1.31.2011

drums


The Drums - Let's Go Surfing
I'm a sucker for songs with whistling and those which speak of carefree summer lifestyles.

green

Fo Tan
Fo Tan
Views from Fo Tan.
Taken on the same day as Fotanian 2011 Open Studios.

fotanian

fotanian 2011
fotanian 2011
fotanian 2011
Some photos I took from the Fotanian 2011 Open Studios I went to a few weekends ago.
Hong Kong actually has a surprising amount of artist villages and Fotanian is a wonderful example. In Fo Tan, a former industrial area, twelve separate buildings contain over 260 artists who open up their studios each January to the eager public.
Obviously, the event draws many hipsters creative, art loving types, I have never seen so many people with analog cameras at the same time, well post 1999.

1.29.2011

I Need a Girl (Part II)

How inappropriate is it that I'm looking at this while listening to this?
The Great Wall of Vaginas
'Why am I doing it and what’s it all about?” I hear you ask. Well, vulvas and labia are as different as a faces and many people, particularly women, don’t seem to know that. Men tend to have seen more than women, who have often only seen their own, and many have never looked that closely. Hence the exposure of so many, showing the variety of shapes is endlessly fascinating, empowering and comforting. For many women their genitals are a source of shame rather than pride and this piece seeks to redress the balance, showing that everyone is different and everyone is normal.'

1.27.2011

img heavy #9

two suns
robots
snake
snake herbs
cat port
ikea
tea
garlic art
img heavy: All I Do Is Eat edition.
1. Apocalyptic view of the IFC tower, and are those two suns I see? Star Harbour, TST. Word to your mothers: The world ends in 2012. 2. Go to Uniqlo with new Brazilian friend Yuri, try on same clothes. Obviously we are robots and we are unable to love. 3,4. Snake soup! I has eats it. Various snake displays at snake soup place. 5. 'Cat Port'. How do they make it? 6. My parents at IKEA. 7. High tea at the Intercontinental Hotel, full baller mode. 8. Ramen in Central, I make garlic cave art.

MISSrepresentation


I love seeing positive representation of women in the media.
Feminism doesn't seem to be doing so well here in Hong Kong; I've been hanging out with a new friend, the other day she complimented me, telling me that I was really funny, adding 'and I thought humour was only a male gene'.
A red light went off in my head, there's something up if there is a lesbian walking around your city thinking women can't be funny. Something terrible is obviously up.
How can little girls aspire to become their funniest selves when they don't know women can be funny?
We need more positive female role models on our screens, so girls know they can grow up to be cool, funny, powerful, strong, smart, opinionated, creative, or just generally awesome.
Via Jezebel.

1.22.2011

fashion

'You don’t need fashion designers when you are young. Have faith in your own bad taste. Buy the cheapest thing in your local thrift shop - the clothes that are freshly out of style with even the hippest people a few years older than you. Get on the fashion nerves of your peers, not your parents - that is the key to fashion leadership. Ill-fitting is always stylish. But be more creative - wear your clothes inside out, backward, upside down. Throw bleach in a load of colored laundry. Follow the exact opposite of the dry cleaning instructions inside the clothes that cost the most in your thrift shop. Don’t wear jewelry - stick Band-Aids on your wrists or make a necklace out of them. Wear Scotch tape on the side of your face like a bad face-lift attempt. Mismatch your shoes. Best yet, do as Mink Stole used to do: go to the thrift store the day after Halloween, when the children’s trick-or-treat costumes are on sale, buy one, and wear it as your uniform of defiance.'
Role Models by John Waters
Via.

modern wo/man.

Let's Not Get to Know Each Other Better
By Joel Walkowski

A FEW months ago I liked a girl — a fairly common occurrence. But being slightly ambitious and drunk, I decided to ask her out on a date.

This was a weird choice, as I’m not sure I know anyone who has ever had a real date. Most elect to hang out, hook up, or Skype long-distance relations. The idea of a date (asking in advance, spending rent money on dinner and dealing with the initial awkwardness) is far too concrete and unnecessary. As the adage goes: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Why pay for dinner if you can sit around watching TV? If you stay at home, you hardly even need to stand up, let alone put on a nice shirt.

