Yosemite Valley/Olympic Peninsula/San Francisco/San Juan Islands/Salt Lake
DESERT FALL
OUT WEST
NORTH ISLAND
Aotearoa New Zealand’s North Island - Tongariro National Park/Wellington/Mt Egmont National Park
SOUTH ISLAND
Aotearoa New Zealand’s South Island - Arthur’s Pass/Queenstown/Kaikoura/Milford Sound/Abel Tasman National Park
PORTUGAL
CONJURING SACY
In the process of archiving photos from more recent travels, I’ve been revisiting old photos and am struck by the strength of the memories these images conjure and how precious it is to access these past moments. These images taken during a summer stint house sitting and tending the garden in Sacy Le Petit feel particularly special. For a third summer, I traveled north from Paris to the countryside and fell into the familiar rhythms of opening and closing the shutters at the beginning and end of each day, felling stinging nettle with a sickle, and cycling to the nearby farm for fresh milk- routines unburdened by time, despite the hourly toll from the village clocktower.
Visiting a place, there’s always the quiet wondering “Will I ever come back here? Or is this the last time I’ll be in this place?” It’s a question that’s crossed my mind each time I’ve come to Sacy, the days passing with the lingering thought of whether they will be the last, a premise that feels bittersweet for a place that has grown close to my heart. With this question in mind and faced with time alone in the old chateau bordered by stone walls at the edge of the village, I attempted to capture the place: the way summer light travels across the house- around corners and through dusty panes of glass- and how peeling window frames provided glimpses of the surrounding garden, letting in the sounds of pigeons taking flight. I wanted to preserve it all, to hold onto those long days of hands working in the earth, fading into golden evenings, relishing the candy sweetness of garden strawberries and sipping bottled beer from the cellar.
Sacy is seeped in stories- many from its long history as a farmhouse and family estate and now a few from my brief time there. Looking back on these images, I’m glad I ignored the silliness I felt at taking seemingly mundane or uninteresting photos of walls or doorways. These captured corners of the house and garden beds immediately transport me back to those places and times, where I can imagine the creaking of the stairs and the glow of the sun off the goldenrod walls of Hermine’s office. I don’t know if I will return to Sacy, but I’m grateful to be able to return to the memory of past days in the countryside.
WEEK 26
Now that my unemployment has an end date, I’m feeling the crunch of time. In a way, the past few months have been an experiment in perceptions of time: the endlessness of the last half of March, the instantaneousness of April and May, to the adaptation to this altered world and lifestyle that made summer months pass close to normally. With a few weeks remaining, time has suddenly started sprinting again.
As the countdown draws closer to that date circled on the calendar, the “oh shit” mentality has come on strong. A to-do list tacked up, post-its with rogue tasks stuck where I’ll hopefully notice them, and piles of work-related items dug out from the closet to be organized. Like years past, whether for the return to work or school, I’m feeling that same sense of urgency to tie up all the loose ends. Funny how I’ve had months to tackle projects, yet it’s the emergence of a deadline that’s spurred me into action.
Yet, despite all the things I’m scrambling to finish before work dominates my life, I’m not quite ready to let go of summer and its looseness of time. It feels like I’ve only just found the perfect blend of things to maximize warm sunny days: bike trails along the river, swimming downtown, walks to get soft serve, Sunday morning farmers’ market visits, sitting outside for hours at a time just reading… That sense of not having anywhere to be or anything that has to be done, to simply enjoy being outside on a beautiful day is really the thing I’m not quite ready to lose. Even as mid-September has ushered in cooler weather, I scan the weekly weather forecast, reserving the warmest or sunniest days to savor the last bits of summer and promising myself I’ll try to get as much checked off that to-do list on days when the weather is less sandals-accommodating.
