The Nero Chronicles

Of the Uncanny Valley and Borrowing from Real Life

2012-02-28T10:57:00.001-06:00

In an involuntarily film-related Oscars segue, Nero and the wee dervish thumbed our noses at the mundane Monday after-school routine and took in "The Secret World of Arrietty." Based on a personal childhood favorite of mine, "The Borrowers," by Mary Norton, this adaptation is gracefully rendered by acclaimed Japanese animator and art director Hiromasa Yonebayashi, of Ponyo fame.

In the science of animation there exists a theory, stemming from robotics, known as the "Uncanny Valley." The phrase, coincidentally coined by a Japanese professor, refers to a state in which a robot is made to appear so life-like that it repulses the viewer. Stop just short of the uncanny valley and empathy and compassion are piqued, go too far and we are scared off, almost viscerally so, by that eery approximation of ourselves.

Animators often rely on the uncanny valley when developing characters for the big screen or the video game console. It serves as a reliable litmus test for when an imagined person or creature becomes too real or too threatening for comfort. This phenomenon, paired with the marketing of branded toys, helps explain why so many of the movies geared towards children showcase bizarre character constructs which masquerade on screen, neither fully human nor animal.

In the case of Arrietty, Nero was charmed by the refreshing simplicity, the Zen-like beauty of hand-painted animation. Although the film was backed by Disney, the pace was nothing like the frenetic tempo of most Pixar movies. In fact, there were long pauses, real-time moments of silence and natural background noises like falling rain, wind and quiet footsteps. Those details paired with a bewitching soundtrack made for a soothing viewing experience.

The story presented characters, both human and animal, recognizable in nature, albeit Thumbelina-sized. The language was thoughtful and imbued with sincerity and respect. The plot line, which lacked a forced slap-happy ending, spoke to the larger issues of childhood -- that fleeting and magical netherworld, that sticky limbo, a spider's web, the Borrowers' smallness a metaphor for the tricky-to-navigate safety net between being and knowing, and ultimately the inevitable, growing.

Nero detected a spare and very Asian gravitas in the presentation. An existential solemnity reigned throughout, which translated into a deeper take on the themes running through Mary Norton's writings. The film was a quiet but reverent bow to the hierarchy present in the circle of life -- a tale of essentials and all that we ever really have. Time and people, people and time, and binding it all together, nature and its many driving forces, both large and pint-sized.

Of Film Noir and a Goth Dress Fest

2012-02-27T10:41:00.004-06:00

Nero was vaguely nonplussed by the Oscar fanfare last night. Where oh where has the glamour of yore gone to die? And yet, the side of me that gravitates towards the true nero, the goth, the decadent and richly macabre -- the cinema veritas that is all things (film) noir, was bewitched by this dark creation from the house of Alexander McQueen. In keeping with the tone of Jessica Chastain's devilishly drop-dead frock, whip out your riding crops folks, cuz the woman standing directly behind her needs to be Spanxed.

Of Time Capsule Capturing and iPhoning Home

2012-02-23T16:55:00.000-06:00

Sometimes the details in life are best got
through that daily compulsion -- the iPhone shot.

Of Snakes on the Brain and Athens Burning

2012-02-22T10:45:00.005-06:00

Greece may be burning, folks, but it is very clear to Nero that the deities of Mount Olympus have decamped to some other ersatz Pompeii and are still hard at work collaborating with the Italians. Nero, still at heart a feral child, can't seem to cross paths with a single slithering critter without fixating. This spring, my animal attraction is aimed at a snake of a different stripe. Behold, fair Nerophytes, just a few of the sleekest specimens from Bulgari's latest Serpenti collection. With the double-arm wraps Nero is unabashedly smitten. Anyone else been fatally bitten?

Of Tinto Azul and Blueing Gray

2012-02-20T09:10:00.002-06:00

There's something more than a little appealing

-- uplifting, mood-altering --

about a blue room on a gray day.

