More more about The Gangway and pics of the new house soon!
Fall...
As if moving our entire lives to a new house in a new neighborhood, starting a new job and opening The Gangway wasn't enough activity for this fall, I also decided to sign up for my friend Esther's pattern and drafting class at CCAD. Tonight is the last class and I am hoping that I will have a complete skirt by the end. I have enjoyed getting to know the ladies and GENT (!) in our class and can only hope I will remember how to apply everything I have learned over the past few weeks! I found this wonderful vintage-y fabric to use for my final on sale at Sew to Speak a gem of a fabric store located in the new hood, Clintonville!
An Introduction to The Gangway
Prepping some swag for the bags at Holidayville this weekend. Oh, and a little introduction to The Gangway! Our new gallery/studio in Clintonville.
You've only got one...
Stephanie Bair-Garant - One Life Photos
From one of my favorites:
“We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory.”
Henri Cartier-Bresson
From one of my favorites:
“We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory.”
Henri Cartier-Bresson
Happy Birthday, Mom!
I believe there is no coincidence my mom's birthday falls on Guy Fawkes day. A yearly reminder of a revolutionary. A spark to the beginning of November. An introduction to the fiery evenings ahead in the upcoming dark and wintery bliss. I know Mom has conflicted views of her birthday. I can't help but think she feels it's more a burden to celebrate. Secretly, I think she would be just as happy not having a production around her birthday, but is also elated when family friends gather around her. Either way, I feel lucky that this is the woman who birthed me and in a short list of amazing things... who also rioted in the streets for the freedom of others when it still seemed to make a difference, fought for the rights of woman battling deadbeat dads in the late eighties, and who on a daily basis, unfailingly sheds her love, wisdom and light on the family that surrounds her.
Can't wait to dance around the living room with you tonight!
Psst... A little birdy told me something new is coming this way!
We've been busy moving to the new neighborhood and opening up shop.
We've had a few friends stop by to check out the very intimate space. 
Deconstructing Nostalgia
While wading in a sea of boxes after moving from a home I lived in for 4 years, I realize that deconstructing nostalgia may be my life's work.
The dinnerware version of "The Missing Piece"
I think this plate has been waiting for this kitchen it's entire plate life.
Sincerely, L. Cohen
In the words of Liz Lemon (and I'm actually not talking about a chocolate bomb) "I want to go to there..."
Click the sentence above to see the magic!
Click the sentence above to see the magic!
Summer Flea
Good thing someone was taking photos! I was too hot and bothered! Here is a great little Blog write up from "The Fashion Darling" about the Summer Flea! It was so much fun!
Billy did well and picked up some of our favorite Ray Charles albums as well as a few hilarious ones that will keep us chuckling for a while.
I probably should have scavenged a little more for some new T-shirts for Billy... Oh well!
Hopefully this will be a reoccurring thing! Fingers crossed!
Find the Meagan's Blog here.
Billy did well and picked up some of our favorite Ray Charles albums as well as a few hilarious ones that will keep us chuckling for a while.
I probably should have scavenged a little more for some new T-shirts for Billy... Oh well!
Hopefully this will be a reoccurring thing! Fingers crossed!
Find the Meagan's Blog here.
Vintage purses
My neighbor was slightly worried that as a very well known jewelry designer she didn't have an inspiration wall. Thing is, her inspiration is everywhere! These are my favorite things on her living room wall.
Paris Je t'aime, Faubourg Saint Denis
Groggy, early wake up with Billy today. I got instantly spoiled by the early morning runs along the beach while he was golfing. Although there was no sand to walk on or water to tease my toes, there was coffee and a lovely breeze and this movie on in the background as the rest of me slowly awoke.
Pit Stop in the Pee Dee
Frenchy ordered Peach and Pistachio ice cream to continue in with the "P" theme.
"I'm a Vinton County girl, myself..."
