Legendary Vogue Editor Diana Vreeland’s 1962 pronouncement that pink is the navy blue of India made perfect sense to me the first time I heard it. At that time I had not yet traveled to India, but I caught her drift. My grandmother had been a firm believer in wearing navy blue for just about any social occasion. Navy blue with white trim was her favored ensemble for summer functions. And anyone knows a navy blue blazer with gold buttons is essentially de rigueur for summertime sunset cocktails at the club. Although I wore basic black during much of my New York City period, I am now back to dressing in navy blue – not just for summer, but all year long. Your thoughts please on Diana Vreeland’s quote.
What glass of wine would you sip while contemplating this quote?
I would choose a glass of 2009 Frenzy Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough Vineyards, New Zealand. Pineapple and grapefruit hints make this pale, young wine fresh and zesty. About $11-$12 a bottle. What about you? Stay playful. -Rozsa
Rozsa’s Weekly Excerpt
From Paris Adieu (2011) by Rozsa Gaston
In Paris, people-watching was an art form. Jean-Michel was a discreet observer of public conduct and style. I learned a great deal from his restrained commentary on the people around us. He wasn’t so much judgmental as he was instructional. Now he motioned to a woman with henna’d hair standing next to a man in line.
“Look at the woman there,” he said in a low voice. “You see her scarf?”
I glanced in her direction, catching sight of the long black, white and gray scarf loosely slung around her neck as I pretended to survey the crowd.
“Yes. What about it?”
“That’s how to wear a scarf,” he sniffed.
“Do you mean long like that?” The scarf was generous, draped over one side of the back of her black jacket.
“I mean everything like that. The black and white is chic, but would be too severe without the gray. The design is not too busy. And the way she wears it shows she knows how good she looks in it. The scarf has made her jacket come alive.”
My French boyfriend could have passed for a fashion stylist back home. I’d never had a conversation like this with an American man.
“It is chic, isn’t it?” I agreed.
“No. It’s not the scarf that’s chic,” he explained impatiently. “It’s the woman wearing it who is.” He squeezed my arm in reprimand.
“Right. That’s what I meant,” I corrected myself, chasing away a tiny cloud of irritation. His fussiness annoyed me, but he had a point. Who cared about a piece of clothing? It was the person who wore it who gave it whatever value it possessed. I wondered how I’d do in a black, white and gray scarf. Immediately I vowed to look for a similar one then practice draping it in the mirror.
Tugging at his arm, I led the way toward the placid pond in the gardens of the Palais de Chaillot. Fountains shot jets into the late afternoon air. The temperature was warm, the heat of the day still lingering as did the scents of trees, shrubs and flowers bursting into bloom all around us. My eye wandered over Jean-Michel’s rugged profile and leather jacket. Our relationship worked as long as he played teacher and I played student. Any other dynamic would upset his apple cart.
“Your thoughts?” he asked.
I smiled up at him. “You’re just right for me,” I said, leaving out ‘for now.’ Some things were better left unsaid. Especially things that couldn’t be changed.
He smiled back, but something wry rather than joyful was in his expression. “You say that because you’re leaving.”
“Do I?”
He was right. I’d said it because I had a way out. Otherwise, staring into the face of a man perfect for me at age twenty would have scared the living daylights out of me. I was far from ready for perfection. Ahead of me lay a whole world to discover; mistakes to be made. I wanted a placid home life one day far in the future — after college, a taste of the work world, and and a few significant romantic adventures that didn’t leave me heartbroken. At this point the oyster shell of perfection didn’t beckon to me as a permanent home. I just wanted to grab the pearl and make off with it.
From Paris Adieu (2011) by Rozsa Gaston
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