XXX
For me, the photos this week try to capture these small moments of the end of summer- a walk in the Botanic Garden, the growth of my back porch garden (my tomato plants are a bit ragged, but the fruit is finally ripening!), that warm glow of fading light as the sun sets earlier and earlier…
The other day, I was on the phone with someone from Apple tech support. When he learned I was in Chicago, he asked about Chicago sunsets, saying, that where he was, in Madison, Wisconsin, there had been remarkable sunsets as a byproduct of the wildfires out West. I thought of this yesterday, driving east as brilliant golden light, unfettered by clouds, bounced off the mirrors of my car and reflected onto my face (tried to take a photo on my phone at a red light, so it’s not the greatest quality). Turning north, I saw the perfect golden circle of the sun sitting lower in the cloudless, empty, hazy sky. It was a beautiful sight, a golden hour made for the end of summer.
As with the sunsets in Madison, I suspect this too owes something to the wildfires. It’s strange that this moment of intense beauty could have origins in something so devastating, but this idea of ‘the good’ and ‘the bad’ co-existing within the same space or moment feels fitting for my experience over the past months. This has been (to use the most overstated phrase of 2020) an unprecedented time, one of tremendous tragedy and injustice. Yet, for the most part, my exposure to the worst remains confined to the news, instead of through personal experience. When I think of life on the macro scale (Chicago, the United States, the world), I’m filled with the heaviness of loss- the collective loss of life, of normalcy, of stability- as well as anger at leadership and systems whose callousness and broken frameworks have been so damaging. However, alongside this ‘bad,’ when I look to the most personal level, aspects of this time have provided opportunity for growth, of connecting to myself and to different communities in both real life and in digital spaces. I suppose everything “contains multitudes” - both positive and negative, even a sunset.
WEEK 25
I previously expressed a sense of fatigue towards the indefiniteness of life in a pandemic; a nagging sense of worry that I’d mostly been able to ward off, but now was becoming harder to ignore. Co-workers had shared rumors of an early-October return to work, which, with no word from my employer and an eye on news of rising COVID cases, I skeptically penciled into my internal calendar. Yet, up in Northern Wisconsin, during what I optimistically hoped would be a final “vacation” before this potential start date, I received official notice that our production would begin filming in a few weeks. After months of stasis, where a lack of routine and uncertainties about the future have been pillars of the day-to-day, it’s strange to have this pin dropped- a definite point marking the end of unstructured unemployment and the beginning of something else.
With this announcement about work, anxious queries about insurance coverage and budgeting immediately flipped to scattershot questions on all the granular logistics and details of working on a film set to thoughts of what life outside of work will look like. In an industry built on long hours, in a normal year, my job consumes my life. Now, working in an environment in close proximity to others, where exposure to outside people and places could disrupt the health and safety of the workplace, this feels particularly relevant. In the time of COVID, does work consume my life not just because of long hours, but because anything beyond work could have health consequences for other people? How is this all going to work? What happens if someone gets sick? Will a return to work further shrink my world? After months spent mostly in my apartment, can my world even shrink anymore?
I’m looking forward to going back to work. I’m excited to see people I haven’t seen for months (and to be around people in general…), to get back to a routine, to have tasks to accomplish, and to get out of my apartment with regularity. But I’m also nervous. This isn’t the usual return to work, it’s the familiar twisted and transformed into something different, yet recognizable. Amidst the swirling mental landscape of what it will be like and how it will work, I’m trying to calibrate my expectations, finding a balance between the anxieties of uncertainty and the begrudging acceptance that work this year isn’t going to be the same old thing.
In this current stage of pandemic life, I was beginning to feel my stamina crumble under the lack of definiteness, topped by the political discord that injects chaos and frustration into an already complicated time. Yet, if I had any assumptions that knowing when I would be going back to work would free me of uncertainties, this was a misconception. Knowing when work will begin again has alleviated some concerns and marks the end of what will then be six months of unstructured time. This information, though, has populated my thoughts with a new set of questions and uncertainties, which, now that other people are factored in, feel more difficult than when just trying to answer for myself. While this stage has an end date, uncertainty doesn’t. Perhaps that’s a life lesson that the pandemic has simply magnified at a larger and more terrifying scale. Maybe it’s not uncertainty that’s gnawing at me, but stasis. Life has been stagnant for so long; I’m ready for something different, even if it comes with its own unknowns.
