Tea Bella Valentine’s Day Jewelry Trunk Show- Feb. 4th, 5th, 11th & 12th

Once upon a time a handsome young man smoking a Cuban cigar was startled into instant love by a sun kissed woman sauntering across his path.  This man, so enraptured by the beauty of Pilar Torres-Gownder’s, mother, thought it best to express his magic by making her jewelry imprinted with his promise of joy and laughter forever more.  Tea Bella Jewelry Resellers continues her father’s spiritual legacy of sparkling romance through, precious unusual gems and stones, by hosting a Valentine’s Day Jewelry Trunk Show. Please visit and spend time at the Breukelen Coffee House for two weekends, February 4^th and 5^th and February 11^thand 12^th, 2012 and enjoy feeling worshiped.

Grace Tea Bella Jewelry Resellers with a chance to hear your unique love story.  If your story is still a study in the power of attraction, purchasing nicely priced costume, vintage, and contemporary pieces, is certain to magnetize your heart and imagination into loving your friends, and mate with a new found creativity. Plush and simple pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, rings, and bracelets come together as a feast of jewels that dazzle and hypnotize.  The organic coffee and fresh delicious pastries of Breukelen Coffee House add to the warm and fuzzy atmosphere a Valentine’s Day Trunk Show is sure to invite.  Pilar Torres-Gownder will be available to hear your love story while offering adornment advice. Wear a Tea Bella Jewelry piece of magic and  experience instant love!

About Tea Bella Resellers:  A consummate business creative, Pilar Torres-Gownder, combines a background in marketing and event planning to bring to Tea Bella Trunk Shows a rich visual experience.  Inspired by her father who was an entrepreneur and jeweler, Pilar says,”I love how the simplest piece of jewelry transform into marvelous artwork when a client puts it on.  Each client gifts me with an opportunity to throw sparkle and color that honor my passion for collecting and reselling to everyone who is just as enthusiastic as I am about adorning themselves in timeless and refined beauty.”

Date: Saturday and Sunday, February 4th, 5th, 11th & 12th Time: 11-5pm

Location: Breukelen Coffee House, 764 Franklin Ave., #A, Brooklyn, New York

Media Contacts: Pilar Torres-Gownder

                                    teabella25@yahoo.com

                                    Anika Lani

                                    anikalani@gmail.com

                                    347 781 8934

the storm and the tea (fiction)

merline boiled a pot of tea. the young mother sat at the small wooden table cold and still shivering.  merline moved about the dim kitchen humming a rain song.  she peeked out the window at a charcoal sky.  the hurricane is coming after all. she smiled at the young woman who had stopped shaking.  the woman’s eyes stared straight ahead out the window.  merline asked- you live over here? no one is fool enough to pass through these woods if they don’t have to.  the woman sat silent.  she turned her eyes to the stove.  merline watched her. let the tea set some. the lemon and pepper will work on your chest better that way.  the woman folded and unfolded her hands in her lap.

outside the sky rolled and heaved smoke laden clouds over each other.  merline worried.  a stranger had entered her home.  the shelter was too far away.  there were two women upstairs whose births would not wait out the storm.  the woman wore a green parka, green men’s rain boots, and nothing over her legs.  merline stopped taking in boarders and runaways years before.  arthritis was her new battle.  before each birth she prayed her legs would remain sturdy.  she soaked brown paper bags in warm vinegar and wrapped them around each leg before she settled in bed for the night.  she needed them as limber as a seventy year old woman’s legs would get.  she still had to crouch and kneel to grab a baby’s head and shoulders.

she slid her feet across the linoleum floor to the stove.  she grabbed a cup on the wall hanging next to the stove and poured the tea.  she gave the woman a blue cloth napkin and a spoon. you like it sweet? the woman, the young mother, shook her head.  she fumbled with the teacup handle.  she slurped a sip. greenish clear tea dribbled from a corner of her nervous mouth.  she whispered thank you.

