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Abigail Spencer: My Vanity Fair Moment
My father loved magazines. Not just loved. Lived. He lived in magazines. Literally. He was a famous professional surfer and he was in the likes of Surfer magazine ( Surfing , Longboard , etc.) all the time. He owns/owned (I never know which one to say) Innerlight Surf Shops on the Gulf Coast of Florida, and the ads for the shops were in the Surf Magazines, monthly. At the age of fifteen, he first started hitchhiking to the beach to see if he could borrow an extra board from one of the kooks — who were usually more into their girls than their guns. When he couldn’t get to the beach, he’d stay at home and teach himself to surf by tearing out all the pages of surf magazines and wallpapering his bathroom with each image. He would take a bath and: mind surf. Sitting in the water. The images of the great surfers and surf maneuvers all around, wondering if he too would be a great surfer, even if it meant by osmosis. Mind surfing was a practice my father kept up over the years. Going surfing with him was an event. We had to make sure we had our snacks. Our towels. Our change of clothes. Our green tea gum. Cell phones. Jugs of water to wash the sand off our feet. Proper music in the car. When we were situated, we’d slowly back out of the driveway — and I do mean “slowly,” there are no windows in the Surf Van, making it basically impossible to drive — and find our way over the bridge to the beach. We’d pull up, then leave our boards in the car and go down to the beach to just … watch. Those moments have become some of my most treasured memories. Sitting next to him, staring out at the horizon. Watching the swell. Him explaining to me where the rise and fall of the wave was. The current. Where I should start paddling to catch the wave at just the right moment. Too soon: wipe out. Too late: no glory. We’d also talk life. Trials, tribulations, dreams. He’d share his innermost personal thoughts and stories of youth. I learned so much about him during those mind surfing moments. I remember a pivotal one, where we walked along the beach as I contemplated quitting acting and the soap opera I was on, packing up my stuff from New York and moving home. He said he couldn’t imagine me not pursuing my dreams and being who I was, but that I was going to have to decide if I had the wherewithal, drive, diligence and perseverance to get through this moment … even if it was hard. He said the “hard way, was the right way … and the cool way.” ysiii mind surfing I never bought magazines for myself; my father brought them into my life. As I got older he would introduce new ones into the fold. Amidst the stacks of Surf paraphernalia, I would see New York Times Magazine . New Yorker, Reader’s Digest , even Vogue . But one stood the test of time: Vanity Fair . My dad would scour VF . Reading them cover to cover. Keeping them to show me stories he thought I would like. Tearing pages out and mailing them to me, thinking I might like the narrative behind this actor or that artist’s struggle in their path to being great. Interesting pieces on modern and timeless characters of our present history. My father loved biographies. He loved the true tales of interesting people that were shaping our culture. I get why he dug Vanity Fair . You feel smarter, somehow, for reading it. The stories are in-depth, with an interesting perspective. And the pictures. The pictures! Taken by the infamous Annie Leibovitz, Norman Jean Roy, Bruce Weber, and others (the list goes on and on), their work visually amplifies the articles. Vanity Fair was an experience. I never got a subscription for myself. Why would I, when I could just sneak the ones away from my father to “mind surf” about the subjects I had fallen in love with from an early age as I flip-booked the historical headlines and faces. My father took his last breath at County Line in Malibu while mind surfing. Sitting atop the semi steep cliff, I wonder if he was thinking about the stories of his life. His footprint. What someone would read about him one day in the likes of Vanity Fair or some-such? What he would say as he was preparing to meet the Lord? As he sat there, knowing he was having a heart attack, he called me to tell me he loved me. He died holding the Valentine’s Day card my mother had sent him. It was Valentine’s Day, and he went surfing that day, and he died while looking out at the waves, and holding my mother’s card to him. Did I mention it was Valentine’s Day? A few days later, I was back in my childhood home on the Gulf Coast of Florida, in my father’s office, preparing for his funeral. I had gotten a call that Vanity Fair wanted me to be part of a piece for VF Europe that famed photographer Bruce Weber was shooting. They had selected some actors “on the rise” that were going to have a big year. The reason for my inclusion was Cowboys & Aliens coming out