The Richness of Weekends

If there’s anything these last two years have taught me, it is this return to me and being comfortable with the things I love and a weekly routine inculcated when I was small. It brings me to this notion of how precious weekends are, especially when a birthday lands on them. This long holiday weekend, I’m discovering the music between the notes of an open road and a small-town charm with which I was first acquainted five years ago with a dear friend. While city-dwellers have now altogether swarmed Pescadero in California, at least for this weekend, I am still quite determined to hear them in the present in a newer context, with a little more bravado.

Personal Effects

I wasn’t sure if I could travel by myself, since I often go with a friend or family, especially if it’s for vacation. Last month, I went to Santa Barbara, and more than a long weekend getaway, a time of the year I don’t even typically go for a break, it was a reset of the relationship with me.  No sooner was I back in San Francisco, and it was as though my arrival cued in a kind of Spring awakening, one I wouldn’t have imagined as this.

I am effectively getting off that proverbial circular wheel most people I know are on and looking toward the next 20 years with more genuine optimism. A friend told me as long as I am facing the right direction–assuming it is toward the sun–while being introspective and letting the external circumstances take care of themselves, then I am on the right track. I am in the midst of its throes. After all, Spring has only just begun.

A World of Imagination

IMG_4818I wonder sometimes if this is all to life, whether there’s more.  And I realize there is, but there isn’t a “there, there” because that is even transformed into something else, typically unexpected.IMG_4819

Whatever the case may be, that is my mindset when I finally visited the new SFMOMA this month.  There always exist opportunities that present themselves if I keep turning the corner.

After a particularly frustrating work week, I made a beeline for the SFMOMA one Friday, which had opened after a two-year remodel.  Museums can be confining, as I often found this one to be.  Its expansion, however, does offer more breathing space. Minutes from closing time, I explored the free areas at lobby-level.

IMG_4822In the outset, Richard Serra’s “Sequence” at the rear looks like some big coil of teak Indonesian salad bowls that landed in its show space. However, as I navigated through them, they both are their own kind of maze and enigma of sorts.  It felt like a warren of canyons that I imagine coming upon in the Grand Canyon or the lost city of Petra in the deserts of Jordan, moving deliberately between narrow walls and incisions and anticipating what might be around the bend.

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It was oddly liberating that while my job is becoming predictable, life is far from it. There’s no way of knowing, reminding me once again the level of uncertainly we all live.  I had to get out of my head, and, like some pieces of art, “Sequence” released what was pent up: the urge to get away.

The Spy Who Loved Me

With these two on screen, sparks and intrigue undeniably fly. (Credit: the Everett Collection)

One of my favorite movies is Alfred Hitchcock’s “Notorious” about a woman who is recruited by the U.S. government to infiltrate a ring of Nazi sympathizers in South America after the war. But it is also a twisty love story between the broken yet alluring Alicia Huberman (Ingrid Bergman) and her dark, cool handler Devlin (Cary Grant). It’s the chemistry between the two leads that ignites the sparks that fly with the suspense exponentially. Without it, there would be no incident in the wine cellar or the impetus to dispose of another victim of a fringe remnant of the Third Reich.
Interestingly enough, I waxed poetic about another movie here.  “The Lake House” alluded to “Notorious” in its own narrative—a movie within a movie—to draw a comparison of two people who come together not only due to physical attraction, but also the gravitational pull toward one another as equals. It’s this force that drives romances and jumpstarts relationships. But it’s not the only thing to hang their hats.
I’ve said before, I’ve learned love has to insinuate itself into a relationship, or else it is a nonstarter. I’m probably not the poster girl for such a sentiment or truism, but I am moving toward it. For any relationship to exist, as a famous Beatle is quoted many times, love is the answer.

An Inner Game of Catch

Now my nephew fits into this equation.

Now my nephew fits into this equation. (photo by Rhodora Ayuyang)

It’s no secret to those who know me that I love sports due to my brother who realized the chances of having a brother were very slim.  So as the closest sibling, I was relatively his equal–more or less shaping me to be one–teaching me every sport he played.  One of my favorite things to do with him was playing catch in our front yard, more than likely because it was a relaxing remove from the competitive nature of sports. 
Taken by one of those friends who see me as me.

Taken by one of my friends who see me as me from the Apple Store on Union Square in San Francisco, CA; the two-level retractable glass door is a stunning design element.

 


I am reminded of an essay by Roger Rosenblatt “A Game of Catch”: “It’s hard to learn to play catch,” he writes.  “In the beginning, you use your arms to cradle the ball against your chest; then you use both hands, then one.” The natural flow of this carefree play wasn’t lost on MLB batting leaders at the time:  “Wade Boggs and Don Mattingly tossed a ball between them without a trace of effort, bodies rearing up and pivoting gently in a casual parody of a pitcher’s full windup toward the plate. … It was interesting to note even at their level, this was still a game of catch.” 


Connecting the bond between father and son and parenthood, it also points to the
 universal need to be understood and how it could be accomplished by very few words, like some of my closest friendships.  It is rather nice, for lack of a better word, and welcoming that nothing has to be spoken.  There is no talking to death, no need for gruesome or superfluous details, just the reassuring silence that I am seen by someone, and it requires very little conversation. 

The Soul in Architecture

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A plaza opened before us on our way to the Academia museum in Venice.

I read an article last year about what architecture means to some well-known practitioners in the industry, and it made me reflect what drew me to my current situation with an interior architecture firm.  I wondered why I hadn’t pursued design in the first place, what took me off track.  When I was 11 and I had my own room, I decided to be creative with some corrugated cardboard and reclaimed toy pieces to create tables.  But it felt more like a passing fancy.  As I got older, a new passion took over and held my interest to this day. Maybe discovering and articulating the soul in architecture is the purpose of being here, while working on the financial and legal side.

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It is said architecture is an expression of one’s world view.  It speaks to me none more so than in the confluence of cultures in restored Venetian building facades, and Venice’s plazas, San Marco being the ultimate manifestation of the public “living room” in an increasingly socially isolated world. Its cozy alleys that smack of claustrophobia, which if you let the discomfort pass, offer a level of intimacy that is rather personal, homey even. venetian-flag

Like the bustling under the windows of our pensionado during my 2008 trip there with my mom and sister, the pitter-patter of foot traffic was more a soothing murmur, not the profane cacophony of a major metropolis.  It was rather welcoming, the ambient sounds that would lull me into an eventual nap that afternoon.Serenissima room

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photo by Rhodora Ayuyang

 

In my Absence

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Sign of the Times: Chapel of the Chimes

Gosh, I look back at some of my blog posts up to date, and I realize I miss writing, like an old boyfriend or friend (none of which is mutually exclusive). As I see how other people’s lives unfold, I am aware I am living my own these last ten months. Much has happened in 2016, and while I’m inclined to bookend chapters in my life, it often plays out without a convenient break. Refusing to fit neatly in a tidy box, it is a messy proposition and overflows sometimes rather rapidly.

Having said that, I can’t promise fidelity to regular monthly entries, although I will try. Writing is a solitary, difficult endeavor when forced. It can’t often express everything inside me, although I love it so.

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