North|South

Over the weekend I stumbled across the most coolest project.

North|South

Emma Roos Frändås and Matt Buchlak teamed up to create a series of images that depict the same perspectives but from different hemispheres. Emma in the North, Matt in the South. It’s an ongoing work that is subtle but gorgeous. Creative, connected.. two of the best things about being human.

Each of these artists is fabulous in their own right as well. Please make sure to check them and the project out!

Screwed

I’m sitting at Les Schwab. That’s French for “say your prayers, you could be here a while.”

The sky is overcast, but I’m at a bar height table connected to the window. The diffused light is bouncing back and forth between the parked cars outside and the white building. While the photon spread is probably perfect here for skin tones, my eyes are squinting to type this. I can smell the coffee I made at home, infused with rubber and oil. My legs are shifting every few seconds to avoid a blood clot.

I wrote yesterday about being present. So, here I am. It’s a fun exercise, to be honest. Considering the moment. Granted, I wrote that in the context of parenthood, and this current reality is a purely adult endeavor. Somewhere over the course of the past week, I ran over a screw and, I am here. Hoping for a speedy, inexpensive, and simple solution to the almost new rear passenger tire on my paid off vehicle. The title of this essay is misleading, so I apologize if you came for the negativity. Click bait, baby.

It usually takes me a while to write up a post when I want more than a line or two. But this morning the words are rolling off the brain. Funny how that works. I have time, and it’s feeling easy. When time is scarce, these creative endeavors feel impossible. Something to chew on here about perspective, I’m sure.

By the time you finish reading this I will have figured out which sort of photo goes (or does not go) with an essay on sitting at a tire shop…

Little subjects next to big ones, in Olympic National Park. ⬇️

the long short

This has been both the longest and shortest summer I’ve yet to experience. We packed our calendar with so much to do, made some good type 2 fun memories, accomplished quite a bit, but also, have had slow, frustrating moments. It’s been the most paradoxical time.

Yesterday we got a huge rain. A rain that doesn’t usually happen in August. The grass has been crunchy underfoot, the garden soaking up everything. The area around our house has been brown and to the eye, dead. But this morning, bursting from all corners of the yard is a rich green. An overnight transformation. Full disclosure, these poppies didn’t ‘pop’ that quickly. They’ve been there since early summer, but man were they thirsty.

From one state to the next, just like that. It’s how you define this summer. Moments that are forever, no sense of change, then one variable shifts and here we are, another place. Our kids have less than a month before embarking on new journeys at new schools. I hope the time has been well spent, while also recognizing we’ve still got it.

And the recognition starts with just noticing. Noticing the crunch, noticing the wet. Choosing to leave the headphones inside or at home. Listening. To the hwy, to the hawk that’s establishing territory on our land (we have too many rabbits so I’m all for this), to the wind. To at times, the sound of my kids fighting in the house when the windows are open, but also to the belly laugher that echos across the yard originating from the same place. Both/and.

It’s all woo woo. Or is it? Is it what life is about? I think yes.

a surrender

Photos in print are special. Work an artist pours themselves into, that starts as an idea and becomes something to hold gets me pumped. Fruition is such a beautiful thing.

I don’t need to rattle on about the digital age and how it has robbed us of tangible art, and I’m not going to. Fact is, without the digital age, I would have never been exposed to many talented, kind creatives. So, today I’m sharing a special book from photographer and friend, Markus.

Markus Naarttijärvi is a master in quiet storytelling. The sense of places, the moments of life that hit just on the periphery, human touch which lingers in a space void of life... Think of a hard to quantify idea around existence, one that struggles to be illustrated or named. You can just about guarantee Markus has found a way to put the concept to image. His work is visceral, and his book is very tactile. Sunken text on the front, a soft matte cover, gently textured paper, and a spine exposed. The book itself is meant to be felt.

Thankfully, the work within matches this intention. When I first flipped through this book, I experienced a multitude of emotions. The sheer dopamine hit of a new book, because, obviously. Then, the feeling of visual story, each image like a chapter you don’t want to end. Sad at the emptiness, enraptured by the space. Chilled by the darkness, and drawn further into the northern light. A seemingly science-fiction landscape, brought back to earth by stills of a frozen Swedish forest. The collection feels stark, and yet so warm and personal. His images are ones you sit with. Each page, narrative evidence.

The images seem to say, “This is where we lived, this is how we felt, this is what we did. We made choices. We did our best, and at times, our worst. We got through. Then, we died. And in all of it, we had hope.”

This book is such a joy to own. I’ve intentionally not shared too many visuals and hope you grab a copy.

for the week

My thoughts and prayers for this week:

To have the gift of quietly returning to oneself.

And not by solitary means, but by the movement, engagement, and love of others.

An emergence of what matters, and the decision to make it matter

are both privileges that shouldn’t be thrown away,

They are so unlike that Twix bar wrapper,

which housed enjoyment and now sits as a vacant shell.

Understand that nothing lasts,

but there are things which are eternally important.

See them this week, and discard the rest.