in the summer, and This Means War , The Haunting in Georgia , and Oz: The Great & Powerful to follow. They needed me to fly to Los Angeles the following week if I were to partake. I declined the offer, as lovely as it was to be thought of … it was too soon. It was too soon to be … photographed. To have a Vanity Fair moment. I was in no state to be … full of vanity, and for sure wasn’t anywhere close to “fair.” And I couldn’t. I just … couldn’t. Sitting in my father’s leather swivel chair, looking at the plastic horizontal blinds and raffia-papered walls that I had known my whole life. Sitting in this room that had my father everywhere. Feeling him sit in that chair in front of the computer, eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich with a side of kettle chips as he would check the surf report online from various live casts around the planet. Or see Kelly Slater rip and win yet another title at the latest surf contest of some far off corner of the earth, I took in the room. Then I sifted through his desk, to see if there was anything pressing. Anything at all. The paper trail left behind of a life well lived. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar font. A famous font. The words: Vanity Fair . It had a little bar code, and was a thicker white stock. I tucked at the corner, and pulled out the mysterious card. I saw my name. I saw the date. February 14th, 2011. It was a subscription. My father had ordered me a subscription to Vanity Fair for Valentine’s Day. My Valentine’s Day gift from my father was a subscription to Vanity Fair . I called right away and told them that I indeed would be making the trip back to Los Angeles and would meet the photographer for the portrait session at Milk Studios. My father would not be able to see my Vanity Fair moment from this earth. And I wouldn’t be able to tip-toe around the corner of every room to see him pouring over the latest edition and have him recount the stories of note or the pictures that moved him. And I wouldn’t be able to see him flip through those pages and see me. But this Vanity Fair moment — his Vanity Fair moment — would, no must … live through me . Bruce knew all about my father. He opened me up and made me feel safe. He captured this very fragile moment in my life. He captured my soul. The movement of a fatherless girl. The heart of a woman in mourning. Bruce was so tender and loving, and fatherly. Forever, my Vanity Fair moment will be the story of my father beginning to love me in his passing … in ways he couldn’t in his presence. My father loved magazines. My father loved Vanity Fair . Now, when I look through the pages at the iconic portraits, larger than life celebrities, and “of the moment” culture shifters and shapers, I think… what was going on, really going on, behind the lens in their Vanity Fair moment? bruce weber & me Click here to see my Vanity Fair moment. Original post: Abigail Spencer: My Vanity Fair Moment
California Reader Privacy Law
The California Reader Privacy Act was signed into law by Governor Jerry Brown to cover new technologies like e-books, online book services and bookstores. The Reader Privacy Act ( SB 602 ) prevents government and third parties from demanding access to private reading records without proper legal justification. As great numbers of Californians use online book services to browse, purchase, and read books, California online privacy laws are attempting to stay current with developments, protecting reader privacy in a digital age of surveillance. The EFF and the ACLU co-sponsored the online privacy bill, which was authored by California State Senator Leland Yee . “This is great news for Californians, updating their privacy for the 21st Century.
The Secret to Clear Skin is in What You Eat
Face creams, lotions and potions can get expensive. But it turns out, you can look to the grocery aisle for the secret to clear skin. Visit link: The Secret to Clear Skin is in What You Eat
FAR OUT: Read John Lennon’s Letter To A Fan About Meditation
SANTA MONICA, Calif. — An online auction house is selling a 1967 letter that John Lennon wrote to a fan who had inquired about transcendental meditation. Nate D. Sanders Auctions of Santa Monica says the handwritten letter is expected to fetch $25,000 to $30,000. Bidding closes Oct. 11. In the letter, Lennon tells Jean Harrison she is “searching for something (truth) the same as everyone else.” He says the Beatles were lucky to have met Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, but that other teachers could instruct her. And he gives her the address of a school in London. Last month, Sanders sold a contract for a Beatles concert for more than $23,000. The pact, for a 1965 concert in San Francisco, stated the group would not perform for a segregated audience. Excerpt from: FAR OUT: Read John Lennon’s Letter To A Fan About Meditation
Helen Davey: Does This Mean I Don’t Have a Mommy Anymore?
