This is a repost from a post I did when I was living in Austin, Texas. I thought I would share a few of my favorite posts while I am off on a birthday getaway trip to Santa Barbara
Continue reading ‘Palms: A tree in four seasons’
La Belette Rouge means "The red weasel" in French
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Shock and grief has kept me pretty close to home the last seven days. And, Friday, when I was reading about PhD programs I will never attend, I found a link to the Rothko Chapel in Houston. In that moment a flood of associations came to mind. I thought of watching either Sister Wendy or Robert Hughes, that I cannot differentiate in my mind who it was that stood in front of Rothko Chapel talking about the spirituality of Mark Rothko’s work is a bit disturbing. But, as I watched either the art savvy nun with a crowded mouth of teeth tell me about the luminosity of the Rothko Chapel or the hard drinking, hard living and suffer no fools gladly Aussy art expert talking about the significance of Rothko’s repetition of rectangles, I remember saying to myself that I really wanted to see that chapel one day. There was a resoluteness to the intention. And, yet I never did anything to make it happen. I never for a moment said to myself that someday I would take a trip to Houston to visit the Mark Rothko Chapel and yet just because I hadn’t did not make the intention of my longing any less real.
So, when I saw that it was in Houston and I was in Austin, I knew I had to go. I knew that in my time of grief there could be no better sanctuary for me to sit in front of 14 Rothko canvas chapel. I remember every Rothko canvas I have ever sat in front of and the impact they have had on me. There were the beauties at the MOCA in L.A. that made me cry. And the unnamed canvases at the L.A. County Museum of Art that I sat on a bench to watch—unmoved by the people who filled the gallery—until tears once again overtook me as I sat in wonder at what and how Rothko did what he did to me. There was the trip to the National Gallery in Washington D.C. with a dear friend who has a passion for Buddhist art who I tried to explain the transcendent power of the formless divinity that Rothko captures—and whether or not she could see what I saw in Rothko she could see that I saw it. Rothko said, “The fact that people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotions…the people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when painting them. And if you say you are moved only by their color relationships then you miss the point.”
I woke Saturday knowing that this was the day. I was strangely nervous. I wondered if this spiritual sojourn could live up to my fantasy. Before we left I printed out the Wikipedia entry for Rothko so I could read it to He-weasel on our way to Houston and amp up his knowledge of Rothko, as we had a three hour drive and I figured after the first hour the novelty of seeing cows, horses and antique shops might ware off. When I got to the bit about the Rothko Chapel I saw that not far from it, and founded by the same Texas oil-billionaires, was the Cy Twombly Gallery. I lost it. See, in my list of artists whose works I would own if I had huge and vast sums of cash are Jean Paul Basquit, Jackson Pollack, Cy Twombly, and Rothko. So, not was I only going to see Rothko’s chapel I was going to see a gallery filled with the work of Cy Twombly. And for those of you who are not familiar with Cy, you may remember a story about a woman in a museum in France who so loved Twombly’s painting that she kissed it with red lacquered lips and she damaged the canvas that had an estimated value of over two million dollars. Loving Cy, as I do, I understand how it could have happened and I have to say that I empathize with her act of passion and yet feel for the museum whose piece is damaged. I do feel certain that piece’s value will go up in value with their newly installed graffiti of eros.
Ooh, I am sorry, this post may be long. I have a lot to say. Well, on our way to Houston we stopped at a store called “Buc-ee’s”and for those of you have never seen this place before all I can say is that you must see this for yourself. This place is the largest convenience store I have ever seen in my life–I would dare to say that it is the largest convenience store in the world. It is the Costco of convenience. I have never in my life seen so much junk food in one place. I was too overwhelmed by all the choices and so instead of getting anything I just marveled and helped He-weasel pick a tee-shirt. As his college team is the Beaver’s and there was all this Beaver merchandise he couldn’t leave with just his coffee and cinnamon roll. Even as I took in the shock and awe that is Buc-ee’s I thought of all y’all and I decided to take a photo. And after a few shots I saw that they did nothing to represent the enormous overwhelm I felt by the vastness of this place. I said to He-weasel, this place is kind of like Alaska–pictures just don’t do it justice.
Three hours later we drove up to the Rothko chapel and I was slightly uncomfortable about the surroundings—it all seemed so mundane. People lived across the street from the chapel. There were kids playing in the street and a guy out walking his dog. In my imagination the church existed somewhere outside of town and be surrounded by a large expanse of land that segregated from the ordinariness of everyday life. I was wrong. The windowless octagon shaped brick chapel was just feet from were we parked. We left the bright open light of Houston and entered the nave/reception area that was dark, small and peopled. Along with other intellectual and artsy tourists I signed the guest book and made small talk with the docent as I internally prepared myself for a powerful experience.