a good mascara is eyelash yoga & some notes on beauty in a jar

i am in the middle of reorganizing my beauty methods.  what has worked in the past is no longer effective for my personal 21rst century glamor.  i stride best in gold sparkles dusting my eyes and a sun gold lipstick underneath a nourishing clear mint gloss picasso’ing out my lips. pewter and indigo iridescent lipsticks tint just right if applied in kind lighting. i am most calm and polished with a regular beauty regimen that lasts through epoch moments of my life.  for years i scratched and greased my scalp with carol’s daughter mimosa hair honey, a tangy blend of red clover, cocoa butter, marigolds and shea butter (shea butter is my least favorite moisturizer, but i’ll write an entire scroll on the subject later).  since her corporate takeover of natural skin and haircare, lisa price, has had to modify her ingredients to add more perfume and preservatives. i still use them but the mimosa has become a bit saccharine in scent for my taste.

the products i miss?

please.

carol’s daughter had a potion of a eau d’ toilette called delish.  a few sprays of delish on all the right body parts and a batting of the lashes lured all the boys to the yard.  there was a yellow creme brew called belly butter that smelled like vanilla lemon cake.  it was a light and fluffy frosted lotion for women who were pregnant. i tried it once in the store and was super hooked to its soft texture.  i swear it worked as a hex on stretch marks.  by the time i was pregnant i had been using the belly butter for five years.  my heart experienced a crackling of tiny fractures once i learned the product was discontinued. noooooooooooooo! hooooooooow could yoooooooooooooou!!!! i was ready to go to blows with the always lovely store manager. alas, i had to weigh the crisis on a world stage of atrocities and buck up; the body rocking beaker of goodness was party dun, son.

makeup needs a band. grunge guitars, electric bass and drums of flames should accompany the range of choices a woman faces at a macy’s counter or while flowing purposeful through the aisles of a brooklyn beauty supply store.  drake’s verse on i’m on one with dj khaled, where he rhymes, two white cups and i got that drink/could be purple/it could be pink/dependin on how you mix that sh*t- can spread right across my eyelids. a thorough brick blush shadowed by a pomegranate copper slight wind of color brings forth a natural cheekbone angle and moist flush.  i get it.  sexy is defined by an ooze of internal pheromones strategically tapping random points of air, hitting inside a handsome pair of staring eyes walking in my direction and steering my hips to sway to ice cream truck jingles, police car sirens, and the crass yet unmistakable accents of smiling f*ck outta here’s.  sexy in a jar further augments a pheromone theater production.

ever since parting with my old primping staples i have traveled fifth avenue and fulton street’s psychedelic wonderlands of crazy shiny pastel salves, scents and tints. rose lip gloss mixed with iced silver white.  turquoise and platinum lip paint so lips can mimic the rise and fall of sea tides.  tangelo gold tagging the air in conversation. moisturizing potions have come and gone in failed formulas and  promises.  i still hold out hope for a glittery burnished chocolate tanning lotion with blond highlights  for black women.

through definite hits and misses i have accumulated better, if not more subtle, beauty secrets. i have had to tone down because well, i, well, am ahem, aging. confident in my new regimen, i mustered enough courage to skip purchasing vogue’s age issue this year.  in my early twenties while working at a natural cosmetic shop i learned a valuable phrase; glycolic acid.  reaching for forty’s throne i have discovered another valuable marketplace piece of vocabulary; the falsies- volum’ express.  because every eyelash needs a gentle close your eyes, inhale slowly for om, now stretch, arch and curl upward and hold the pose.

child rearing and amy winehouse

i never saw amy winehouse perform her rehab magic. i was flummoxed by the rehab record.  here, cooing and howling over the airwaves, a young and troubled woman hustled her addiction through an innate throaty harmony.  amy winehouse wound the world around her finger though her body was frail and confused in couture jeans.  i first heard her wail off in the distance listening to a remix of she and ghostface killah mash up her band’s indie grit and serenity and ghost’s residual wu battle, hood stressing, and record label warring.  i downloaded the track into my library. at the time i thought i was luckier that i stumbled upon a ghostface remix than finding out about amy winehouse.