Of Mile-High Clubbing and Down-Dressing to Impress

2012-02-19T07:49:00.003-06:00

Nero's forever and a day been a fan of a look I like to call "Airport Dash Chic." It's a fluid, fuzzy, gray area often best pulled off by (surprise-surprise) Europeans and others of a foreign ilk. The recipe goes something like this -- pour in a pint of English country aristo, pair with a pinch of Hollywood rocker, fold in a dollop of Amelia Earheart, then top the lot off with a light dusting of Indiana Jones. Of late, I've found it hard to ignore the fact that newlywed power couple Rachel Weisz and Daniel Craig fit the mold to a tee. Whether racing off the tarmac or strutting the red carpet, this symbiotic duo oozes style in spades and leaves Nero pretty starstruck. Take a gander at the sartorially spotless hit 'n runs below, fair readers, and see if you don't come to the same conclusion. Nero's pretty sure this fixation goes far beyond my childhood Bond fetish.

Of Throwing Down Anchor and Sinking Hook

2012-02-15T22:05:00.000-06:00

Some signs were subtle -- a shift of clime, a different air -- to indicate our ship had moored somewhere.

Others directly to the point did get, announcing this was where it's at, fair mateys, and woe to those poor souls who hadn't hit land yet.

Strange schools of fish

And lights did beckon

Otherworldy rock formations

And flowering crustaceans watched

As roadmaps indicating treasure

Egged us on

Down darkened trails we did venture

Under leafy canopies

We lounged when sun and thirst did strike us

Inhaled adventure

We tested shark-infested waters

Then built a campsite

Dined by bonfire

And slept by starlight

Armed for trade

And dressed for barter

The compass indicated town

So we set out in plumes and warpaint

To take those conquistadores down

We swilled strange brews and tasted potions

We fearlessly imbibed the stew

They proffered several local poisons -- which we avoided,

no thank you

Then suddenly a genie sprung

And trapped us in his tangled web

An impish Pan, his flute insnared us

Reeling us in with siren song

We narrowly escaped a scalping

But trade winds blew in with the dawn

The sprite was saved -- we smoked the peace pipe,

and the dervish left us free to roam

So we knifed a knave on our way back dockside

and took our own prized trophy home.

Of Amores Perros, Pirates and La Playa

2012-02-09T21:17:00.000-06:00

Well fair readers, the Nero Trio is off and running, racing hell-bent to raise Cain down Cancun way. Complicit criminal minds, the kiddo and I seem even to have color-coordinated our separates somehow. Things could get spicy or dicey, it's hard to say. Nero may chronicle the whole sandy, shady affair, or perhaps keep you hanging a spell, preferring to let siesta-bound dogs lie. If Captain Jack Sparrow should happen to call in Nero's absence, kindly have him know that we're on hiatus sipping Sprite in Margaritaville, but that all of the baubles, bobs and trinkets he lent us will be promptly returned to his Disney Land coffers upon our homecoming. Unless of course he'd prefer to meet us halfway. Anchors Away.

Of Philippe-ing Out in Foodie Ville

2012-02-09T09:50:00.001-06:00

Several years back, Nero's fair hometown of Houston was branded one of the fattest in the world. And while we Texans like to think of ourselves as large and in charge, this particularly biting claim to fame was a blow to our gutsy Wild West roots, our can-do attitude, our go-getterist, good ole boy ego -- a tarnish on our spit-shined iron star.

The truth is that our nation's fourth largest city corrals some of the most diverse, multi-cultural, eclectic and innovative cuisines in the world. From mami and papi-owned taco trucks to more than a handful of Michelin star-worthy eateries, we've got it all here for the savoring and imbibing. The rub is that the very French, very staid Michelins aren't usually bestowed on taco trailblazers, nouveau foodie inventors or eclair clairvoyants. And so Texas chefs, much like the Lone Ranger or the Marlboro Man, ride solo, lassoing maverick techniques and rustling up new dishes as they go -- drawing in eager fans through more than rope tricks.

Enter Philippe Restaurant + Lounge into the ring, a Franco-Texan mixed-breed bar and bistro helmed by chef Philippe Schmit. With brains, brawn and even a few Brahman hides by way of upholstery, Schmit has been dubbed the "French Cowboy" for his creative spin. Portions are modest -- that's the French part -- but always infused with some clearly-noted Texas kick. A revolving display of artwork punctuates the many trompe-l'oeil wall panels, and for those whose souls are nourished by more than food, an "Art Menu" can be perused alongside the eats.