He-weasel and I walked into the chapel and I was overwhelmed by the darkness. The 14 canvases were the darkest Rothko’s I have ev
er seen. I sat in front of a triptic of canvases that was intended to symbolically represent Christ on the cross and I sat and stared into the darkness and looked for light and salvation. I intended to sit in front of this canvas until I was changed by it or until something happened. I sat there for a very long time and thought about the state that Rothko was in as he painted these massive canvases and how he never was able to see the chapel he had poured himself into and how he had slit his wrists and overdosed on anti-depressive medications shortly after completing the work. Death is in the paintings and in the chapel. In fact, the chapel feels like a tomb. And, I don’t think Rothko intended for it to feel that way.
Rothko designed the structure of the building with the help of Houston architects, Howard Barnstone and Eugene Aubry, and insisted on a central cupola, for the Rothko Chapel. Overtime it was determined that the harsh Houston sun was damaging the canvases and so a scrim was placed over the cupola and in so doing destroyed Rothko’s vision of light in the midst of darkness. Only darkness remains and so you need to bring your own light with you, and I mean that symbolically, and as my light was low I didn’t have a lot to pull from. Leaving the chapel and looking at the reflection pool and the “Broken Obelisk” statue by Barnett Newman my spirits were buoyed. The first thing I said to He-weasel once outside the church was that this is not a chapel I would want to get married in. He-weasel agreed. Later in the day we say a wedding party arrive for a ceremony to be held in the Rothko and I wanted to tell them to find another home for their ritual. I resisted my impulse.
We walked over to the Cy Twombly Gallery. I so looked forward to the light and airy canvases strategically littered with layers of the psyche: memory, thoughts, reflections, and unconscious content all create a canvas that is instantly recognizable and always uplifting. What I was not expecting was how quietly dazzling the architecture is. The gallery was designed by Renzo Piano. My description of it is all feeling and no substance. I would describe it as light, airy and illuminated. The Menil Collection web page describes it as: “a sophisticated roofing system that allows for an even diffusion of natural light. An external canopy of fixed louvers first breaks the sunlight over a sloping, hipped glass roof. Passing through ultraviolet filtering glass, the light is controlled by mechanical louvers and finally dispersed within the galleries by the stretched cotton fabric ceiling.” The gallery is the perfect container for the extraordinary collection of Twombly’s work. As I walked through the collection and I thought about the billions of dollars that the Menil’s have spent on creating these collections I briefly thought of the movie we had watched the night before “There Will be Blood” and I wondered for a moment about the real story behind this collection. I quickly pushed away images of Daniel Day Lewis portrayal of oil hungry Daniel Plainview and returned to peacefully enjoying the Twombly canvases.
After seeing Rothko and Twombly I was famished. I had not eaten my Captain Crunch for breakfast and I had not indulged at a snack at Buc-ee’s. It was 4:00 p.m. and I needed food. Our plan was to get a quick lunch and come back and view the rest of the Menil museums. We ended up at a BBQ place, not because it was what we wanted but because it was close. We both had BBQ beef sandwiches and as this is the third time I have had BBQ in Texas I feel like I can say definitively that I don’t enjoy Texas BBQ. We sat and silently ate our dry sandwiches with dumbstruck looks on our faces. Just few blocks from this BBQ was a series of museums and chapels that have some of the most amazing art in North America and there are no entrance fees or crowds or shops that sell you tee shirts, books, and catalogs—just art that is easily accessible and, to those who are patient, transformative; I was flabbergasted by the treasures that existed in the midst of this city and I contemplated all of this. This quiet cultural enclave was the dream and the home of only 5% of John and Dominique de Menil’s collection of museums and the Rothko chapel were originally from France and they fled from Nazi-occupied France in 1941 and settled in Houston where John managed Schlumberger, Ltd., founded by Dominique’s father and uncle. Their collection consists of contemporary art, sacred art and new world artifacts. I silently toasted Menil’s vision as I sucked down a root beer and wiped BBQ sauce from my sticky hands.