when my son was in first grade he walked in the door one evening, kicked off his sneakers, leaned against the wall grinning like a koala bear, singing winehouse’s no-no-no…he did not understand the preceding line -they told me i should go to rehab, so he hummed it, trailing off, then picking up again in delight when the verse again returned to…no-n0-n0.  i stopped, blinked my eyes a bit bewitchingly, and asked him where he heard the song. school, of course.  all children should be six years old and own ipods. yeah? all first grade children who own ipods should be in charge of downloading their own music. sounds like a responsibly smashing idea?  rehab proved a smashing hit, one that tuned up the ears of the kids. i felt conflicted in my strong belief that music is the freest space and should remain so for the soul investment of a society, next to privacy, when veering the looking glass onto first amendment rights.  i do not want my son or his friends, after completing homework, to feel desensitized to a young woman in pain but her song treats her drug habit like a play thing so it is alright to dance to it? wrong.  amy needed a major healing long before diving inside the glamorous mythology of a world renowned pop star. as it turned out rehab dropped out of amir’s environmental rotation pretty quickly.  i ended up forgetting to talk to talk to him about moral imperatives and the evils of corporate music.

i thought about amy winehouse, how she could not locate a nurturing chord for herself though her fame relied on her chords bringing to the public a gift of sonic excellence.  to skirt that maintenance of sentiment- everything’s gonna be fine- again and again. to search for a lasting point of genuine inner communion with self love, ideal passion and the ability to lift up a voice into folks’ personal heavens and keep missing it, must be torture.

in 2011 just before amir’s school closed their doors for its summer vacation, amy winehouse returned to our vortex of post dinner conversation. i asked him if he remembered coming through the door that night singing no-no-no. he did not remember the moment, though he remembered the song. he asked me if she was still alive. growing up brooklyn urban, even if we only listened to woeful gospel hyms he would still know about biggie and tupac.  he asked if we could watch the rehab video on youtube.  i do not want amir to run away from home because he was swag deprived. if he is on the therapist’s couch along the yellow brick of his future it will not be because he lived without a wii system or that i never broke down and traipsed around the city for graphic playing cards.  he just may go to the shrink, for not being able to listen to amy winehouse without hearing a scared straight lecture about drug use and the horrendous food in juvenile detention centers.  i told him, he could listen to the song. he needed to know that winehouse made a record that asks her fans to financially support a terrible illness.  he asked why so many singers become addicted to drugs. i said it is the fast life, the pressure from bosses to bring home millions of dollars in record sales while most of the population downloads everything free. there is a hole of loneliness that many artists have to routinely stitch up and struggle through. it comes with the territory of being able to move someone to an awe of stillness with a spirit of genius. he cocked his head to the side when i made an analogy between sadness and a sudden inspiration to sing an aria that reaches whales.  why would you have to be depressed to sing and draw? i pray that what adults understand as odd and normal he continues to perceive as just odd.

we watched amy belt the force of herself alongside those husky gold horns in the video mesmerized.  the pull of notes from the mouth of a saxophone spliced with her symphonic insouciance lulled us into her heart of watery deep bass and human pulse. neither of us resisted her dark splendor of pooling blood over the song- they told me i should go to rehab but i said no-no-no. we agreed. amy is talented. i did not have to talk about her drug of choice. the video, her marble black eyes peering through the camera, mixing music and friends with toxins and darkness, had us contemplating amy winehouse’s life and second chances.  amir and i cleared the table chatting like little birds about how songs that are bad for your vibrations are so addictive. rehab, for all my lecturing, paradoxically pulled a funky amy winehouse into the light of non judgement. she sang that song, for true, casting to the wind a care of anyone’s opinion of her choppy emotions and addiction. i wish her rebellion had been enough to keep her alive and still trying to get right with her style of depth.