Says the woman behind the counter of the shop where we stopped to grab some water and a few provisions. Her husband sat at the table in the back eating a sandwich and drinking what looked like a late afternoon cup of coffee. He raised his glass to me with a wink as I studied the cooler for my options. I smiled and felt like I had walked into their living room and probably could've stayed for awhile if we weren't so excited to explore outside.
We bought a map, she gave us a few suggestions and we went on our merry way. Although, I couldn't help but take in a little more of their world before we left.
We bought a map, she gave us a few suggestions and we went on our merry way. Although, I couldn't help but take in a little more of their world before we left.
Changing the "Somebody should" to "I am"
This is an amazing inspirational talk given by a fellow former Anthropologie employee who now owns a beautiful boutique in Cleveland. I found this last night, and it couldn't have been better timing. Thank you, Danielle! Hoping this will inspire others, too!
Boho Mag
I came across this magazine a few months ago while enjoying the delicious breakfast burrito at Northstar. It (Northstar and the burrito) used to be more than just a treat (for a few reasons I won't mention) but now has become only a specialty with a carefully selected girlfriend to catch up with on a "post-Saturday-morning-activity-of-our-choice" (usually yoga, sometimes volunteering in Goodale Park).
Anyway... I usually have too much to discuss with my girls for reading, but sometimes I can't resist the rack of glossies that sit in waiting by the sofa. My eyes scan for the most appropriate light reading, pre-eating material, but my belly does back flips when I see a glossy that isn't actually "glossy". And that, my friends, is what lands this mag in my hands. Just the feeling of the paper on my fingers leaves me wanting for more. I instantly thought that Free People had made a lifestyle magazine and thought... Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that? (I'm starting to get bored with that question, really... no really.)
I'm pretty sure it's independent from Urban, but I loved the mission statement, however you may think of it, but they have certainly narrowed in on their market.
Online magazines are great and very green, I know, but I'm still a sucker for holding a book and paper in my hands.
This makes it a little easier: "boho is an eco-friendly publication. We are printed on 100% recycled, post-consumer waste paper and use soy-based inks. boho is completely UV-coating free"
Yay! Now I can swap ONE visit to Northstar for an entire year subscription to this magazine... guilt free!
This makes it a little easier: "boho is an eco-friendly publication. We are printed on 100% recycled, post-consumer waste paper and use soy-based inks. boho is completely UV-coating free"
Yay! Now I can swap ONE visit to Northstar for an entire year subscription to this magazine... guilt free!
Nelsonville Music Festival
and Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings
were the big headliners ( as well as the Detroit Cobras and a few others that were equally awesome). But, I was most excited for a lazy Sunday on the lawn with the impending intimacy of The Swell Season
. It was just as I suspected. There were only a few who stayed for Sunday afternoon. It was quiet, not too sunny. We stayed on the blanket for awhile, but then I had to mosey my way forward, closer to the stage. I only had a film camera left to use, all batteries had died, no juice left to record the show. So I quietly made my way through the small group of people who were as close as possible, all with their digital handhelds recording every morsel as if it would be as amazing later as it sounded in the air. As I watched Marketa watching Glen from the side of the stage with such endearing passion, it made my eyes tearful most of the time. It was almost too close and personal. I actually felt as if I had been transplanted to their backyard instead of the opposite. I have a feeling, though, that they felt just the same.
copyright skbg 2010
copyright skbg 2010
Mikes on Bikes
This is Mike O. A local celebrity film maker/editor. I wish I would have started chronicling his outfits since the day I met him in college. We would have one amazing book on our hands.
His daily collages are masterpieces in and of themselves. He rode by only minutes after Mayor Mike Coleman rode by in his svelte O.S.U. biking outfit and waived to the Tip Top friends and family
sitting on the patio.
So, we called it the day of Mikes on Bikes.
Mahogany
the first image to come up in the research for my Mahogany Pencil. It's going to be a fun color, this one...
You don't have to go to London...