We hurried back to the Menil collection, having been strengthened by the BBQ. We walked to the Byzantine Fresco Chapel. I wasn’t expecting much and I was so very wrong. This chapel succeeded in creating an experience of the light of the Twombly Gallery and the darkness of the Rothko chapel. As we walked in we read a sign that said, “Pause to allow your eyes to acclimate to the light level.” I know I am in an oohy-gooey vulnerable psychic place but something about the word “pause” struck me in a soft spot of my soul. It is a word I don’t hear often. Not go or stop but pause. Take a moment, consider, reflect, and wait. This sign seemed an instructive for my life and for the moment. So we did. And, because we took the time to pause we were rewarded with a moment of transcendent design.
Truly, this place is I would come back to regularly for inspiration. But, it is 300 miles from Austin. And, maybe if I spent more time there and could visit regularly I could somehow develop the language, insight, or divine inspiration to do this structure justice. It is too transcendent for words. This extraordinary chapel was designed by architect, Francois de Menilson, son of Dominique de Menil, in the Renzo Piano workshop and it was designed to house several frescoes that were taken from a Turkish occupied section of Cyprus in the 1980′s. This intimate postmodern chapel made of rock, glass, light and darkness that holds the only intact Byzantine frescoes in the entire western hemisphere. Entering the Byzantine Fresco Chapel is like entering a jewel box or one of those candied Easter eggs that you peer into and discover a scene so amazing that the exterior is almost lost on you. The message this church gave to me is do not judge by the outside, and be patient, pause, and out of darkness will come light. I am not sure if that is the message the architect meant to give—but it is the one I got and it is a mess
age I am grateful to take home with me. I tried to take pictures of the Byzantine chapel—–but much like Buc-ee’s or Alaska, the pictures do not live up to the experience.
As we drove home, and kept our eyes out for another Buc-ee’s—as the bite of He-weasel’s cinnamon roll had wet my appetite for a cinnamon roll of my own, I was aware of a desire for this day to have changed me or in some way make all of the suffering of the last week more understandable. I did have the memory of the light of the Twombly works, the recollection of the darkness and grief in the Rothko and, the total surprise and wonder of the Byzantine chapel. Beyond that, there was the cup at Buc-ee’s that He-weasel bought that would always remind me of this day. And, then there is the message on the back of He-weasel’s new tee-shirt, the perky and optimistic red-hatted rodent, who instructs its wearer and all that take time to read it, “Don’t worry.” No, there was no worrying while at the Menil and that was enough to make it a memorable day.
Pictures: #1, Mark Rothko’s painting, “Untitled, No. 14.”
Picture #2, He-weasel’s Buc-ee cup photographed by me.
Picture #3, Exterior of Rothko Chapel photographed by me.
Picture #4, Interior of Rothko Chapel
Picture #5, Cy Twombly Gallery
Picture #6, Cy Twombly Photo
Picture# 7, Buc-ee’s teeshirt as photographed by me and modeled by He-weasel.
He-weasel started calling me a weasel almost 15 years ago–I have to admit that at first I bristled a little at my new nickname.
According to Meriam Webster the word weasel, as a noun, has three definions:
1: any of various small slender active carnivorous mammals (genus Mustela of the family Mustelidae, the weasel family) that are able to prey on animals (as rabbits) larger than themselves, are mostly brown with white or yellowish underparts, and in northern forms turn white in winter — compare ermine
2: a light self-propelled tracked vehicle built either for traveling over snow, ice, or sand or as an amphibious vehicle
3: a sneaky, untrustworthy, or insincere person
In the U.S. when we hear the word weasel we often think of #3, a sneaky,untrostworhty, or insincere person. That was not what he-weasel intended when he called me a weasel. He meant that I was clever, resourceful, smart, fearless, and able to confront and conquer things that were bigger than me. He also meant that I was cute, which is more difficult to claim than the other qaulities he conferred by calling me his little weasel.
Wildlife Educator and technician, Christine W. Cold in her article, “You little Weasel: Maligned and Misunderstood, Weasels Deserve a Closer Look” admits that weasels have an image problem. “We are quick to condemn them as corrupt, greedy little villains who sneak around and kill with deadly efficiency for no reason whatsoever. We’ve historically viewed weasels as pests, varmints or scraps of fur only suitable for a decorative trim on collar or cuff. It’s a wonder that weasels have endured such a hostile world. In fact, weasels are marvelously successful. They persist by being alert, inquisitive, tenacious and most importantly, small.”
It wasn’t until I saw the film Amélie that I discovered that I was not the only one to be called une Belette.
