Fire
14 years ago
06 June 2010
22 April 2010
The one where I prove I haven't disappeared for good
Though you'd never know it from following my blog, I've actually been doing quite a bit of shooting recently (my summer project: blog it. ALL of it.).
This link is to some photos I took for my friend, hero, and fellow photographer Jenn Whalen for her website. Thanks, girl, for keeping me on the map.
19 November 2009
It's "subtlemob" to you.
Another review I did for the Londonist:
http://londonist.com/2009/11/review_subtlemob.php
No photos on this one.. Not allowed (takes away from the subtlety of the mob, you see). Plus it pouring rain, and I was preoccupied with waltzing in the middle of the road with my neighbor. Love you, public art.
09 November 2009
Rink-a-Dink
Last week I was asked to cover artist David Ward's new exhibit, "Rink," for the Londonist. What a mind-blowing experience. Inspired by the paths that skaters leave behind, Ward transformed the floor of this huge warehouse in central London into a series of light drawings. My favorite part was playing catch-me-if-you-can with the light arcs (I lost).
If the goal of an artist is to create something nobody has ever seen before, then Ward has a gold medal in my book. You can read the article I wrote about the event here (and by "can," I mean "should"):
http://londonist.com/2009/11/art_review_
If the goal of an artist is to create something nobody has ever seen before, then Ward has a gold medal in my book. You can read the article I wrote about the event here (and by "can," I mean "should"):
http://londonist.com/2009/11/art_review_
23 September 2009
Life is Ruff
Apparently Londoners are allowed to bring their pets on the Underground..
.. as long as they carry them on the escalators.
.. as long as they carry them on the escalators.
Did I mention I love this city?
I Conquered the Seat
My first week in Europe (yes, I'm posting late again) was spent in Edinburgh, Scotland -- the most fairytale-like city I've ever encountered. One end of the city actually rests in the shadow of a castle. And the other end? Oh, it borders the sea.. no big deal or anything. Named ever-so-suitably for King Arthur, "Arthur's Seat" lies somewhere in the middle of magical Edinburgh. A wild highland area, the seat rises 823.5 feet and has gorgeous views of both the city and the sea.
Baby's first hike
View of the seat
View of Edinburgh from half-way up
We ran across a lake of swans while we were climbing... what??
Another view from half-way
The remains of a 12th century monastery in the highlands
Resting.. (oh, give us a break)
We conquered the seat!!! (photo courtesy of a really chic Scottish teen)
View from the top
The long return (we still felt invincible)
My feet were sore for days, but the view - and the adventure - were so worth it.
The pictures below are from my adventure to the seat with my friend Annette.
Oh yeah, she and I also CLIMBED to the VERY TOP of the seat (that's right.. all 823.5 feet of it). Not bad for a couple of sorority girls, huh?
P.S. I was wearing a skirt and flats. Ridiculous, but true. (We didn't wake up that morning with the urge to conquer the seat.. it just happened!) Chapter 856 of the bizarre existence I live and love.
Baby's first hike
View of the seat
View of Edinburgh from half-way up
We ran across a lake of swans while we were climbing... what??
Another view from half-way
The remains of a 12th century monastery in the highlands
Resting.. (oh, give us a break)
We conquered the seat!!! (photo courtesy of a really chic Scottish teen)
View from the top
The long return (we still felt invincible)
My feet were sore for days, but the view - and the adventure - were so worth it.
15 September 2009
Something Like Fire
Written in my Shakespeare notebook the morning after the Thames Festival in London:
And outside, the streets of London have grown dark and cold. But not unfriendly or terrifying - just lightless. And silent.
It must be that way, though, after a city has thrown itself into carnival, into music and dancing, into drinking and eating, into laughing, feeling the warmth of celebration, feeling eternally young, riding on the immediacy of the present moment, which will soon lead into tomorrow, a day that sees an empty path along the river, formerly lined with vendors who have since packed up their carts and garments and trinkets (where do they keep them now?), and the sky above the river will have cleared from the rainbow-coloured smoke of glittering fireworks and fire gardens and cigarettes, and the lights in the trees will have been put out, and the masks and floats and costumes will have found themselves back amongst the hustle and drone of a city always progressing. Could I find traces of them now if I looked?
I have yet to know. So while it was still there, I looked hard, desperately even, at everything. I consumed the energy of that night, let it wrap itself around my skin and bury itself in my hair and squish itself beneath my feet. I let it change me, mesmerize me, dictate how I felt and what thoughts could form inside my skull. I let myself fall in love with everyone and everything around me, and I loved myself without any reason other than I was present. I was there.
What is this life I'm living?
How did I come to watching thousands of tiny fires burn in flowerpots and in lanterns and in fountains - the brainchildren of an artist whom I've never met or even heard of, whose name I couldn't recall if I tried (did I ever know it?). How did I encounter years of his (her?) life spent tinkering and building and dreaming and burning, and how did I love it so wildly when, before that night, I didn't even know it existed?
... Later on, he and I separated ourselves from the group because they were too single-minded. They wanted a great seat for fireworks. And why wouldn't they? But he and I, we wanted to be in the fire - not just among the fire gardens, but among the people: the Londoners, the foreigners, the tired, the fashionable, the youthful, the soulful.
Someone else said it best: "The only ones for me are the mad ones."
And London? This city is mad. And about it I have fallen mad as well.
And outside, the streets of London have grown dark and cold. But not unfriendly or terrifying - just lightless. And silent.
It must be that way, though, after a city has thrown itself into carnival, into music and dancing, into drinking and eating, into laughing, feeling the warmth of celebration, feeling eternally young, riding on the immediacy of the present moment, which will soon lead into tomorrow, a day that sees an empty path along the river, formerly lined with vendors who have since packed up their carts and garments and trinkets (where do they keep them now?), and the sky above the river will have cleared from the rainbow-coloured smoke of glittering fireworks and fire gardens and cigarettes, and the lights in the trees will have been put out, and the masks and floats and costumes will have found themselves back amongst the hustle and drone of a city always progressing. Could I find traces of them now if I looked?
I have yet to know. So while it was still there, I looked hard, desperately even, at everything. I consumed the energy of that night, let it wrap itself around my skin and bury itself in my hair and squish itself beneath my feet. I let it change me, mesmerize me, dictate how I felt and what thoughts could form inside my skull. I let myself fall in love with everyone and everything around me, and I loved myself without any reason other than I was present. I was there.
What is this life I'm living?
How did I come to watching thousands of tiny fires burn in flowerpots and in lanterns and in fountains - the brainchildren of an artist whom I've never met or even heard of, whose name I couldn't recall if I tried (did I ever know it?). How did I encounter years of his (her?) life spent tinkering and building and dreaming and burning, and how did I love it so wildly when, before that night, I didn't even know it existed?
... Later on, he and I separated ourselves from the group because they were too single-minded. They wanted a great seat for fireworks. And why wouldn't they? But he and I, we wanted to be in the fire - not just among the fire gardens, but among the people: the Londoners, the foreigners, the tired, the fashionable, the youthful, the soulful.
Someone else said it best: "The only ones for me are the mad ones."
And London? This city is mad. And about it I have fallen mad as well.
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