...to see this beautiful Chihuly. We stopped by Franklin Park Conservatory for the Earth Day festivities. There were over 200 volunteer worksites in Columbus over the course of two weeks. Congrats Green Columbus!
couldn't help but share this...
loving this color today
Ahh, San Francisco. Where we always leave a little of our heart...took this on our last visit while at the de Young.
arrêter de fumer
Yesterday, Billy and I celebrated six months of non-smoking. Just like kicking any bad habit, it feels like a proper milestone to celebrate. It was no small feat for those who know me and my tendency to smoke cigarettes like a gambler plays the slot machine. There was always justification for, "just one more". As if the moments adding up under the swell of cigarette smoke would lead me to a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or summon the next mark of brilliance like famous parisian smokers Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel or Serge Gainsbourg. It started at the age of sixteen when such grand illusions were set before me. It had been a year of sneaking cigarettes with friends in the suburbs; naively drinking coffee in the stifling smokers section at Denny's, convinced the coffee would somehow mask the stench embedded in our clothes and breath.
I saved up my babysitting money to go on an educational tour of France with my french class. Brimming with excitement, history and culture finally at the tip of my fingers, I had only one thing in mind. I couldn't wait to sit independently at a sidewalk cafe, drink wine and smoke cigarettes among the parisians. I made sure this happened, even if I had to secretly escape from my more amateur company. Unfortunately, my unhealthy conviction started a trend amongst the other teens on the tour bus and it became equally important to translate "How much for the Gouloises" as "Where are the toilets?".
From there, sitting on patios and enjoying the company of friends became an extremely dedicated pastime in my adult life. It must have unleashed my fetish for seeking quaint outdoor patios and/or restaurants with open windows no matter where I landed. I could sniff them out like a bloodhound to a missing person. Ironically, I now live in a city that has a serious lack of patios (with a few magical exceptions). My front porch more than makes up for it, but I am starting to wonder if I will sit on my porch nearly as much as I used to when I was a smoker. Contemplation is a lonely thing without something occupying my idle hands. Soaking up the sun in front of an establishment suddenly looks suspicious without the passive recognition of a smoker doing their thing.
It's possible that the tobacco farming of my great grandparents may have slightly predetermined my addiction. It could have been my childhood memories watching grandpa Grover lean over the kitchen sink in great distinction with his filterless cigarette while looking out the window over his gigantic garden. Or maybe it was catching Mom alone with an occasional lit one in the middle of the night on the front stoop coupled with a bourbon and seven when she couldn't sleep. Hypocritically, when too young to fully understand the whole concept of smoking, I once hid the Merits from my "bio-dad" and asked him what kind of flowers he wanted at his funeral.
Whatever it was, we are now happy to be considered non-smokers. Billy prefers that it's forever and claims I should go a year before ever putting one to my lips again. But, if I find myself in Europe again, please don't judge me if I ceremoniously light one up as if saying hello to an old friend.
In honor of the movie size memories I have of my smoking days and the paradoxical comfort, camaraderie and romanticism I still associate with it, I will leave you with this:
click photo
the tip of the inspiration iceberg
The endless catalog file of information to be found online, big enough to sink the titanic, and swallow my delicate motivation to get up and make my own stuff! Mostly things from the UK, not coincidental to commemorate the 10 year mark of my return home from living in London. A few days ago, I bid adieu to my neighbor Patrick who is going on his first trip to Europe on a self proclaimed mission to see ART. I had a short list of things for him not to miss in London, Paris and Amsterdam. It made me extremely nostalgic for my time in all of those cities. I was amazed at my ability to give him directions from memory and made me realize that I still know the city of London like the back of my hand. I can only hope that he will be able to stop and feel the rush not from running from one tube stop to the next, but from the quiet and amazing warmth one gets while sitting amongst strangers in a foreign city and feeling not like a stranger at all.