XXX
Unlike my last trip up to Northern Wisconsin back in July, when comet NEOWISE and thousands of stars were visible amidst a moonless sky, a full moon grew over the course of the two weeks. As a cinematography student in film school, moonlight was one of those elusive lighting schemes- like television glow or flickering fire- that proved a challenge to recreate believably. It was always too blue, too bright, or the source too low to be believed as the moon in the sky.
Stepping onto the dock, I could feel the moonlight hitting my face, see it reflecting off the lake, and illuminating treetops. I found myself observing the light, trying to qualify and mentally catalogue it for future reference. Although dimmer than sunlight and cooler in color temperature, it possesses a similar hardness, but one that simultaneously casts strong shadows while retaining a sense of softness.
I attempted to capture some images of the light, photographic references. Focus proved a bit challenging in the dark, especially with the older lenses I was using, and I found it difficult to accurately translate what my eye was seeing into the camera. In some instances, I opted for longer exposure times in an attempt to see more, to see deeper into the darkness, resulting in images that are much brighter than the actual intensity of moonlight. Yet, experiments with shorter exposure times and ISO settings yielded images too underexposed. I never quite found the sweet spot and, playing with variations in color temperature settings, I never settled on one that felt perfect. However, I find these moonlit images interesting experiments that capture the wash of light that illuminates everything (even if the photographs’ exposures don’t quite replicate the actuality of moonlight). Some of the images with longer exposures almost feel like bizarre daytime scenes, if it weren’t for the stars in the sky…
WEEK ??
Do the weeks even matter anymore? The initial idea behind these blog posts was to capture life in quarantine, but “quarantine” itself feels rather amorphous. In Chicago, more spaces re-opened in June and there’s a greater freedom of movement in the city. But for me, unemployment continues and life remains mostly confined to my apartment and the occasional distanced meeting with a friend. Now that the city has re-opened to an extent- is it still quarantine? Or is it simply life in the time of COVID?
Without the structure of a job or other obligations, my day-to-day hasn’t changed much since March. Recently, I’ve been able to plug into different organizing groups (check ‘em out: https://www.im4rj.org/ and #DefundCPD) and weekly Zoom meetings and digital workspaces have helped foster a sense of busyness, while also giving me real work to do. The tasks and schedules that come with involvement in these groups have been a bit of a lifeline for me. I consider myself highly self-motivated, but realizing that it’s been four months and counting since a semblance of “normal” life makes it increasingly challenging for me to muster the energy to tackle the independent projects I felt more eager to pursue in the spring. I’m grateful for these communities where I can engage with other folks and collaborate in ways that feel meaningful.
Recently, I’ve felt a greater sense of mourning the loss of normalcy. I took a walk around the Museum Campus and Northerly Island, places I used to frequent when I was going to school downtown. It’s one of the most beautiful areas in Chicago- a perfect view of the skyline, blue waves lapping alongside the Lakeshore Trail, and, on Northerly Island, paths winding through a prairieland that feels impossible in a city. And while people were taking advantage of a gorgeous summer day, lifeguards kept people away from an empty beach- which continue to remain closed. The open stretch of sand bordered by sparkling water and blue skies filled me with a sense of longing for the “before times” and a sadness for all that’s missing or different this summer.
Obviously a closed beach is a minor inconvenience compared to the devastation of COVID-19: the loss of life, the millions of people facing precarious and uncertain situations, the ineptitude and disdain for human life of the government (and a good portion of employers…). Yet from macro to micro, this virus has upended every facet of life and an empty beach feels like a reminder of all that’s been lost and the continuing crisis, even on a beautiful summer day.