Concierge: Non, restez là, restez là ! Vous avez bien 5
minutes. Tiens, là, il était à la caserne. “Mado, cherie…” C’est
moi, je m’appelle Madeleine. “Je ne dors plus, je ne mange plus. Je
vis avec la certitude d’avoir laissé ma seule raison de vivre à
Paris. Je ne la retrouverai que vendredi en quinze en voyant
apparaître ma belette adorée sur le quai de la gare dans sa robe bleue
à bretelles.” Entre parenthèses, “celle que tu trouves trop
transparente.” …Vous étiez écrite des lettres comme ça,
mademoiselle ?
Amélie: Non. Je suis la belette de personne.
According to a post on Wordreference.com: “belette” or “fouine”, “(are) animals that are pretty, clever, but so annoying for farmers and so difficult to trap.” The post goes on to explain that the Frenh use the word “belette” to describe an attractive young girl, as beautiful and very hard to catch. The poster argues that when Amelie says she is nobodys little weasel, “she means she’s not in love affair with some one nor belong to any male, then her heart is free.”
Well, I am someone’s little weasel and after seeing Amelie, I began to embrace the nickname my beloved had given me. This was also the time when I conspired to create the anti-defimation of weasel league. Everytime I heard a politician or a corrupt businessman being called a weasel it hurt me all the way from the tipped of my whiskered nose down to my furry tale.
I never did much about trying to change the meaning weasel to its more positive associations until I started my blog, La Belette Rouge. It is my hope that through the blog I might change a few peoples minds–and that you, my dear readers, will associate the weasel with ability to weasel out which is the best mascara on the market. I hope, through my blog, to give the weasel a much needed makevover.
My pal, Pamela, at Frogblog wrote about the Big Word Project, in her post “Fun with Words.” And, I quote Pamela about The Big Word Project: ” It’s the brainchild of Paddy and Lee, two grad students in multidisciplinary design from Northern Ireland…Their project allows you to pick an English word and link it to your website or blog. Then, whenever anyone clicks a word on the site, they’re taken to your site. Forever.”
This was my chance. For one dollar a letter I could own the word “Weasel” and forever more when anyone clicked on “weasel” it would take the clicker to La Belette Rouge. I did this not out of any hubris–but as a gift to the much maligned Mustelidae in the hopes of in some small way making a dent in our serious PR problem. I also bought the word “chic” as in my mind chic and weasel go together like salt and pepper, peanut butter and jelly, or, more appropriately, champagne and escargot. It is my hope that someday, somewhere, when someone has made a particularly wise and cleaver choice they will choose to describe their behavior as weasily. Or, that when someone clings tight to their dreams and tirelessly and tenaciously works to make those dreams a reality, a kind onlooker will say of them, “she is such a little weasel.” Then I will know that my $6 investment at The Big Word Project was all worthwhile.
p.s. The beautiful drawing of La Belette Rouge was done by the witty and incredibly talented blogger, Baduade.
Nina Purviance West, an art consultant, studied art history at the Sorbonne in Paris, receiving her BA from Oberlin College in 1981. She began her career as a curatorial assistant at the Pennsylvania of Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia; subsequently she designed a contemporary art acquisitions program for CIGNA Corporation while pursuing her doctorate in art history at City University of New York. She joined Christie’s in 1988 as a Senior Specialist in American Art where she traveled the country appraising important art collections. Since 1996, Nina has been an independent art advisor for collectors, museums and corporations including Artfact.com. She now writes a weekly column about the international art market for Forbes.com. She is married to Andy West, an architect and has 2 teenage daughters, Blair and Grace and lives outside Boston (though she’d rather live in Paris).
I recently posed some fashion focused questions to the sartorially-savvy art expert; Ms. West graciously and generously answered.
LBR: What is your favorite item of clothing?
Nina: Hmm…very hard to say but I love a sleeveless black sheath dress that I bought at Saks years ago (designer unknown). I wear it everywhere from fancy parties to meetings to funerals.
LBR: What is your favorite outfit?
Nina: I’m a skirt girl. I love a good skirt and have tons of them…pencil skirts, A-line skirts,
pleated shirts, all lengths. My favorite is probably a black knee length skirt with a little flippy bottom. When I put it with a fitted blouse, black tights, a nice black pump and some jewelry, I feel great.
LBR: What are your favorite colors?
Nina: Almost any color except maybe yellow. I seem to gravitate to greens and blues and of course, black!
LBR:What do you think about when shopping?
Nina: To be perfectly honest, I look for clothes that don’t make me look fat. That sounds kind of pathetic but when you are pushing 50 years old and your size 6 jeans are but a distant memory, you look for clothes with slim lines.