Despite misgivings, this particular foray felt legitimate, a coming-of-age moment straight out of a John Hughes movie. I had always wanted to go on a real date: flowers, dinner and all that. I thought that maybe in doing so I would feel more like an adult and less like a dumb little boy.

So I called this girl, feeling a little sleazy as I searched for the right words: “Hey, um, this is Joel. Do you want to, like, go out? On a date?”

“O.K.,” she said uncertainly, no doubt suspicious the whole thing was a joke.

Her positive response did nothing to calm my jitters. Give me a party, a front porch gathering, or a random encounter, and I’m comfortable talking to anyone. But this kind of formal planning unnerved me. Riding my bike home, I realized I didn’t even know what a real date was, beyond some vague Hollywood notion.

In my 21 years, I have had my share of trysts and one-night stands. I’ve been in love. I know it was love because I shamelessly clung to her. I have had my share of ups and downs but have no idea if I’m doing the whole love thing right or wrong. We don’t tend to define it that way.

In this age of cyberselves, with hookups just a Craigslist ad away, the game has evolved to the point of no rules. It’s not the ’50s where I can ask some lucky girl to wear my pin and take a ride in daddy’s car. This change probably benefits me in the end, as I’m sure an offer of a ride in my dad’s Sable would be swiftly rejected.

For my generation, friendship often morphs into a sexual encounter and then reverts to friendship the next day. And it’s easy as long as you don’t put yourself on the line or try too hard. Don’t have a prospect? Check Facebook. Afraid to call? Text.

With so many avenues for communication, one might expect an onslaught of romantic soliloquies, but that isn’t the case. Casual is sexy. Caring is creepy. You don’t want to show your hand, and you certainly don’t want to fall in love. At least until you do, and by then it’s too late.

Planned romance is viewed as nothing more than ambition, so it’s important that things be allowed to happen naturally. Sex is great, and so are some relationships, but not to the point that they should be actively pursued.

It’s hard to even flirt with a girl without feeling obvious and embarrassed, since the greatest displays of cheesiness come from the pursuit, making it disgusting: “Oh, you drive a Volvo? What’s that like?” Realizing I’m flirting, I cringe and do my best to restrain myself. An encounter is best when unsullied by intentions, leaving lust or boredom to take over.

The typical sequence goes like this: Friends meet up at some sort of bonfire or impromptu game of night volleyball. Maybe that girl from your history class is there, and you start to talk. Neither of you has expectations. But just hanging out and swapping stories, laughing a little, creates a spark and the attraction builds, eventually leading to the big wet kiss that changes everything and nothing.

This is the perfect hookup, a pressure-free surprise. With a stranger, everything is new and acceptable. Her quirks are automatically endearing. This first encounter is the perfect place, but where does it lead?

In the best case, nowhere at all. The next time you see her in class, you act the same as you did before, and so does she, except for the knowledge you share that what happened last week might happen again.

If it continues, you have an understanding, physical chemistry and great conversations. You meet two or three times a week for no-strings sex and long-winded philosophical talks.

Most importantly, you aren’t lonely. Maybe deep in the recesses of your mind you think about possibly loving this person. What’s the standard response? Nothing. If she asks, “How do you feel about me?” you answer from the heart: “I see you as an unexpected treat from the heavens. I don’t know how I deserve this.”

Your relationship is good. Your relationship is strong. But it isn’t a relationship, and that’s the key. You aren’t hoping she will become your girlfriend, and ideally she is not looking for anything more, either.

A friend of mine, a normal girl who is neither especially social nor aloof, engages in hookups unabashedly — she’s just doing what she wants and doesn’t regret or overthink it. Except for one time when she woke up in some guy’s embrace, got out of bed and noticed his bookshelf.

I’m not sure what it was about the contents that impressed or moved her; maybe the books suggested a gentle soul. All I know is what she told me: “I only felt bad after seeing his books.” The books had made him a real person, I guess, one she liked. Or pitied. Because then it was on to the next.

I might not be a typical youth, and maybe my friends aren’t typical, either, but hardly anyone I know aspires to be “that guy” or “that girl,” those once-dynamic individuals who “found someone” and suddenly weren’t so cool. On some level, we envy the scope of their feelings, but we certainly don’t want to become them.