honey eye spy

do not ever front on 9th wonder. when i met you. a most gracious beat.

me, dating, and the zodiac: aries, taurus, gemini

1. aries are definitely looking out for number one.  though from mars, they love deep and well. they don’t mind falling off cliffs. it’s the thrill of the fall that keeps them doing it over and over again. an aries takes charge and takes off. they don’t do needy.  so one just needs a healthy dose of security, a full life of their own, and a little knowledge of gentle reprimanding and withholding from a baby to promote long term benefits as a contributing socially conscious adult.  when they huff and puff, i wink and put on my firelady outfit.

2. i love to snuggle with those solid manly taureans.  their biggest secret is that they can brood and cry rivaling a cancer’s emotional tidal waves. however, taureans are far more adept at the masquerade. taureans can be quite thoughtful about immediate needs.  abstract concepts in practical life don’t move them but in art, spark ingenuity. they are a good date.  they are loyal if with the right partner.  they’re gonna have a cute crib with the bills paid in advance.  they do require a remote control for the sports you bet they’re watching. they are addicted to information and stats.  but i think the venusian taurus’ artistry is downplayed on the surface. they love to dance and sing. they’re so creative.  they’re sweeties.  when those bulls begin to burrow their hooves deep into the earth and flare up those stubborn nostrils, i hold a red flag, flare right back wearing little else but stilettos and pretend we’re getting it on in spain.

3. to know and love a gemini is too engage in a witty polyamorous relationship though only one person stands in front of you.  these flirty fun intelligent creatures carry an extra person like some carry extra money. you never know when you’re gonna need a different point of view, another perspective, a robust vocabulary, or a well meaning contradiction.  geminis float on intellectual air. i’m not sure why they wear shoes except that they dig shopping.  if you have the tendency of a wandering eye a gemini is perfect for curbing an itch. you get to fall in love with two people and be surprised every time by which one of these chaps is showing up for the fun.  to diffuse an adverse spark that hurts the glee i tell em don’t argue with your shadow, just keep all four eyes focused on me.

Vodou in Brooklyn: Five Ceremonies with Mambo Marie Carmel by Stephanie Keith

In Vodou Brooklyn, Five Ceremonies with Marie Carmel, photographer Stephanie Keith captures the frenetic and sometimes severe essence of what Haitians practicing Vodou call the lwa or spirits.  Each lwa represents a tunnel of darkness alight with an internal divine/human adventure of the unknown.  Stephanie Keith earned a Master’s degree in photography from New York University and a certificate in Photojournalism from the International Center of Photography.  While embossing her professional career with photos and articles published in the New York Times, Rolling Stone and the Christian Science Monitor she was called to explore local themes of religious adherence and popular culture.  Three years ago she was invited to a party in a Brooklyn basement.  Ms. Keith’s first attendance to a Haitian ceremony was no ordinary jam replete with mp3 player hooked up to booming bass speakers, an ad infinitum flow of alcohol or women and men proffering themselves, beaming hubris peacock style, as potential mates.  Ms. Keith entered an uncharted dimension and became a puzzle piece to a larger specific ritual of drumming from an ethereal reservoir of elements that descend into experienced human forms.  The spirits are sought for their cosmic powers as political and social stars of improvement and placation in Haitian life.