LBR: Who are your favorite designers?
Nina: Prada, Balenciaga, Marc Jacobs and many, many others.
LBR: What is your personal philosophy of fashion?
Nina: I must admit that I am an expert shopper. I had years of living in New York and Paris
when budget was a big concern. I developed an eagle eye for good design at bargain prices. I also learned not to be a snob about where to shop. Fancy designer stores are not for me (almost too easy). I prefer off the beaten path stores or even (gulp) discount stores. I can find something cute anywhere. It just takes patience.
Sometimes I feel guilty about how much I love fashion and the number of hours I could spend shopping. I question whether fashion is worth all the time, effort and money, especially since I know there are so many better uses of my time. I mean wandering the aisles of a department store is kind of a major waste of time. But when I see something beautiful, my heart skips a beat and the mindless hours of wandering are all worth it.
LBR: On what items do you scrimp and what items to you splurge?
Nina: One thing that I don’t spend money on is bags. I own maybe 5 total. I hate the whole slouchy bag phenomenon because I think most of them are ugly. I guess I splurge on coats and boots. These are things that need to be great looking and last for awhile. I’m not really a big spender when it comes to fashion. While I love, love, love designer clothing, I’m too cheap to pay for it. Last week while in New York City, I did splurge on a great winter coat at Century 21 (famous discount store in lower Manhattan). Originally $1,500, I paid a quarter of that and very pleased with myself since I had seen it the day before at Bloomingdales at full price.
LBR: How many pairs of shoes do you own?
Nina: About 50 pairs including 5 pairs of ballet slippers.
LBR: Who are your fashion roles models?
Nina: Both Hepburns, Katherine and Audrey. Gwyneth Paltrow, Nicole Kidman. I also admire Kristin Dunst’s style although I could never pull it off. I think Katie Holmes dresses really well, much as I hate to admit it because I can’t stand Tom Cruise.
LBR: What is your signature style?
Nina: I favor clean, classic lines, a la Audrey Hepburn. But I am a bit schizophrenic when it comes to fashion because I also love the off beat, bohemian look, like the stuff we see at Anthropologie. Though I look best in simple things, I am a sucker for pattern, especially vintage prints of any kind. I need to remind myself that these prints look better as tablecloths but sometimes I succumb to some quimsical 1950s printed dress.
I think you really have to learn what looks for on you. I know that I can’t wear certain styles as much as I’d like to and I am pretty disciplined about wearing simple lines, classic lines. Yesterday, I went through my closet with an editor’s eye and filled 3 bags of clothes for Goodwill. Today, I feel 10 pounds lighter! As I get older, I realize that less is more.
LBR: Merci, Nina, for this insider peek into your closet! Je vous adresse mes plus vifs remerciements!!! This was so very kind of you. And, dear, bloggy readers please visit Nina at Forbes.com and Artfact.com. You can read Nina’s latest article about the top art auctions of 2007, in which a painting by Paul Cezaane, “Nature Morte au Melon Vert,” went for an unprecedented $25.52 million dollars.
I am a skincare fiend. I remember the very moment when the insanity and enormous outpouring of cash all began.
There was a friend of my parent’s, a very chic woman named Joanna who wore a chic wardrobe of simple and classic black and kept her thin white hair in low chignons that read to my young eye as the height of elegance and the epitome of chic. For reasons unknown to me, Joanna was drawn to me too. She took me under her wing when I was a savvy and sophisticated 7th grader.
I had never before met a woman like Joanna. She was so different than most of my parent’s friends. She wasn’t a big drinker and she didn’t play golf. She was like no one I had ever met before. She was an adult, but she was single and childless. She was from Montreal and she spoke fluent French, and she lived in the heart of Hollywood. She was introverted but extended herself to me in an extremely generous and gregarious fashion.
What I found most interesting about Joanna was that she was actually interested in me and what I thought and said. Joanna was the first person who encouraged me to write and she, by example, taught me to take my feelings and put them on paper.
My love for Joanna grew when I discovered that she lived in the same high-rise building on Sunset Blvd. as Parker Stevenson, of the Hardy Boys fame. She also told me that some guy named Joseph Cotten lived in the penthouse of her building. I couldn’t have been less interested in the Cotten character nor could I have been more intrigued in garnering an invitation to visit her at her home in hopes of meeting Parker.