As a writer, psychoanalyst and stewardess for Pan Am for twenty years, I’ve shared many personal feelings about my life in my blogs. My reason for doing this has never been so that you, the reader, will know about me. My goal has been to encourage you to think about your own life, in case what I have experienced and learned might be of some help to you. Today is a profoundly sad day for me — the day I’ve dreaded my whole life. My beloved mother died this morning, at the age of 96 years and 6 days, and she’s now at rest. I know that she’s been ready to die for some time, and for her, I’m relieved. For me, it’s a different story. I often ask my patients, when they accuse themselves of “feeling sorry” for themselves, that they change that shame-ridden phrase to one of “feeling sorrow ” for themselves. Feeling sorrow is about allowing ourselves to grieve. I know how important grieving is when we lose a loved one, but as a child, my family and I didn’t know how. My father was almost 30 years older than my mother, and when I was just six months old, he suffered a massive heart attack that nearly killed him. The doctors, unable at the time (1951) to help heart patients, predicted that my father would die with his next heart attack. Our lives became permeated with anticipatory anxiety surrounding the fear of his death, and my brother, sister and I savored each moment with him. When my father died when I was eight, our family life was completely shattered, and none of us, including my mother, had any idea how to mourn. We bottled up our feelings and rarely talked about him, concentrating instead on somehow surviving the loss of this man who was the idealized center of our world (See my blog, Counting My People .) My mother confided to me recently that she remembered nothing at all about my father as he lay dying in the hospital, or his funeral, or about the following years as we all floundered to find our way as a family through this very difficult time. She was obviously in a traumatized state. Her father had died when she was only three, and she had no memories of him. She did, however, remember one exchange with me, her youngest child. After days of being very quiet, trying to take in the magnitude of what had just happened, I came to her and said, “Does this mean I don’t have a Daddy anymore?” So, as a psychoanalyst who writes about trauma, I recognize that the death of my mother transports me back into that old, familiar, traumatized state, and I feel, once again, eight years old and bereft. My Mommy has died. She, after all, is the person who knows me best, my biggest fan who is incredibly proud of any little thing that I accomplish. I know, of course, how lucky I am that I had her for so long, but for much of my life, I worried about losing her. I was never able to develop the usual absolutisms of everyday life that human beings develop in order to flee from the uncertainties of life and to maintain a sense of continuity, predictability, and safety. These are unquestioned beliefs and assumptions that most people unconsciously live by. For example, when you say to a loved one, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” it is taken for granted that you and the other person are going to be around. However, emotional trauma shatters these absolutisms, and children who experience early trauma experience a loss of innocence, and know that anything can happen at any time. For us, it is essential that there be a place where painful feelings can be verbalized, understood, and held — a relational home. Without it, emotional pain can become a source of unbearable shame and self-loathing, and traumatized people can fall into the grip of an impossible requirement to “get over it.” There is no “getting over it,” but with understanding, a person can learn to integrate the experience. When a child only has one parent left, that parent becomes extraordinarily important. My fear about losing my father immediately transferred over to fear of losing my mother. I remember sitting at my desk at school, hearing sirens outside. I would sit, paralyzed, waiting for the knock on my class door that would confirm my panic that my mother had died, too. Moreover, every child just wants to be like every other child — to have a family like everyone else. At the beginning of the school year, each student would have to stand up and tell everybody what their father did for a living. I would have to stand up and say, “My father is dead.” All summer long I would dread that first day, feeling the shame that I felt about being different, and enduring the awkwardness that others would feel about not knowing what to say. But if I had to have only one parent, I can’t imagine having a better, more loving mother than mine. Of course, I’m not saying that she was perfect, but my mother took over the responsibility of raising three children and caring for her mother, and if anybody ever had the right to play the “martyr card,” it would have been my mother. She never did. She always said that my brother, sister and I were the bright spots in her life. She always put our needs ahead of her own, and never, ever complained about it. Her life was all about helping others in any way that she could, and she was greatly loved and admired. I have a lifetime of stored memories about my mother. One time, when I was a senior in high school, I had a very difficult English test coming up, with a lot of memorization. I studied and studied and was very worried. My mother had read an article that said that, if a student has to do a lot of memory work, if another person reads the assignment to the student while they are asleep, it will help the student to remember. So sure enough, on the night before the test, I woke up a little bit to see my mother with a flashlight, softly going over and over the material. I remember feeling very loved, as I went back to sleep. And what I am most proud of as a daughter is that after I became a Pan Am stewardess, I was able to take my mother on many different trips all over the world. Last week, I found a snapshot of my mother, all stretched out in three seats for a snooze on a Pan Am 707 Clipper, with the biggest smile on her face that you could possibly imagine! In the photograph, she is her vibrant, energetic, loving self — my mother whom I will miss every day for the rest of my life. And I can’t help but wonder what this will mean, now that I don’t have a Mommy in my world anymore. Read the rest here: Helen Davey: Does This Mean I Don’t Have a Mommy Anymore?