While I’ve adapted to living in this “time of COVID,” I’ve stubbornly refused to see this period as “the new normal.” I feel like I’m treading water through this liminal state- wanting to believe that it’s all temporary and will end eventually, while feeling not only an anxiety about “when?” but a growing sense of dread for what the world will look like after. And all the while, trying to keep my head above water, taking each day as it comes, rather than dwelling too much on either past or future. There are fears beginning to creep in: the loss of the extra $600 in unemployment payments, the looming expiration of my insurance, the building exhaustion of the indefinite (from a return to work, to the end of COVID itself), the overall sense that my stamina is wearing thin…
I wasn’t intending for this post to be so pessimistic. Life in this pandemic seems to move through stages and I’m currently facing more mental/emotional roadblocks than I have in past months. However, I’m in an incredibly privileged and stable situation, despite the challenges of joblessness. I’ve had the opportunity to visit my parents in Minnesota and spend time with them during a second trip to Northern Wisconsin. I am grateful for access to those spaces and, in this sense, indefinite free time has been a positive! In these past weeks, I’ve participated in protests, celebrated my birthday by kayaking on the Chicago River, enjoyed perfect summer days, and joined with both fellow union members and Chicagoans on imagining and working towards a better world.
Life looks different this year and right now I’m grappling with the sadness of this fact. But this year has also provided me space to get to know myself, to self-educate on issues of abolition and re-imagining justice, to wrestle and play with free time (in both the positive and negative), and to appreciate moments of beauty/joy in the world around me- a world that may be less expansive than the international travels of past years, but has presented the challenge of finding the special in the commonplace.
XXX
Photos up top were taken during a second visit to Northern Wisconsin. During one of our first nights of our stay, my dad and I were able to take photos of the NEOWISE comet, which was particularly visible with the new moon and being a clear night.
The gallery below includes shots from Chicago and images of George Floyd Square at the intersection of 38th and Chicago in Minneapolis. It’s a powerful and emotional space to enter- city streets co-opted as a living space of memorial and protest. My words won’t do it justice, but it was heavy space.
WEEK 11
As someone who considers themselves an artist, or at least a creatively-minded individual, a great deal of my work- be it drawing, writing, or photography- is born out of my own experiences or interpretations of the world, a world seen through the lens of a white, middle class woman. This week as protests and responses to the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the Minneapolis Police Department began in my home state of Minnesota and spread throughout the country, photos through my lens did not feel like the appropriate way to sum up my 11th week of isolation and what has become a week of action and outcry for many Americans.
I believe it’s critical for our communities- communities in our cities, countries, and even online communities- to include artists from a diverse range of backgrounds and identities and I believe there is a small place for my work within this tapestry of stories and experiences. However, too often white folks, be it unintentionally or not, find ways to revolve narratives about race, racism, and the associated struggles against violence and oppression around themselves. I’m culpable of this myself. This has been an emotional week and I feel the desire to raise my artistic voice, but I’m still trying to figure out how to create work that isn’t self serving or distracts from the critical work being done by activists, organizers, and artists of color.
Particularly in this moment, but also going into the future, white artists and white folks, including myself, need to listen and find methods of amplifying the voices of BIPOC people whose narratives and experiences, whose pain and anger and grief need to be acknowledged, and whose leadership is essential for charting the course towards an equitable and just future.
Here are links to some organizations that are doing meaningful work in Chicago. Donate and/or listen- they are presenting some incredible visions for Chicago:
https://www.blacklivesmatterchicago.com/
https://www.bravespacealliance.org/
https://www.assatasdaughters.org/
Yes, he’s a white guy, but photographer David Guttenfelder has been posting some powerful images of people and protests in Minneapolis:
WEEK 10
I only spent the first couple days of this 10th week of isolation up north, but even in this short period of time, I still managed to take a whole new batch of photos. As I alluded to in the previous post, striving to completely capture beauty may prove impossible, but it’s an attempt that never ends. And I hope, for me, that it’s a pursuit I never abandon. Isn’t that the ideal- to always remain curious and to forever maintain a desire to engage in some way with the world?