Breaking bread is best done à deux, so Nero and a pardner-in-crime saddled up for the ride. It was a delectably-devised but easygoing meal. The ambiance was sophisticated but casually so. Dessert for Nero was the new kid on the block -- a parsnip bundt cake topped with a scoop of Shiner Bock-infused ice cream. Nero staggered out of the swinging doors punch-drunk with enthusiasm and ambition, illuminated by big new ideas, stylishly spurred on. It was Trademark Texas.

Of a Spanish Retreat and a Pinch of Chic

2012-02-07T12:33:00.002-06:00

Sometimes a weekend retreat must involve its very only blend of chic. In the case of this Spanish finca, swanning mere miles from the heart of Madrid, the formula involves a smidgen of symmetry, a touch of sleek, the odd grand gesture...stir, mix, repeat.

Of Shear Terror in the Lone Star State

2012-02-03T13:30:00.001-06:00

We are Texans,

Wearers of boot and buckle,

Pistol-wielders riled at high noon,

Rootin'-Tootin' Renegades.

But we are also

The Cook, the Wife, the Lover

In no uncertain order

And most importantly,

Perhaps,

The Mother.

So when a cowgal pal

To Nero said it's time

To tweak my head

A little Lanphear

And a pinch of Tilda

Was all it took.

So prime your triggers

And start a-pacing

Say your prayers,

And get hooves racing

Start stampeding

Towards the door

Because we are Texans,

Hear us roar.

Of Word Worlds and Generation Text

2012-02-02T09:51:00.001-06:00

This week, a couple of unusual occurrences have flashed before Nero's radar. First of note, Nero received a text message from my mother the other day which read: "Hey there, what's up." In order for the startling nature of this otherwise mundane act to be understood in its entirety, note that Nero's mom is over-65 and generally gives off a demeanor akin to La Deneuve's below, minus the playful earrings.

All of a sudden, Nero's brow broke out into a cold sweat.

Had there been an identity switch? Had La Bardot come to call?

Witnessing our parents' forays into technology and the ease with which the transition happens is at times alarming. Methinks that surely, from somewhere warm and tropical, Sir Steve Jobs, overheated in a black zip-up hoodie, is smiling down on this whole scenario.

The second but no less noteworthy anecdote came yesterday, when Nero's offspring began a casual after-school discussion with the following query: "Mom, what is my purpose? You know -- my purpose, my journey -- my voyage?"

Nero was stumped -- the kid's only just made six. By that point in the evening, Nero's head had only just begun to wrap itself around the central existential question that plagues us until death, that hounding interior monologue particular to most mothers: "What's for dinner?"

Nero rambled a bit but tried to keep it succinct -- something about how our purpose here is largely a mystery, how we make our path as we go -- in short a whole load of muddled, new-age mumbo-jumbo. But amid the hogwash, Nero got to thinking. What do we do when our elders grow preternaturally young and our youth begin to think prematurely old? And more importantly, where does it leave those of us in the middle? Are we the new lost generation?

Nero's terribly afraid that the next text I get from my mother may involve a query as to where to procure siiiick shrooms.

Of Swimming with the Fishes and Mat-Crobatics

2012-01-31T13:25:00.004-06:00

As we barrel, nay, burn towards the end of this freshman month of the Annus Novos, Nero is reflecting on the fact that many of the past few days have been wiled away in this semi-prone position -- note the lunar landscape, then think beach ball.

When not assuming a sort of upright, reverse cobra stance or a "C curve," Nero has been actively engaged in park-pounding, followed by not-so-passive down-dogging. In fact, if Nero had a prehensile tail, it would at this time likely be put to good use lifting free weights or juggling a medicine ball.

Such is the evolution of resolutions. Mens sana in corpore sano, a strange pursuit if ever there was one. In the quest for wellbeing and longevity, we often overlook what an absurd waste it seems to die in perfect health. That said, Nero's pretty sure the time-worn frat house cry will never evolve into a mantra of "Let's do probiotic shots, y'all!" And so we soldier on.

A couple more points have floated into Nero's frontal lobe while engaging in topsy-turvy mat-crobatics. First and thoroughly self-evident is that it is always easier to keep treading 'round the hamster wheel if there is a goal in sight, a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Most people seem to think said tunnel measures about 26.2 miles, aka a marathon. But Nero stops way short of that wild notion.