But staying out of relationships can be just as much work as maintaining one. After hooking up with the same person several times I’m sometimes haunted by the “Relationship Status” question on Facebook, and I’ll linger over the button, wondering whether to make the leap from fun to obligation. I envision holding hands, meeting her parents and getting matching ankle tattoos.

Then I come to my senses and close the window.

Sometimes, though, it’s not up to me. I work at one of the campus libraries, and for some obscure reason my bosses, who are mostly middle-aged and female, decided to hold a Library Prom. I had to take someone, so I asked a girl, one of the truly rare fish worth catching (or being caught by).

That didn’t stop me from introducing her as “my friend.”

Which didn’t stop one of my bosses from asking, “Are you two dating?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Um, we are?”

“Well, this is a date, isn’t it?”

She had me trapped. I nodded blankly. With one word, she had changed everything. Now I’m asked about her at work, even though she is currently hooking up with a friend of mine.

I wish I could explain this to the librarians. They’re sympathetic to my other complaints: about studying, about having my license suspended, about taking care of my pet chicken, and so on. “I was there once,” they tell me. “You’ll be fine.”

But when it comes to love, all they can say is, “How’s that girlfriend of yours?”

Maybe this disconnect has always existed. As one of my classmates, a genteel 60-year-old, said to me, “Every generation thinks they discovered sex.” Which might be true, but I’m not sure any previous generation has our plethora of options and utter lack of protocol. This may reflect how our media obsession has desensitized and hypersexualized us.

But I think it goes beyond that. Our short attention spans tend to be measured in nanoseconds. We float from room to room watching TV, surfing the Internet, playing Frisbee and finding satisfaction around every corner, if only for a moment.

Out of fear, we shrink ourselves. There have been many times I should have cried but stifled the tears. Instances where I should have said, “I love you” but made a joke instead. Once, a girl dumped me and it nearly ruined me. How bad was it? I ate nothing but Wendy’s for an entire week.

I’m fairly certain I could have saved the entire endeavor with a soul-baring soliloquy of what was true and what mattered to me, but I couldn’t muster the courage. I don’t know many who can.

We’ve grown up in an age of rampant divorce and the accompanying tumult. The idea that two people can be happy together, maturing alongside each other, seems as false as a fairy tale. So when a relationship ends, it isn’t seen as bad. It’s held as evidence that the relationship was never any good to begin with.

MAYBE it’s just that we have learned nothing can compare to the perfect moment of the unexpected hookup — wet lips on the beach, lying in the sand — and so we aim to accumulate as many as possible. Or maybe we’re simply too immature to commit. That has been the rap against guys forever, but now women think the same way. With the world (and the world of sex) at our fingertips, it’s difficult to choose, to settle, to compromise.

But I do occasionally wonder: If we can’t get past ourselves and learn to sacrifice to be with another, then what is in store? A generation of selfish go-getters fueled by nothing more than our own egos, forever seeking that rare dose of self-esteem? An era of loneliness filled with commercial wants and mate selection based on the shallowest of criteria?

As a staunch proponent of my generation, I believe that, despite what it may seem, we appreciate the ways of love and affection but are simply waiting for them to take over. We might dally in the land of easy sex and stilted text-message flirtation, but deep down we crave the warm embrace of all-consuming love.

I do, anyway. What else could have been behind my crazy idea to ask a girl out on a date? Alas, she and I ended up going to Chili’s and never went out again. Welcome to adulthood.

1.21.2011

pretty

the kids are alright
Too cute not to reblog.
Indulge me a little bit.
I've got some original content posts coming up soon. Some sewing projects and the like, just been too sick to write anything creative lately.

6:1

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1950s LIFE photo series "Six Girls One Apartment"

'While it’s currently unknown what story the photos were originally went along with, the suggestion (in the rest of the photo) of a guitar, communal dinners, and navy fatigues worn as pajamas makes me think there was many a rowdy night drinking cheap red wine and while taking turns in the bathroom getting ready to hit the next singles mixer.'

white

paper marigela
Paper Margiela jeans and heels.

1.20.2011

hedonist

jenny holzer
'Finding extreme pleasure will make u a better person if you are careful about what thrills you.' - Jenny Holzer.

1.19.2011

portlandia


You guys have got to see this, it's so hilarious.
Portland: Where young people go to retire.

choice

The Girl's Guide To Having An Abortion.
Did you know one in three American women have had or will have an abortion in their lifetime? For such a common and important medical procedure it is awfully hard to find comprehensive and straightforward information. Jezebel is here to help! I think it's really important to see more articles like this normalizing the still hush-hush topic.

The comments are really awesome too, you should read them. Here's a good one:
'If any woman in this nation doesn't have easy access to this spectrum of options, we cannot call ourselves civilized.'

1.17.2011

greatness

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'"IN honor of Persephone!” she announced, cracking open a pinkish orb. She handed me half and I stared, shocked, at the gleaming maroon seeds. She was plucking them with abandon, letting the juice stain her fingers, not caring. I tried to breathe.

It was winter in Pittsburgh, I was 18 years old, and I had never seen a pomegranate. I’d met her weeks after arriving in Pittsburgh for college. Somewhat randomly her boyfriend had asked me: “Would you like to come to our party? We’re going to have this Balkan band from Albuquerque and a Norwegian folk singer play, an Indonesian shadow puppet performance, and everyone has to bring a pie.”

At a time when other freshman girls were comparing Wal-Mart dorm room d├ęcor and giggling over tipsy messages scribbled on hallway wipe boards, an invitation to an off-campus party with artsy 20-somethings was surreal. I went, terrified, hoping at best to merely glimpse the Bohemian lifestyle my run-of-the-mill suburban upbringing had undoubtedly denied me. Instead, I fell in love.

She was a poet living in a castle-like apartment flooded with plants and books I’d never heard of. The details of her exotic childhood, I learned, included an organic farm in rural Texas and a private girls’ school. She did origami and left it hidden for strangers to find, knew the secrets of library basements and overgrown alleyways, and wore vintage hats covered in rusty brooches. She was into queer theory. She got her clothes from the Goodwill Dumpster. She was everything I’d dreamed of but never knew existed.

For some reason she anointed me with her doting approval and took to showing me around the city. She was on a mission to soak up the magic humming just beyond the ordinary and needed a partner in crime.

Enamored, I dropped everything to distance myself from the banality of university life and tag along. I was still very much 18: In my free time I accidentally dated the wrong people (sweet yet mortal music-theory undergrads), went to the wrong parties (where punks pounded Pabst Blue Ribbon) and actually went to class.

She disapproved, but she was patient and mentored me lovingly with carefully crafted book lists and midnight adventures. A year after we’d met, just as I was getting a handle on Ursula K. Le Guin and Anne Carson, she called me: Would I like her bicycle? She’d bought a one-way ticket to Japan.

The only person more devastated than me was her suddenly ex-boyfriend. Our common heartbreak inexplicable to the outside world, he and I mourned together. Only we knew the depths of her enchantment and, thus, the tragedy of our loss. While I sent her letter after letter, he actively plotted to get her back. In one hopeless ploy, he reasoned that if the two of us could lure her into a three-way relationship, our combined appeal might jointly win her over.

At 19 this seemed plausible to me and I went for it, pawing at him in the dark, remembering her. After he’d fall asleep I’d sit in their living room and trace my finger over the books she’d left behind. I ached in the presence of her ghost. Eventually he also took a one-way flight to Japan in an attempt to reunite; soon he was wandering through India without her. And I was left in Pittsburgh, newly alone.

With everyone I deemed important now abroad, I mustered up my newly developed confidence and hatched my own plan: I too would study in Japan and properly declare my love once and for all. When I marched to my university’s study-abroad office to seal the deal, however, I was confronted with reality: Living in Japan was expensive. Prohibitively expensive.

But there was a six-week summer program in Beijing, for which generous scholarships existed. Would I be interested in that? I glanced at the map. China seemed close enough. I applied.

By June I was at Peking University studying Mandarin on an open-jaw airline ticket; six weeks later the program ended and I was standing in Tiananmen Square. And to my disbelief she was there, too, standing next to me, flying a makeshift kite. By then she had quit her Japanese job and come to Beijing with her teenage brother. Her plan was for the three of us to take the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow and sort of wing it from there.

Still getting my bearings abroad, I was not yet the type of person who “wings it” — especially in Russia — but this wasn’t about logic; this was about her.

She slept a lot on the train; she also read for hours and barely ate. I bonded with her brother over spoonfuls of Nutella and ruthless make-believe gossip about our fellow passengers. We got to the topic of her ex-boyfriend.

“She only liked him because they read at the exact same pace and turned pages at the same time,” her brother said, rolling his eyes. “Not exactly my idea of romance.”

I swooned at the thought of her reading something undoubtedly wonderful in the adjoining compartment but forced myself to nod. We looked out the window: a herd of camels, for a flash of a second. We were in the Gobi Desert.

Nights were hard. She was inevitably inches away, sleeping peacefully as my desire for her boiled. In Ulan Bator, under a sky thick and white with stars, we decided to sleep in a yurt on the steppe. As her brother slept, she whispered to me: “Have you heard about that hand-built, nine-grotto Virgin Mary shrine some priest spent 42 years piecing together in Iowa?”

I told her I’d build her a bigger one if she wanted.

She laughed and played with my hair, knowing it was true but not wanting to show it. The shrine I had already built for her was painfully exposed; in two years my mainstream existence had been razed to the ground to make room for a garden in which her every eccentricity was welcomed to bloom. What was I doing in Mongolia? It seemed I would follow her anywhere.

The landscape changed as we rode to Russia: an endless expanse of pine trees, one after another, through the train windows. We stopped in Irkutsk to skinny-dip with seals in Lake Baikal, eat spiced pine nuts from the cone, and hike through fields to hunt for mushrooms and shamanistic cave drawings, but I barely noticed. While staying with a family, our kindly Russian host mother instructed us to strip and smack each other with birch branches in a backyard sauna. This is where we finally did kiss, under an orange moon, but her heart was elusive while mine was unsophisticated and greedy.

In the four days it took to ride from Irkutsk to Moscow she somehow found us a place to stay: an office-building basement secretly converted at night into a cheap hostel by a cleaning lady. The catch was that we had to be out each morning by 8.

We whiled our days away in bookstores and second-rate amusement parks, eating hot dogs and forgetting to go to the Kremlin. When she and her brother decided to ditch the train and hitchhike their way through Finland and the Baltic states — all the way to relatives in France — I suddenly felt like an impostor about to be discovered. I wanted to keep going but couldn’t keep up.

I was too afraid not to return to Pittsburgh, not to finish college, not to tell my parents exactly where I was. I didn’t have much money and was too afraid to hitch. She seemed genuinely sad but did not stop me from leaving. As I turned my back on her at the first major fork in the road, I was grudgingly conscious of a painful realization: My life was not one of one-way tickets. Not yet.

OVER the next few years she passed through Pittsburgh many times and we’d always go swimming in a fountain, or stencil poetry onto sidewalks, or cook pizza or kiss, only for a day or two, and then she’d be gone. I’d beg for her ever-changing address and she’d write, inconsistently, sending short stories and watercolors too good to be from someone I knew. One day she showed up with a new boyfriend. The only thing worse than losing her was the realization that I’d never had her.

Recently I came across her biography online. She is now an accomplished writer, the recipient of many fellowships and awards. My first thought: Thank God professional judges of the potential for magic in artists have justified my fanatic obsession. And then I saw it. Among her various honors and residencies, chosen out of the hundreds of cities she has visited and thousands of experiences accumulated, she had written that she once flew kites in Tiananmen Square.

I tried to breathe. There are so many fruits in the world; we can’t remember exactly who introduced us to what. But we never forget who showed us that there were, indeed, more fruits to discover than we’d ever realized.'

This story has everything I like: adventure, three-way relationships, unrequited girl crushes.
Haven't we all had a crush on this girl? I want to be this girl and be with her.
Via
.

1.15.2011

size matters.

Get 83 157 thumbs up on Youtube comment, feel awesome.
#MyLifeIsSad.
#It'sTheSmallThings.

ride

I have very recently discovered my mother likes videos of people falling, she loved this.
In fact, I may never have heard her laugh so hard than at this video.

hello HK.

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'I can't help it that I'm so popular.'

1.14.2011

scrollwheel


I actually drooled I laughed so hard.
Watching non-computer literate people go online is so frustrating.
Via.

home.

Bechdel- Fun Home
Alison Bechdel. Fun Home.
Reading this right now. Amazing.
Have to get my hands on a hard copy real soon.