Here are a few things I'm in love with today (click on image to find more info):
Here are a few things I'm in love with today (click on image to find more info):
The stunning Chihuly in the V & A Museum. It was my favorite place to visit on my days off from the Tate Gallery (when it was the only Tate in London). I was there during the installation of the Chihuly piece and when Tate Modern was being built!
The Epic Breakfast
We welcomed Opal to "our" world last weekend! "To all my good friends!" was a quote we used to scream to each other in smoky bars, emulating Henry Chinaski's whiskey soaked voice before we guzzled whatever bad beer we could afford to drink that night. Today, we gathered in daylight and maybe snuck a sip of really good beer to celebrate family, of the friendship kind.
Please, Please, Please
It's never too late,
you're never too old,
you're never too sick,
to start again from scratch.
Bishnu Ghoshyou're never too old,
you're never too sick,
to start again from scratch.
I admit, I was a little nervous going to my yoga class at the gym. I signed up as a present to myself for quitting smoking (going on six months now, cold turkey, no sneaks!) My lungs are completely happy with me and congratulate me daily. My hips, not so much. They've been shaking their warning finger at me for a few months now, though I chose adamantly to ignore it. When I saw a picture of myself on the internet that I didn't recognize at all, that fervently shaking finger turned into "I told you so!" And just like the breath of fresh air March had blown into my house, I felt it just as strong in my body. I've been active ever since. Now, I had seen the girl who lead the yoga class and I judged her obviously fake tan and bleach blonde hair and instantly decided that wasn't the kind of situation I wanted any part of. I have been to proper bikram yoga in very inspiring atmospheres and have gotten used to the slow and stretching pace I practice at my house. I know myself well enough that with my newfound enthusiasm I was going to need a little more accountability to keep motivated. I sucked it up, grabbed my yoga mat and made my place within the class, in the back row, of course. My first class, she turned on the stereo and played a Michael Jackson mix. Doing yoga to Michael Jackson made me want to turn my downward dog a little dirty. My body was confused. I wanted desperately to hold my pose, but my hips intrinsically wanted to bounce around the room like Beyonce. As I held my airplane for a full minute, I reminisced about the days I thought I was going to grow up, move to NYC and dance in a studio like on the show "Fame". I loved their outfits and ability to seem weightless and I coveted the girls strong, sleek bodies. With the introduction of In Living Color, I wanted to be a "fly girl". While I secretly worked out to New Kids on the Block videos, learned every lyric to En Vogue songs, blasted Slick Rick on the stereo with my brother, I was wearing Poison and Guns N Roses t-shirts and head-banging to Black Sabbath at my 8th grade dance. Ever the contradiction. I was unstoppable, the DJ couldn't stump me. I knew every lyric and every dance move, no matter what the genre, and usually could sense what song was going to play before everybody else. Oh, middle school.
I secretly hoped that the world would follow Sir-Mix-Alot's taste in women, then I wouldn't have to worry so much about the Size 2 I was never going to see in my lifetime. At least the public's love affair with J.Lo's derrière has helped me feel more comfortable in my adulthood with my most obvious "asset".
So, my judging of the yogi at the gym may have been superficial and uncalled for; she has more than enough ammo to judge me as I try to keep up with what I am calling her "boot camp bikram" yoga class. In the long run, I think I will be thanking her for the transformation I already feel and for awakening muscles in my body I never knew existed. Who knows. Maybe there is still hope for me as a back up dancer. Although MJ taught me not to stop until I get enough, after watching the T.A.M.I
show last night, dancing behind James Brown when he was on the mic, would always keep me coming back for more.
Old habits die hard
Spring has sprung and that means... Home moves!
Oh, the tid bits and sprinkles of memories that make you realize why you do certain things. I can still hear the record player in our split level house wailing Patsy Cline as Mom opened up the windows and declared "Spring Cleaning!" at the first hint of Spring. With a few grunts and a slow saunter to the cleaning supplies, eventually the dust wand became our make shift microphone and my 11 year old little heart could already understand Patsy's pain when she was "Walking after Midnight". Then with a quick flip of a record, we would slip into gypsy dancing to Fleetwood Mac and all troubles seemed to melt away. In the spirit of all the delightful things that happen when you rearrange the furniture and whisk away the subtle pile of dust from the winter...I will share the light with you and hope to inspire you to welcome the sun and air out the weightiness of winter. Don't forget to turn on some music and sing while you do it...