Secondly, and far more illuminating, is that a few candid fashion shots seem to garner more excitement in this realm of the blogosphere than a thousand arduously chosen words. This comes as a true relief, as searching for le mot juste is typically harder most mornings than heaving my resisting 5 ft. 3'' bones up and over a plyo box.

On a decidedly lighter note, while swimming with the fishes may have a morbid ring to it, the Nero Trio will be doing just that in about ten days. A much-anticipated Cancunavention is underfoot and Nero is in a state of pop-fizz over it. Truth be told -- because this is a safe place of full disclosure -- this blogger's bag was packed and ready to roll two weeks ago, folks. Overzealous much, you ask? Perhaps. After all, a similar incident occurred the night before starting second grade and the rest of the year didn't bode so well.

But yes, this little four-day seascapade has put a bit of a swing in our stride. And yet, strange things have begun to happen -- things Nero's not entirely proud of. It would appear that a whiff of teen spirit has crept through the chinks in our all-grown-up armor. Neurotic neons, pulsating pinks and shapes which resist mathematical definition have wormed their way into the fray. Techno plumage, horizontal stripes and -- dare someone my age utter the profane? -- color-blocking, have decided to crash the beach party.

No, fair Nerophytes, no civilized excursion to the British West Indies will this be. Thus far, there's nary a golf course nor a yacht as far as the half-naked eye can see. There has, however, been some mention of an adults-only pool area where Maxim girls man the bar. That's not really the Nero Trio's scene, but for everyone's safety, we may have to send our six-year-old to investigate. Sí, Nero fears this case of fluorescent, arrested development may end badly. So stay tuned for more South of the Border disorder.

Where the Wild Things Work

2012-01-26T17:43:00.002-06:00

Creating an inviting and engaging professional space presents a particular Rubix cube for any designer. Coupling functionality and efficiency with style, often while navigating the red tape of building and city code, can make for a multi-faceted brain tease akin to a bad headache.

Nero's been out of the official workforce for six years now, and as a result, I often find myself romanticizing during the gym-to-grocery-to-carpool commute the delight that strolling into a stunning office and straight over to the macchiato machine would bring as opposed to, say, Swiffering. And so as Nero daydreams -- nay, deludes herself -- this oddly inventive commercial space, designed by Rafael de Cardenas, instantly had me wanting to fly the proverbial kitchen-coop.

The penthouse quarters, a species of haute hen house, is home to the art gallery branch of the Ford Modeling Agency in New York's Upper East Side. Nero was intrigued, mesmerized even, by the delicate study in juxtapositions -- the earthy bleached wood panels, the vaguely cautionary avian art, the icy velvets and sleek light fixtures, the antique mantel pieces, preserved intact and seamlessly incorporated, likely original to the building. Work is certainly a thing of beauty, fair Nerophytes, and this is just the sort of office that could tempt a gal to clock in for a little overtime.

Of Getting Chewed and Finding a Comfort Zone

2012-01-26T08:10:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, Nero received one of the most side-splitting yet tragic text messages from a friend. It read something along the lines of: "Aaarrghghgh! The dog just ate my Lanvin flats!!!" And while Nero could certainly sympathize, and felt only pangs of compassion (never schadenfreude, mind you), it instantly occurred to me that "The Dog Just Ate My Lanvins!" would make for a superb title for a debut novel, soon to be followed by a rip-roariously chic television series. But I digress.

Similarly, the Celerie Kemble-designed room below, much like a pair of lovingly chewed on Lanvin flats (in a ballet nude, btw, RIP), would still maintain an air of comfort and finery despite a little impromptu wear and tear. So go ahead, fair Nerophytes, today reach for that special place, that imperfect, cozy, lived-in comfort zone that only warms with time, with use, with a little nibble around the edges.

Of the Perfect Pad and a Living Room Ricochet

2012-01-25T09:11:00.003-06:00

Images of designer Tabitha Simmons' NYC crib have begun to ricochet around the blogosphere like rubber bullets ever since a piece on her dwelling popped up over at Vogue. And so, try as I may to resist the ripple effect, rarely has there been a home oh-so-Nero. So for those of you dear readers who've been there and done that, do pardon the repeat offense. But for those who haven't and seek further enlightenment and visuals, Nero'll hone in on the essentials. Alternately, for those already moist-of-brow and short-of-breath, and interested in a complete reveal, well, simply hightail it over here.

Inlaid mirror and cloche-ed flora and fauna -- check

Footwear frenzy in the master bath -- check

Iron-clad window walls -- light, light, light -- check

Oh, did Nero mention the animalia?

Of Concession Confessions and Wanton Wontons

2012-01-23T12:16:00.001-06:00

The Year of the Dragon has a sleek and seductive ring to it.

It conjures up steamy imagery, and not solely of the wonton variety.

It packs some serious Kung-Pao punch.

Nero dreams of someday visiting China,

And of wandering through Shanghai's French Concession,

Where so many historical homes have been restored

To dramatic effect.

The marriage of East and West,

Ever an ongoing, ephemerally beautiful,

Subtly complex,

Delicate balance.

They say the Year of the Dragon is a lucky one, fair Nerophytes,

So don't forget to see red, breathe fire

And blow off a little smoke now and then.

To Dimanche and a Derriere

2012-01-22T09:40:00.001-06:00

Lo and behold it's Sunday, fair Nerophytes.

So let bygones be bygones, and let what is behind stay behind.

And choose to look instead, ahead.

Of Mars Stones and a Rockstud

2012-01-19T16:44:00.002-06:00

Skimming the Wall Street Journal this morning -- this is what mothers of wee ones do, we skim things, as we have little time to really delve -- Nero spotted a piece confirming that some rocks found in Morocco were indeed the fallout from a meteorite shower from Mars.

In a similarly singular and monumental event, Nero, whilst absent-mindedly poking around a neighboring Nordstrom Rack outlet, came across an object no less otherwordly, rare, mysterious and vaguely threatening -- a Valentino Rockstud Dome bag stamped in a big cat print, with a -- wait for it fair Nerophytes, two-thousand dollar price cut. So the gold-spiked detachable shoulder strap had gone astray somewhere in the cosmos and was MIA...So What. This earthbound, thoroughly mortal carpool mom wasn't about to pass up on this interplanetary orbital offering.

And so the moral of the story is this, dear readers, next time you find yourselves wandering in a field, or shuffling around a sandy desert, or hiking through a secluded wood, look around, watch for clues and listen -- leave no stone unturned. For sometimes, just sometimes, strange and wondrous things fall from the sky.

Of Seas at Night and Thieves and White

2012-01-17T21:38:00.000-06:00

Somehow mid-week has snuck up on Nero like a thief in the night.

And as it can't be helped, I plan to drop my purse without a fight
and instead close my eyes and conjure up an islandscape of white.

To Friday and a Curiosity Cabinet

2012-01-13T17:09:00.002-06:00

It's Friday, fair Nerophytes.

May your weekends be filled with Savage Beauty.

Of Pissing in Paris and other Pipe Dreams

2012-01-12T09:16:00.005-06:00

The first time Nero visited Paris was in the second grade, at the tender age of seven. It was April, fittingly, and on an eccentric whim, our father, known for grand, architectural, outlandish gestures, decided that we'd take the Concorde through New York, on the going leg. Because after all, these wondrous things, these marvels of modern science, had to be tried in one's lifetime, he believed. And so we embarked from Manhattan in a silver bullet with portholes the size of silver dollars. We were champagne-ed and tray-dined by comely French flight attendants in perfectly-applied leepsteek, showered with trinkets and memorabilia -- things like fancy writing tools and custom glass paperweights -- the fodder of 1980s businessmen's high-flying fantasies.

When we arrived in the Ville-Lumière, we wound up in a dreary and generic hotel due to a reservations snafu. The dingy bedroom was equipped with orange and avocado-coverleted cots and the facilities were cramped and vaguely menacing, resembling something one would encounter on a Soviet space craft. Ever the optimist -- and often annoyingly so -- Dad began to hum "April in Paris," replacing the lyrics with things like "miserable showers" and other such jabs at the sub-par pissoir setup.