With some gentle campaigning, I gained an invite to spend the weekend with her. This was a life-changing event for reasons you might not imagine. First there were the obvious delights of being in the apartment directly above Parker Stevenson. I tracked him like a hunter. I followed every sound he made in hopes of, well, I am not exactly sure of what. I heard Parker go into the bathroom. And, I followed him, well not into his bathroom, but into Joanna’s bathroom, directly above his. I had never before or since been so intrigued by the sounds of plumbing.
As I looked around Joanna’s bathroom I saw something beautiful, the likes of I had never before seen. Joanna had every single item in Lancôme’s skincare collection and she had it displayed in her bathroom as if it were a store. I was mesmerized and don’t remember if I heard Parker flush or not. While I had no idea what each cream and potion did, I did know one thing—I had to have them all.
Later that weekend, Joanna and I were taking the elevator down to the lobby and the door opened and in walked Parker Stevenson. Joanna casually introduced us, her cool demeanor belying the enormity of the moment. Parker stretched out his hand and took mine. I was in pre-teen heartthrob heaven. There were several days were I literally did not wash my right hand. So as to protect the place where our hands had met, when I showered, I encased my hand in a plastic bag and sealed it with duck tape so water would not wash away our point of contact.
Even without water, my love for Parker quickly went down the drain. My young heart was fickle and my attention turned to Leif Garrett. My writing continued. And, my love of skincare has endured. Over the years I have amassed different skincare collections. My bathroom has been decorated with Chanel, Decleor, Darphin and Dior. Each time I go to arrange the contents of my skincare cabinet I think of Joanna and the impact she has had on my life and my skin. As I wrote this piece, I decided to Google Joanna and see if I could find her. The results showed that she is still alive and living in Hollywood and that she is 79 years old. I feel confident that Joanna is as chic today as ever and I am certain that her skin is just as lovely.
Sadly, her phone number is unlisted. I am terribly disappointed. I imagine the phone call we might have had and how lovely it would have been to tell her how much her kindness and friendship has impacted me. We would have talked about a great many things. It would take hours to fully catch up. Before we hung up, I know I would have asked her a very important question. “Uh, Joanna, so what is your current skincare regime?”
Picture featured of Parker Stevenson. Sorry, Parker you had your chance. This weasel is taken.
Since I have been blogging as La Belette Rouge I have been thinking a lot about my influences as a writer and as a weasel. I could give you a long list of favorite books and make a decent argument for how these literary classics have inspired me as a writer and to some degree, as a weasel. However, I think there is not greater literary inspiration than one of my childhood favorites by Jean Conder Soule,”Never Tease a Weasel.” I loved this book so much I have the same copy that I read at 5 today at 40. I probably enjoy this book more today than I did as a child.
As I recently reread this beloved classic I see so much of what I love to write about and how I like to write. There is clothing and whimsy and alliteration and a bit of moral guidance and, of course, there is a weasel. This seemingly fun and simple little book I read over and over may very well have had a profound inspiration on what I like to call my voice.
Take a read and see if you can see the impact that Jean Conder Soule had on this writer/ weasels soul:
“You can knit a kitten mittens
And perhaps that cat would purr.
You could fit a fox with socks
That exactly matched his fur.
You could make a goat a coat
With a collar trimmed in mink;
Or give a pig a wig
In a dainty shade of pink.
But never tease a weasel;
This is very good advice.
A weasel will not like it
And teasing isn’t nice!
You could make a riding habit
For a rabbit if you choose;
Or make a turkey perky
With a pair of high-heeled shoes.
You could make a collie jolly
With a gay crocheted cravat;
Or make a possum blossom
In an Easter Sunday hat.
But never tease a weasel,
Not even once or twice.
A weasel will not like it
And teasing isn’t nice!
You could build a mouse a house
With a chimney made of bricks.
You could give a dove some gloves
And a set of walking sticks.
But never tease a weasel.
There! Now I’ve said it thrice.
A weasel will not like it-
And teasing isn’t nice!
You could give a mule a pool
And some jaunty swimming trunks;
Send a case of Spanish lace
To a pair of lady skunks.
You could give a fish a dish
For her favorite seaweed stew;
Send three frogs some sailing togs
And a yachting cap or two.
But never tease a weasel.
Now I can’t be more precise.
A weasel will not like it,
And teasing isn’t nice!
You could bake a drake a cake
For his special birthday treat;
You could braid a bug a rug
To make his bug house neat.
You could feed a spider cider
Or perhaps pink lemonade;
Or give a moose some juice
To sip on in the shade.
But never tease a weasel.
Now remember what I’ve said!
It’s more fun to please a weasel
and be friends with him instead.”
About Me
My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .
