixtures. These lighting documents are given to the electricians when the building is wired. I think I passed.  A mistake will throw the whole circuit off, yikes! See below for the CAD drawing I was working in…

A new environment...Autocadd Light

I come into work at about 9:30am via the train which takes about 30 minutes. Natasha and I leave the house by about 8:40. The walk to the station is about 15 minutes. In the morning it has been chilly and the trains are crowded. This morning, I was spacing out while  holding onto a ceiling rail and my entire arm fell asleep.  I looked up at my hand to see that it was turning a ghostly shade of purple. I looked around to see if anyone noticed and made eye contact with several tired looking Aussies. The trains are quiet; too quiet. So when Natasha and I talk about work, I feel like everyone is listening; or annoyed. The view during the commute is industrial. The city is not what I imagined from the films and glossy travel magazines. Where are all the bleach blond surfers and white sandy beaches? I can’t even wear my sandals.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Here is a visual for the model I made this week. J gave me the plans as you can see above and I recreated it to scale, twice. The second time, I made sure all the edges and corners met up cleanly and I double checked my cuts. My dad always said while we drafted wooden boat plans onto sheets of plywood – measure twice cut once. Tip, it helps to have a super sharp pencil because even 1 mm off can throw a box off center.

I figured out the Americano mystery thanks to my co-workers. Ordering a coffee here is just like ordering an Americano, they don’t really make drip coffee. So next time you are in AU, just order a long black.

Oh, and after an intense footy game, never say, “so who were you rooting for?” Especially to a co-worker on your first day while trying to make a good impression by mustering up some small talking skills.

AU slang dictionary: Root (verb and noun) : synonym for f*ck in nearly all its senses: “I feel rooted”; “this washing machine is rooted”; “(s)he’s a good root”. A very useful word in fairly polite company.

Tonight while walking home from work, I snapped this photo off the moon. I tried to rotate it but no go- so tilt your head to right and enjoy.

There is an eerie quality during dusk and into the evening. All the shops roll down their steel doors at 6pm. By 7ish, the streets become scarce, and by the time I get to East Melbourne, the air and the energy is still, quiet, and haunting. It is hard to describe. Maybe it is just the neighborhood. But old Victorian houses with gates enclosing verandas and stone walkways, show no signs of being inhabited. I occasionally spot the dim glow of a single light nestled in a back room and then I realize I am being creepy. But there is no one around to notice me peering into windows. Very few cars pass through the generous boulevards with grassy meridians and round-a-bouts. Curious. I imagine at any moment, people popping out of houses and apartment buildings to say, surprise, we were just seeing if we could scare you a bit. But nothing happens. So I continue my walk, key in the passcode to my temporary living arrangement, and open the door to my room-  two beds, a tv, and a kitchenette with a stainless steel counter top.

Oh, one more thing, I want to be a lighting designer. For real. This is why. Go here. Click on english>projects>media>find the building in Vienna that comes alive with programmed patterns of LED’s.

No worries mum, I’ve arrived!

It’s been about 3 days since my arrival to Melbourne. Popped into Sydney for a layover. No dust storms as mentioned in many newscasts but some great duty free shopping.  Since I am trying to adopt a minimalist lifestyle, I decided to pass on the high end fragrances and the face cream scraped from the bottom of the ocean.

Melbourne is a bit nippy. With the wind, it feels like piranhas are snapping at my exposed hands and face. The only thing to cure cold hands is coffee. I tried to order an Americano yesterday; either there are too many A’s and R’s in the word for any Aussie to understand me, or they just don’t make Americanos here.  After my awkward explanation, the barista brought out a cup of watery espresso and a creamer dish filled with hot water. Hmmm.

After my coffee I headed over to the ACMI in the CBD of Melbourne. There is an exhibit on Len Lye, who I studied a bit while in school. Perhaps I wasn’t in the right state to appreciate him back in the day.  I left the museum so inspired; he is a true genius.

Lye was born in 1901 in New Zealand. When he was my age, he spent time with indigenous tribes of Australia and Samoa. He lived in London and New York. Not only did he make beautiful animations by painting onto the film, he also made kinetic sculptures. One in particular really caught my attention. Imagine a giant flexible steel circle blobbing around under the weight of gravity and some other mysterious external forces. Every so often this steel orb would rise just high enough to collide with a tennis ball sized wooden sphere. When this happened, a sound, so resilient and beautiful, would startle everyone who was quietly enjoying the exhibit. So great. Check out a collection of his video works here.

Click to view film by Len Lye

Over lunch today with my new work colleagues, ( it was my first day), I brought up the Lye exhibit. As it turns out, the firm designed the lights for this exhibit. Beautiful tones of red guide each visitor down a stairwell into a darkened exhibt space. It really sets the mood for the intensity of the work.

Speaking of the new job, everyone is so very friendly. I have a desk and my own office supplies and even my own email address with the company. It feels so official. The office is cozy with space heaters, a coat rack, a water cooler, and big windows to let in natural light.

My first assignment was to make a model of a porcelain light fixture. I ran downstairs and across the street to the art store to buy pure white board, the color of porcelain. My first cuts were horrid, (blame it on the knife), my second cut was off  a bit ( I blame it on the conversion to metric) and my third cut would just have to do (because I was running out of board). I hate to say this but it took all afternoon to build a lop-sided fixture. I thought I had this assignment in the bag considering how many models I made while working at the Getty. But recreating a beautiful curved light fixture to scale is a lot different from making a little box to resemble a podium. Needless to say, I have to redo it tomorrow. I was going to stay late but the art store was closed and my stomach we roaring for cheap greasy noodles from the Thai House up the street.

Anyway, Melbourne is great. It reminds me a bit of all the cities I have traveled to recently. There are Victorians with wrought iron fencing; this reminds me of New Orleans. The extensive trams and trains remind me of Portland. The culture and art reminds me of Montreal and the weather seems a bit like San Francisco (moody and unpredictable). Groceries are very expensive, kinda like New York. 3.50AU for a small cup of yogurt!

Ready to check out or start a career?

Before going out to San Francisco for the Conference I took the Amtrack’s Coast Starlight down to LA. I woke up when we reached Davis, ready to start the day again, ready to work. But I realized there were no power outlets aside from strangely placed three pronged smiley face outlets just above a cramped toilet. Could I be that crazed, overworked person who works in the 3 by 3 foot stall for the convenient power source. No, not gonna go there. So I talked to the unemployed Portlander who traveled nearly 20 hours out of her 30 hour trip towards San Diego. She mentioned the good unemployment packages in Oregon, complained about an influx of rich hipsters in her neighborhood, lamented the loss of her awesome movie theater job, discussed getting a masters in Multimedia, and of course, praised Portland’s great bar scene, (I can attest to this after my winter wonderland visit last December). She sighed a dissatisfied, heavy sigh of someone who grew up way too privileged. Now, with the weight of the world on her shoulders and all the responsibilities of being “grown up,” she was ready to check out.

I always share an armrest with an unexpected character. From Los Angeles to Sacramento I shared a stuffy UA flight with an investments adviser who was returning from a meeting with a Big Time movie producer. I tried to describe my career goals to him but he thought I was in marketing (even after a lengthily explanation of current projects). He was pretty disconnected from my world, as I was from his world. Get this, to avoid using the computer, a part-time assistant prints out his important emails every morning for him. To find some sorta common connection, I told him about my plans to invest in a solid mutual fund when I have enough to save.  He mentioned it would be better to save in a Roth IRA, where I can pay taxes on the moolah before it gains interest. Then his voiced lowered to a whisper, as if he was sharing a piece of information only the wealthy would pay to hear; buy low sell high. Oh come on, that was his one piece of advice I should remember?! Well I would’ve told you that; we all took the required economy course in high school. Oh my favorite concept from that class was diminishing marginal utility. It makes so much sense. The more you have of something the less value it has. Say for instance the more airline peanuts I am offered, the less valuable or tasty they will seem. Anyway,  his voice lowered even further as he told me to invest in silver and gold. Okay I gave it away. I shouldn’t be blogging this. You didn’t hear it from me.

I met an even stranger character from From San Francisco to Sydney. His name was Steve, the Aussie. He loved to hear himself tell a story. He also liked to order mini bottles of  Jack for me. “I’ll take the Jack and Coke and she’ll have the same.” Um no. He knew I couldn’t have a mini bottle before I took my one prescription sleeping pill, unless I wanted to pull an M.J.  The flight attendant, with rosy cheeks and a tailored poly-blend pant suite, asked if the liqueur was for us both, as she wasn’t allowed to give more than one bottle per person. Did I mention that this same flight attendant asked if I was over 15 when I arrived at my emergency exit row seat!!  Anyway, he smiled at her with beautiful crinkled sparkly eyes.  She handed over the bottles following up with three more double rounds throughout the flight. Next, he described how he made bootleg liqueur out of yeast, sugar, water. Um, I think you’re missing something I said. No, the yeast eats the sugar and we skim the waste off the bottom and do that two more times until we have a liqueur that is say, 90 proof. The result is a clear, tasteless liquid that lingers like a good slap in the face. After his stories about bootleg alc., water skiing w/ one ski, Canoeing across Minnesota, working the slot machines in Vegas (using his patented technique), and visiting a vacant strip club that afternoon in SF, I took one of the two Ambient given to me by my temporary doctor. The doctor who had no answers for my excessive bruising but did have a nice cure for a long long flight. My eyes opened as the attendants handed out food sealed in dimpled black plastic microwave dishes, coated in grease, sodium and preservatives – yum.  I was so out of it. I saw the steel cart rolling down the aisle, one mile per hour. Needy passengers under piles of luggage and food wrappers ponged their needy “I need” lights while opening pop tops… ssschtzzzzzsch. Did I mention that I accidentally left my I pod,  books and any other form of entertainment in my checked luggage. Whhhyyyy?

Steve wanted me to guess his age, and I got it spot on, 27. In the natural progression of getting to know you topics, I brought up the “so, what is it that you do?” He asked if I really wanted to know. “Oh not if you don’t want to talk about it.” Well, he took a sigh and described his job as an underwear inspector. I must be gullible. He kept that story going until he mentioned he was responsible for making sure all the “bits” were in place while on photo shoots and general marketing events. Okay, cut the crap. He never actually told me what he did. He said that everyone in the States seems to be so curious about his profession so he would much rather make up a new professional guise each time an inquiry arises. Perhaps in America we are too caught up in what we Do. Work starts to define we are, as it is becomes such a big part of our lives. That’s just scary. Next thing you know, I will be walking down Market street in the financial district of SF wearing various shades of business blue, creased slacks, pointy pumps and my hair will be smartly pulled back in a low bun. To top it off,  an expression of smug importance. Actually no, I would need an biz/econ degree for that path and an assistant to print out only my important emails, placing them squarely on my desk before I arrived.

Sorry for the tangent, now back to Steve. When writing his declaration for reentry into Australia, he wrote down Escape Artist under the profession section. He showed it to me, explaining “this is one of many jobs I tell people when they ask.”

I finally made it to Melbourne after the 20 hour travel time including layover. On my taxi ride from the airport I watched a man in a uniform washing a bus stop with a long-handled brush. He was so thorough and detailed with the hard-to-reach spots. It really shined. I wanted to know more about his life. Was he happy? Could I be happy with a job like that? Do I need to go out and invest in business casual attire to land a good job, so I can invest in a Roth IRA and wait to live it up when I retire? A lot of people went down this path and recently lost most of their savings. Should have invested in silver and gold…

One year ago

It’s Sunday evening, no actually it’s Monday morning, and I have a strange feeling. I will not be going into my internship tomorrow and I have yet to decide if I am happy about this. Is it over, really? During the spring quarter of my last year at UCLA, I was consumed with thoughts of this city and this job. Now, all I can think about is the next step. It all happens so quickly. I am really living Life. There is no returning to the known patterns and schedules that school provides. So odd.

I was looking back, thinking about my birthday one year ago.  I sat at a bar, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, hoping I could convince the bartender to make me a Mojita, (the female, thus sweeter, version of an already sweet drink). I forgot my ID that night and luckily I was with my Aunt who knows everyone in that small Northern California town.

I was living a simple and secluded life last summer. I wanted to prove, to myself, that I could be alone, completely, comfortably, alone. So I lived in a small cabin a mile off highway 1, just 10 miles South of the Historic Coastal town of Mendocino. I had my own garden to tend to, a cat to care for and a kitchen where I experimented making yogurt out of yogurt. Pretty much all yogurt has the live culture that allows you to reproduce it with milk, time and a little warmth. I think I am missing something because it never quite turned out right. Anyway, that summer I would take my lunches to the nearby beach and burrow my feet into the rocky shores as I watched Abalone divers bob in the surf. In my cabin I had no internet, no tv, no cell service to distract.  I indulged in daily meditations- sewing (preparing for the fashion show the next spring), reading  (Hemingway mostly), cooking, yoga, sketching and writing. These verbs became essential parts of my daily routine. When I was not in the cabin or at the beach I was working at the Mendocino Hotel. Some say it is haunted and I would believe it. The owner kept the antique table lamps and chandeliers, just bright enough to illuminate oak tables, wing backed chairs, aging mirrors, framed landscapes, sparkling goblets, and aged locals drinking whiskey neat or perhaps a tourist from a San Francisco suburb, working on her 3rd perfectly pink Cosmo. It was a strange place. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I was a server, a busser, a  runner and a hostess for a group of tables where people felt free to move around (it was a lounge type area). I would sneak cups of soup and bread in the break room and after my late shift, I walked along wooden planked sidewalks to my little red car. At night, the distant ocean glimmered as a reminder to plan my daily beach picnic for the following day.  In the town on those nights, the only sounds were hallow, distant laughs from the one and only local bar.

I spent app. 2 months in Mendocino. My Aunt has lived there for 30+ years. On her off days from the hotel, she pranced around her garden with ease, pointing out delicate veggies we would eat in Big Salad. In her cabin, unfinished art projects sat in an uninsulated room.  A chicken coup is out back, behind a rustic kitchen, where mason jars are filled with items sold in bulk from the local natural foods store. Her prized chickens, the ones who survived the bear attack, provide brown eggs so perfect they embody the complete life cycle. I will take that one scrambled, fried, poached and over easy please. It was such a simple life there.

I did an absolute 180 coming to New York this summer, but the premise was the same. I told myself that if I could make it here, amongst the company of so many strangers and activity, I would be okay in Life. This city is a little microcosm of the world. Everyone comes here. Sasha says, it’s only the best of the best who flock to this city. Every day we meet another person with Big Plans to move here.

But me, I am finally getting the hang of things here. I have the perfect spot for my metro card in my wallet. On my late night c train commutes, I can close my eyes and count the stops so that I wake up when the doors wheeze open with a sigh at 135th. On the streets, I ignore the men who taunt me with crazy, glazed over eyes. And I won’t get lost now discovering that traffic moving one way on Even street numbers will always head East, and traffic on odd streets always heads West. Lastly, I learned that Carob will never be a substitute for chocolate, but I guess I didn’t have to come to new york to figure that one out.

So where do I belong? I miss California but there is more opportunity out here in New York. I need to be in a city with the ability to find the serenity of small town Mendocino life. Could I find it in my next destination? Could it be in Melbourne? If so, it would be awfully far from the comfort of family and friends. But then again, I feel like I am meeting the same characters that I knew back home. I see people on the street and I think, hey, I know you.

I need a new challenge; I need to go abroad.