If wake up earlier and sweat more and focus and read more and rid myself of distraction if I turn up the volume in my headphones and run harder and write faster and brush my teeth twice a day and sharpen my knife so I can cook better and raise my voice when I need to like for example when the man on the subway accidentally sat on my lap and buy flowers for the apartment and dress the wound on my leg and listen to what the lecturer is saying and take notes, diligent notes, it will work.
A firm voice directs me to take six steps forward with three books balanced on my head, which I can do. I am beginning to believe that achieving what I want can only happen with complete and total commitment to the Dream. This month’s recap is disjointed at best, books flowers pens rocks movies, typifying a transition period of interests and environments. Lucky for me I’m not a brand with a shiny cohesive message, instead I’m a woman with three books balanced on my head.
I’ve been working hard this month, tucked away on county sideroads, which is exactly why I’m driving headfirst into the Summer I Created. This is my Summer, according to Didion: Do not whine. Do not complain. Work harder. Spend more time alone. There are some moments of delicious discipline amid bobbing heatwaves, most of which I have included in this month’s journey. Please enjoy.
The skill I’ve learned this month is simply this: I do not need a studio and I do not need ideas. I’m running hour after hour on the side of the highway, where there is not one patch of shade—too hot for headphones, even—just the steady beat of my feet on asphalt and the whine of cicadas. I do not need a studio and I do not need ideas. I’m writing less but my mind feels heavy like a full sponge. I do not need a studio and I do not need ideas. I’m too busy listening.
What can we call this—River rat treasure? Nouveau camp folk art? Lakeside kitsch? In the Summer I’m attracted to colour like a striped bass to a flaming orange lure. These, to me, are the trinkets of the outdoorsman. I find them terribly fun, pink as bright lipstick, polka-dot-spotted, tinfoil silver, speckled spicy red underbellies. It hadn’t occurred to me that you could whittle a lure out of wood—I’ve been whittling more now that the wood outside is drier—and so I will try it. I wonder if you could apply green chrome powder (swiped from my manicure supplies box, which sort of resembles a fishing tackle box of charms and things, if you think about it) to the eye sockets. Do the fishing bros know that nail gems might make perfect minnow scal
I’ve been a fan of Anni Albers since I fell in love with Sheila Hicks, who studied under Josef Albers, who was in turn inspired by his beloved wife, Anni. There is something so fundamental and real about her work, it almost quietly declares itself as being important. You know an Albers work is an Albers work because it’s so matter-of-fact, like her. I attended this lecture given by MIT in collaboration with The Albers Foundation (full recording here and here), which included a good summary of Anni’s life and work. Up until now I had simply admired the textiles at face value, hovering an inch away from the clear glass cases at the MoMA and DIA, so I’m really excited to re-experience the work with deeper context of pre-war Germany, fleeing to America, studying at the Bauhaus school, etc.. Some of my other favourite pieces by Anni: this, and this.
This pattern for knit microshorts from Loupy Studios. I wanted to make a pair but ultimately feel like I prefer the idea of microshorts to actually wearing microshorts. I still love the look, so here’s some inspiration I’ve saved for yarn + add ons + styling. Images from Pinterest and Are.na.Share Natalie’s Substack
I got a pixie cut—a true revelation. It’s almost inexplicable how much impact on personal identity a haircut can have. It curls around my ears like short ribbons. I feel spurred on by the following passage from Dizz Tate’s Brutes:
No girl we knew had short hair. No one even had a bob. In summer, we all had the same hair, as long as we could coax it, half dead and raggedy by August from a combination of Sun-In, pulling, and chlorine. We thought of our hair like our magic trick. At night, when we met up on the playground after dinner, we let our hair down like a show, sprung it out of our ponytails, let our braids fall over our eyes like a beaded curtain we could coyly peek through. We hid our faces because we were certain that someday, someone else would reveal them back to us, tuck our hair behind our ears and tell us how beautiful we were, had been all along, in secret. None of us could believe Sammy had hacked off her curtain, revealed herself by choice.