Determined not to let a bad crash-pad situation rain on our Parisian parade, we decamped without even opening our suitcases to a charming petit hotel that we were told had once been the home of Napoleon's private doctor. After a bit of googling, Nero believes that this must be the place, long since revamped to reel in a haute hipster crowd. Along with visiting the museums, schlepping to the top of the Eiffel, and taking a life-altering day trip to Vaux le Vicomte, we did zany things like roller skate through the streets (oh the glares elicited -- damned Americans!) We also somehow ended up breakfasting on soft boiled eggs early one morning in a nightclub that wasn't due to open 'til long after dark -- don't ask, Nero has no idea how exactly this went down.

At any rate that first trip to Paris sealed the deal, the love die were cast and Nero was besotted with this grande dame, this gracious courtesan in billowing skirts stretched out along the Seine and twinkling jewels which never seemed to lose their luster, even after a long night of carousing and gourmandise.

Nero hasn't been back to Paris in a decade now, a fact that I find hard to believe, though it is firmly rooted in reality. Somehow, no matter how dynamic a place, Nero basically thinks of Paris' core as unchanging, wavering very little despite the passage of time from its premise as the most perfect place on the planet. And that is a fact and not just because the French say so, you hear?

Fortunately, one thing that has greatly grown is the availability of top-notch hotels and vacation rentals to help guarantee a splendid time when one does finally book that long-overdue flight. Some things are gone forever -- the Concorde is now but a mercury memory, and these days, nary a head would turn were Nero to rollerskate 'round the Place de la Concorde. But luckily, and the apartment below is a monumental testament to this very fact, the bathroom situation in the city seems to have greatly improved.

Of Cover Story Coterie

2012-01-10T16:55:00.002-06:00

When did the covers of books become almost as beautiful their contents? Most latter-day tomes may not be leather-bound, hand-illustrated or brightly illuminated in gold tones, and yet somehow, 'round Villa Nero way, books once read nearly always seem to become a permanent and inextricable addition to our landscape. So here's to cover art and all that lies between the fold and the paper cut.

Of Love and Art at the Turn of a Screw

2012-01-10T10:59:00.002-06:00

Nero is a lifelong fan of Cartier's iconic Love collection. Its universally-recognizeable design -- screws secured with a diminutive screwdriver -- holds timeless appeal as a sentimental symbol of the life bonds we seems to wish to be shackled by. After decades spent pining for a glimpse of the golden mean, Nero became a smiling slave to rosy love bangle bondage on the occasion of our ninth wedding anniversary this past December. In keeping with the theme, this short film, a recent collaboration between Cartier and the French band Air, caught Nero's fancy. The music is edgy but mystical, the allusion to a painted Pygmalion ever-appealing -- a nicely edited, modern-mythical, fancy-folly. Unfortunately for those reading on an iPhone, the video isn't likely to pull up, but for those with poetic leanings or a touch of Midas thirst, it may be worth taking a glimpse at on the big screen.

On Greening the Air and Going Vert-ical

2012-01-08T13:10:00.001-06:00

Nero has long been transfixed by the idea of the vertical garden, particularly in an urban setting, as pioneered by madcap French botanist Patrick Blanc.

Much like a modern-day Merlin, a hybrid Mad Hatter meets louche leprechaun, Blanc's fantastical wallscapes have taken root worldwide and though they lend themselves beautifully to modern, eco-friendly architecture of the Dwell variety, Nero is particularly tickled by the juxtaposition of this haute horticulture against a classical, Haussmanian facade.

For several seasons, West Elm has hawked a variety of whimsical glass receptacles by Shane Powers, no doubt to encourage we brown-thumbed enthusiasts to get our green on.

After several months spent playing voyeur, Nero caved and picked up one of the smaller glass globes to try my luck at this hip new species of vertigo. Best not get carried away, was the logic.

Truth be told, though Nero's treading lightly for now, these hanging orbs have given me many a sleepless night. They levitate like ersatz planets, air-fed fairies, otherworldly, silent family members.

Now it would seem that upon spying our first air-fed specimen, our little dervish in residence is picketing for a green wall all his own -- he's requesting an installation in his bedroom, in fact. A word of warning, however, for even seemingly innocuous names can prove deceiving. These spunky succulents, whether suspended or not, must be soaked in water twice weekly and exposed to moderate light. But what a wonderful project for children and adults alike, to tend and watch over these wondrous green tendrils.