Oh, the tid bits and sprinkles of memories that make you realize why you do certain things. I can still hear the record player in our split level house wailing Patsy Cline as Mom opened up the windows and declared "Spring Cleaning!" at the first hint of Spring. With a few grunts and a slow saunter to the cleaning supplies, eventually the dust wand became our make shift microphone and my 11 year old little heart could already understand Patsy's pain when she was "Walking after Midnight". Then with a quick flip of a record, we would slip into gypsy dancing to Fleetwood Mac and all troubles seemed to melt away. In the spirit of all the delightful things that happen when you rearrange the furniture and whisk away the subtle pile of dust from the winter...I will share the light with you and hope to inspire you to welcome the sun and air out the weightiness of winter. Don't forget to turn on some music and sing while you do it...
The B.F.G
I am starting to REALLY believe that Roald Dahl may have been MY grandfather in some parallel universe. I've always been partial to the friendly giants (pretty sure I even dated one once) and although I love the fruit, I still can't help but to contemplate the infinite world contained within a normal sized peach before biting into it. When I was a child, I was certain I was going to be a writer. At my young age, inspiration mostly came from a few childhood heroes such as Shel Silverstein (I was sure to be eaten at any moment by a Boa Constrictor), Madeline L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time changed my life at age ten...I couldn't look at a piece of string the same ever again). Not to mention a slew of others...
But of course, there was always the wonderful Mr. Dahl who took me on wild adventures and allowed me to make sense of what was happening in my world in a way that was fantastical but completely believable.
It came as no surprise when a few years ago, I cracked open a whimsically illustrated and wistfully written book by his granddaughter, Sophie Dahl. OF COURSE my beloved childhood author had offspring! And OF COURSE she was creating interesting things that I love! I have to admit, though, I was only a dial tone away from asking her personally, "What did it feel like when you tiptoed around in my head? Did you sneak in while I was sleeping?" I felt comforted by the words of another that felt so kindred in spirit, then instantly chalked her up to the Sophia Coppola's of the world. I was simultaneously inspired and discouraged. I came to the defeating conclusion that the only way to get anywhere in this world is to have a last name rich in the industry and deep in artistic accolades. (p.s. since then, this has been a wavering declaration...)
I kept her book under the glass on my coffee table as a reminder that, although I went to school for art... my heart still beat loudly for words and maybe someday my love for writing and oodles of doodles and ramblings COULD turn into something SOMEDAY. She would make a few visits in my world every once and awhile. I remember seeing her a few times in magazines as a very ghastly version of herself and I began to turn a blind eye as I watched her ease down the slippery slope of self image as imposed by the magazine and fashion industry. My heart sank. I saw a gorgeous, strong, talented woman too slender for her own frame and anyone's aspiring good. I wanted to use the same fictional phone I was going to use before, but this time, I wanted to order her a juicy steak and some garlic mashed potatoes and meet her at a table in the woods with a canopy of twinkle lights and reminisce about our childhood as if she were my own long lost sister. Alas, no phone call was made and I forgot about my empathy for a stranger just as quickly as the imaginary dial tone ended.
Until a few days ago, when I came across a freshly heroic version of Sophie Dahl. She has written a new book called,
Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights: Recipes for Every Season, Mood, and Appetite
Hurrah, Miss Dahl! Even the title had me AND my belly doing backflips for joy! I could already imagine how wonderful this gem of a book would be. I was silently gleaming with motherly pride at the delectable outcome of the assumedly arduous journey that had lead her to it. I ordered it immediately.