1.13.2011

nature

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On Facebook I'm friends with a lot of people from my hometown, so weird shit like this pop up at a pretty enjoyable rate. But, this, this here takes the cake, may I present to you Girl Sexy-Posing with Deer. So now some friends and I have started using 'touching butts' as a euphemism for sex, and anytime I see something that I like I have an irresistible urge to touch it with my butt, it's only natural.

Also: How come every time I upload an image I made on Illustrator/Photoshop the colours get all fucked up?

so if you're pretty, i sign titties.


I love Nicki. She's such a BAMF. I guess I'm just one of those girls, falling like dominoes for her.
'Say my shoe game nuts, so I call 'em cashews
Every other city there's another Nicki tattoo
Steal Wayne girls, I steal Drake girls
You know the real bitches love me fuck the fake girls
So if you pretty, I sign titties
I got the key to every motherfuckin' city'

Fuck that 'Do It Like a Dude' song, this is the lesbian anthem.

1.12.2011

grass

Grass MattressDog Model Mies
Last days of summer.
1. Lying on the grass mattress with the only boy in the world.
2. Dog models: they'll piss on your camera and then come back and do it again.
3. Modernism in Toronto, courtesy of Mies van der Rohe and some rich banking billionaires.

snack'ems

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You are what you eat, not what eats you back.*
1. Cupcakes for no reason.
2. Nuit Blanche fish grill. I'm actually not sure if this was an art display or a self serve fish vendor, it was manned by many a hipsters, and when I say manned I mean stood around by. Never hire a hipster as an employee.
3. Thanksgiving turkey massacre with my friends clad in plaid.

*Jenny Lewis, sort of.

1.11.2011

flora


This is the only song I'm listening to right now.
I like how the video is like the pop version of that Gucci Flora video by Chris Cunningham.

1.08.2011

parcel

betty goodwin
Betty Goodwin. Parcel for Karachi Two (Parcel VIII), October 1971.
Soft-ground etching and drypoint on japan paper laminate on wove paper.

surfboard made out of don't care.

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This is such a Tumblr picture. I found this on my facebook mini-feed and I can't credit it seeing as how I only know this person because we made out drunkenly in a tree fort once. I'm too embarrassed to ask where the picture/jacket came from.
But, this is a pretty rad jacket, no?

1.07.2011

adult

'Entrepreneurship is living a few years of your life like most people won’t, so that you can spend the rest of your life like most people can’t.'

Been thinking about money/careers a lot lately, like an adult, so this is appropriate.
Via.

the killing moon comes too soon.


Enjoy.
Echo & The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon.

1.06.2011

wankers


Misfits. Season 1 Episode 1.
Watch it, you'll thank me. Why is British TV (tele?) so good?

1.02.2011

2010→2011

betty goodwin
'Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.'
Ira Glass

Understanding this concept changed my entire perspective this past year. After I finished my thesis collection at the end of May last year, I basically refused to make another garment for the better part of 6 months, that's a lot for someone who had been pumping out outfits monthly. I made excuses for myself, I said maybe I was sick of sewing, but that's such a superficial lie I couldn't even believe it myself. I was mostly mad that I couldn't produce work at a level that I saw as adequate, so instead, I stopped creating. Like Glass said, my work just wasn't meeting my taste, and being the natural aristocrat of taste that I am (ha!), I couldn't help but feel discouraged with my amateur efforts.

Making clothes was something I had always believed I was intrinsically good at, and here I was upon graduation afraid that I would never be truly good at it. I escaped by diving into a world of admiring others' art, mainly film and photography and by harshly critiquing others' effort at fashion design. Meanwhile, I was secretly ashamed knowing that all this time they
at least were creating but I was too afraid of failure to even try.

I've never been good at expressing my self through words, so seeing this stated so plainly and clearly I am able to pinpoint the sentiments I was unable to express. I guess this is why quotes has been such an integral aspect of this blog.
So, here's to 2011, the year of studioworks and the continuation of my 10,000 hours.

In the words of Arcade Fire: Here in my place and time/And here in my own skin I can finally begin.

Speaking of which, hey! Do you remember last year? This decade is going to be full of pivotal moments.
Happy 2011.

Quote via Obia.
Photo: Betty Goodwin. Gloves IV, 1971.