What did Ms. Keith do with this “newness” of spiritual flow?  As a result of the ceremonial party to honor the energy of the lwa (spirit) Gede, Stephanie befriended Mambo Marie Carmel.  She rode a wave of esoteric prayer rapidly increasing in urban areas where those of the African Diaspora congregate and worship, and chose to photograph sensitive and serious moments of the divine “working” its physical hosts through devout ritual propitiation and theater.  This continuous re-enactment cleaves to unpredictable storytelling variables based on historical myths that accurately dramatize Haiti’s colonial and sovereign history while enriching a spiritual family with hope, faith, love, a good time and a stable future.  Haiti’s sweeping status around the world as just another poor free island in need of world bank aid periodically after a “natural disaster” invites unjust superstition about her religious belief systems and demeanor of her people.  Religious experience, if voluntarily accepted and absorbed, begets in a very individual manner, a constantly customized enchantment with God as a powerful corpus of information distributed through natural forces of earth, wind, fire, water and prophets.  Many people of all cultures court communication with natural phenomena without rallying it into the name God or spirit.  For some, nature just is what it is. For this particular spiritual family of Haitians who gather in Carnarsie, Brooklyn, though, forces of nature are God’s emissaries and wise counsel who demand payment for their appearance from incomprehensible yet still revelatory, live planes of speed and light.

Well, isn’t Stephanie Keith’s photographic research perfect fodder for the production of D grade science fiction movies that further alienate dominant familiar faiths such as Islam and Christianity from religions that, in a reality of immanence, are their sisters and brothers?  The divine favors no one sect over another. That is a comfortable human claim used to exercise control of fear over energies of life and death that are impossible to actually harness.  In Haitian Vodou which originated in Dahomey Africa, there are instances where glimpses of non material reality and how that space is utilized for an expanded consciousness is granted with the right altar to a spirit, the right party for its love, and properly recited liturgy at its sanctified sites. Stephanie freezes these slivers of fate in tireless action. Young women smile sweetly in white cotton frocks and satin purple paisley dresses though they are adorned for the tricky spirit that rules the underworld and unabashedly ribald sexuality.  Wide-eyed men who see only what they can see, grip their sweaty palms around consecrated black and steel daggers pantomiming a war and victory dance of Haitian predecessors, now lwas, who fought for their country’s liberation.  The ceremonial participants are photographed spitting rum as a positive omen, stepping through fire to prove miraculous powers manifest while possessed by a spirit, and whispering advice to join in representing an aspect of the divine stream of earth’s gift by surrendering to a mambo or houngan (priestess or priest) initiation.  The journey towards initiation must be tread poetically and responsibly as it is a refined road of existence for use towards celebrating and healing a complicated community of immigrant Haitians and those born in America.  The photographs zoom in on the intuitive architecture of elaborate altars of gold and white silk, expensive and imported bottles of rum, lit tall glass encased candles, plates of crushed eggshells, corpulent vases of red, white, pink, yellow, violet and fragrant bouquets, mugs of dark coffee, and effigies of catholic saints.  Cumulous swirls of cigar smoke culminate, to an initiate’s perception, in the shape of the spirit petitioned before inhabiting the body of the person poised to grant wishes.  In these Brooklyn basements that are transformed from tepid storage areas into classic Haitian hounfors (homes of worship), boundaries of perception loosen through sacred ritual singing, praying, and focused drum patterns that speak far past the mundane ceiling towards a spectacular and respected cosmos.

Stephanie Keith’s photographs are careful to frame expressions of trauma, consternation, and bliss in resistance to running stereotypes of Haitian Vodou portrayed in the popular imagination.  No bloodletting from the necks of chickens or super orgies color in the large pages delineating Haitian spiritual and coping life. Erroneous movie plots like Sugar Hill (1974) which uses a sexy woman to seek out the powers in Vodou as a funnel for revenge by leading a team of zombies to destroy the gangsters who murdered her man, find no legitimacy with Keith’s montage of local Brooklyn practice.  Barring a temptation to stuff Vodou Brooklyn in a false pantheon of works that feed ignorance and strengthen a religious imperative that disconnects from a true inner spirit, Stephanie Keith’s portraits offer an everyday view of a people, well acquainted with struggle, firmly centered in their religious expression of solutions and blossoming processes of love and freedom.