Today, Billy brought the unopened Amazon box with him as he picked me up from my two day visit with mom and grandma Pheba. With his own excitement, he helped me open the box in the car before we pulled away and I quickly devoured what words I could. I instantly giggled at the uncanny resemblance of our past and the close proximity it was to my recent visit with family that always stirs up interesting memories. She spoke of her chubby childhood and how her grandmother couldn't understand why she wanted to become a vegetarian in her adolescence. Billy watched me from the drivers seat with his usual curiosity, wondering what it could be that I had ordered this time. Before I could share a few words of what it was or why... he looked at the cover, brought it closer to him to see better and laughed as he said, "Is that you?".
I looked at him in utter disbelief as I sometimes do when I forget just how much he gets me, and how often he doesn't know the profundity of his own words. I rested the book in my lap and he grabbed my now empty hand as if to officially say, "Hi baby. I missed you. Welcome home." And never have I felt so much so.
But of course, there was always the wonderful Mr. Dahl who took me on wild adventures and allowed me to make sense of what was happening in my world in a way that was fantastical but completely believable.
It came as no surprise when a few years ago, I cracked open a whimsically illustrated and wistfully written book by his granddaughter, Sophie Dahl. OF COURSE my beloved childhood author had offspring! And OF COURSE she was creating interesting things that I love! I have to admit, though, I was only a dial tone away from asking her personally, "What did it feel like when you tiptoed around in my head? Did you sneak in while I was sleeping?" I felt comforted by the words of another that felt so kindred in spirit, then instantly chalked her up to the Sophia Coppola's of the world. I was simultaneously inspired and discouraged. I came to the defeating conclusion that the only way to get anywhere in this world is to have a last name rich in the industry and deep in artistic accolades. (p.s. since then, this has been a wavering declaration...)
I kept her book under the glass on my coffee table as a reminder that, although I went to school for art... my heart still beat loudly for words and maybe someday my love for writing and oodles of doodles and ramblings COULD turn into something SOMEDAY. She would make a few visits in my world every once and awhile. I remember seeing her a few times in magazines as a very ghastly version of herself and I began to turn a blind eye as I watched her ease down the slippery slope of self image as imposed by the magazine and fashion industry. My heart sank. I saw a gorgeous, strong, talented woman too slender for her own frame and anyone's aspiring good. I wanted to use the same fictional phone I was going to use before, but this time, I wanted to order her a juicy steak and some garlic mashed potatoes and meet her at a table in the woods with a canopy of twinkle lights and reminisce about our childhood as if she were my own long lost sister. Alas, no phone call was made and I forgot about my empathy for a stranger just as quickly as the imaginary dial tone ended.
Until a few days ago, when I came across a freshly heroic version of Sophie Dahl. She has written a new book called,
Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights: Recipes for Every Season, Mood, and Appetite
Hurrah, Miss Dahl! Even the title had me AND my belly doing backflips for joy! I could already imagine how wonderful this gem of a book would be. I was silently gleaming with motherly pride at the delectable outcome of the assumedly arduous journey that had lead her to it. I ordered it immediately.
Today, Billy brought the unopened Amazon box with him as he picked me up from my two day visit with mom and grandma Pheba. With his own excitement, he helped me open the box in the car before we pulled away and I quickly devoured what words I could. I instantly giggled at the uncanny resemblance of our past and the close proximity it was to my recent visit with family that always stirs up interesting memories. She spoke of her chubby childhood and how her grandmother couldn't understand why she wanted to become a vegetarian in her adolescence. Billy watched me from the drivers seat with his usual curiosity, wondering what it could be that I had ordered this time. Before I could share a few words of what it was or why... he looked at the cover, brought it closer to him to see better and laughed as he said, "Is that you?".
I looked at him in utter disbelief as I sometimes do when I forget just how much he gets me, and how often he doesn't know the profundity of his own words. I rested the book in my lap and he grabbed my now empty hand as if to officially say, "Hi baby. I missed you. Welcome home." And never have I felt so much so.
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