View in High-Res
Patricia Volk, author of Shocked: My Mother, Schiaparelli and Me, tells Terry Gross about the moles on fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli’s face:
She was born with moles raised black moles all over her face. She never had them removed. She had an older sister who was quite beautiful. She was said to look like the statute of Athena in the Vatican, but Elsa Schaiparelli’s mother always told her she was ugly. And she didn’t feel good about herself until her uncle — who was the foremost astronomer in the world at the time — Giovanni Schaiparelli … took his little niece to the observatory and he asked her to look in the telescope and what she saw was the Big Dipper and he said, “That’s what’s on your face.” And from then on she felt quite attractive. She had a broach made by Cartier that echoed the moles on her face and she wore it under the moles. It became a source of pride for her, that this constellation was on her cheek.
Image of Elsa Schiaparelli, 1932, by George Hoynignen-Huene via We Had Faces Then







![Writer Claire Vaye Watkins — author of the short story collection Battleborn — on growing up near Las Vegas, which is where her mother also grew up:
It never felt like, ‘This is my parents’ city,’ It was like, ‘This is my city.’ Partially — probably — because my parents were always talking about how different it was, you know, than when they were around. They would talk about how the Strip looked nothing like when they had worked [there]. My grandma was a change girl at Caesars Palace basically her whole life and her Las Vegas looked nothing like my mother’s Las Vegas and mine, it was very much my own. … [Y]ou [are] absolutely untethered by any convention of legacy — I guess — or history. You have no obligation to anyone in that kind of context — or so it seems when you’re seventeen.
image via Travel Nevada/Flickr Writer Claire Vaye Watkins — author of the short story collection Battleborn — on growing up near Las Vegas, which is where her mother also grew up:
It never felt like, ‘This is my parents’ city,’ It was like, ‘This is my city.’ Partially — probably — because my parents were always talking about how different it was, you know, than when they were around. They would talk about how the Strip looked nothing like when they had worked [there]. My grandma was a change girl at Caesars Palace basically her whole life and her Las Vegas looked nothing like my mother’s Las Vegas and mine, it was very much my own. … [Y]ou [are] absolutely untethered by any convention of legacy — I guess — or history. You have no obligation to anyone in that kind of context — or so it seems when you’re seventeen.
image via Travel Nevada/Flickr](http://25.media.tumblr.com/d4c660a49e13ea9fcaec054b65e7164d/tumblr_mjnsec616S1qd9dz2o1_500.jpg)
![Claire Vaye Watkins tells Dave Davies about writing the stories in Battleborn in the wake of her mother’s death and after leaving the West for the first time:
I always say I exist in a constant state of homesickness and that’s really the context in which I wrote this book, too. You know, I wrote it five months after my mom committed suicide and about three months after leaving the West for the first time to go study [at graduate school] in Ohio and there was this landscape of grief and homesickness. I’d never written a word about Nevada until then and I think suddenly being removed from my home and missing, you know, the mountains and the stars and the dry air and the rocks and the spiny plants, just this tremendous, overwhelming homesickness which surely had to do with my mom’s dying, I guess I kind of felt the need to conjure up Nevada and bring it back to me that way.
image by lacomj/Flickr Claire Vaye Watkins tells Dave Davies about writing the stories in Battleborn in the wake of her mother’s death and after leaving the West for the first time:
I always say I exist in a constant state of homesickness and that’s really the context in which I wrote this book, too. You know, I wrote it five months after my mom committed suicide and about three months after leaving the West for the first time to go study [at graduate school] in Ohio and there was this landscape of grief and homesickness. I’d never written a word about Nevada until then and I think suddenly being removed from my home and missing, you know, the mountains and the stars and the dry air and the rocks and the spiny plants, just this tremendous, overwhelming homesickness which surely had to do with my mom’s dying, I guess I kind of felt the need to conjure up Nevada and bring it back to me that way.
image by lacomj/Flickr](http://25.media.tumblr.com/018a6a8f539f666d474ce9802f0fee82/tumblr_mjns3pnQiz1qd9dz2o1_500.jpg)
![Novelist Mohsin Hamid, who lives in Lahore, Pakistan, talks to Terry Gross about living in cities with a reputation for violence:
In a way, I think if you live in a city or a place where violence is common, then it perhaps doesn’t matter so much if the violence is the likelihood [of] somebody [who’s] going to mug you or attack you in your house or they’re going to blow you up in your barber shop. Violent cities, people who live in violent cities, find a way — as New Yorkers did 30 or 40 years ago — they find a way to just carry on. But you’re stressed out. You’re worried, you know. There’s times when they, for example, will turn off all the cell phone service in Lahore and you can’t make a phone call because they’re scared [that] on a particular religious holiday somebody will use a cell phone to detonate a bomb or coordinate a terrorist attack. You know, that’s freaky when those things happen. In fact, once recently we had a hospital emergency where my father was unwell and we had to take him to hospital but we had no mobile phones. We couldn’t call his doctor, you know. These things happen in daily life and, yeah, it’s upsetting and unsettling.”
Image via Dirty Old 1970s New York City Novelist Mohsin Hamid, who lives in Lahore, Pakistan, talks to Terry Gross about living in cities with a reputation for violence:
In a way, I think if you live in a city or a place where violence is common, then it perhaps doesn’t matter so much if the violence is the likelihood [of] somebody [who’s] going to mug you or attack you in your house or they’re going to blow you up in your barber shop. Violent cities, people who live in violent cities, find a way — as New Yorkers did 30 or 40 years ago — they find a way to just carry on. But you’re stressed out. You’re worried, you know. There’s times when they, for example, will turn off all the cell phone service in Lahore and you can’t make a phone call because they’re scared [that] on a particular religious holiday somebody will use a cell phone to detonate a bomb or coordinate a terrorist attack. You know, that’s freaky when those things happen. In fact, once recently we had a hospital emergency where my father was unwell and we had to take him to hospital but we had no mobile phones. We couldn’t call his doctor, you know. These things happen in daily life and, yeah, it’s upsetting and unsettling.”
Image via Dirty Old 1970s New York City](http://25.media.tumblr.com/8ef67cc330f69588420a557e08047e53/tumblr_mjlvxsxN6J1qd9dz2o1_500.jpg)