Anyways, the majority of this week was spent back in Chicago, which, after almost 7 years (is that right??) of living here full time, driving back into the city feels like coming home. The past few days have provided the most consistently warm weather of the year, even bordering on hot. We’ve had the kind of days that make Chicagoans say “this is what makes the winters worth it” - blue skies and beaming sun (brief thunderstorm notwithstanding). Sitting in my backyard, I heard speakers blasting music, smelled grills being busted out for the first time, and watched the sparks and flares of alleyway fireworks displays. It all feels so normal- these hallmarks of a typical summer day- yet Illinois is still shut down (although not for much longer…) and the figures of how many people have died from the virus are staggering. Summertime feels full of life and promise, the celebration for sticking through winter, which is difficult to parse when faced with the tragedy of the past few months and the need to step cautiously into a still uncertain future. It’s hard to acknowledge that this summer will be different and will, most likely, require sacrifices and discomforts, particularly as the city slowly emerges from sheltering in place.
Yet, while weeding the backyard, my next door neighbor noticed me from between the panels of the fence dividing our yards and struck up a conversation about gardening. We spoke, craning our heads for the best view through the gaps in the fence, barely able to see each other, separated, but engaged. Meeting my neighbor for the first time in this way and amidst this time of isolation, feels like a hopeful sign. Later, from up in my back porch, I could hear her singing aloud as she watered her plants, jumping between songs in Spanish and Whitney Houston ballads. Her voice wasn’t the best, but she sang with confidence, simply enjoying the music. Summer will certainly look different this year, but I’m reminded that there will always be ways to make the most of this season.
XXX
I also wanted to mention the last few photos of this week’s collection. I gathered violets from my backyard and made a simple syrup with them. The violets are soaked in water for 24 hours, which turns the water blue. The violet infused water is mixed with sugar to create the syrup, at which point it is still blue. Following a recipe note, I added a bit of lemon juice, the acidity of which turns the mixture purple. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been in chemistry class for years, but watching the color change amazed me! I’m looking forward to using the syrup- hopefully in recipes that allow the color to shine through!
WEEK 9
If I felt like I’d hit a creative rut and was lacking inspiration for photographing my sliver of isolation in Chicago , the past few days have provided a much needed respite and reset. I’ve been up in Northern Wisconsin, a place that connects me to my family and its history and to the outdoors.
This place is familiar and steeped in memory, but it also possesses a boundless opportunity for discovery. Following the curve of the shoreline, I’ve been taking a kayak out a couple times a day, each time with some new result: finding pitcher plants shriveled from winter, a beaver dam not noticed on a previous paddle, following a knocking sound and spotting a woodpecker. Both on the water and in the woods there is space for exploration and fresh observances, even in a place that feels so known to me.
The same applies with photography. As I’ve gotten older and more immersed in cameras, photography, for me, is an instinctual way of capturing the beauty that exists here. It’s an attempt to interpret, respond, and appreciate; a way to engage and interact with my surroundings and to make discoveries. Although, it always feels a bit like holding sand, I’m not sure any photo can quite encompass this place. In a way, taking photographs up here feels especially like capturing time- sunrises, sunsets, and the shifting light of a day to elements of the seasons themselves, budding branches in the spring or the snowy expanse of frozen lake in winter. Time is ever-present here, yet it’s a cycle with a natural cadence that’s not rushed or anxiety-inducing- as it sometimes feels to look at a clock. Time has felt especially warped during this pandemic, both expanding and contracting, but in the Northwoods, the weather shifts and winter fades to spring and spring prepares for summer, and the rhythm continues as normal.
I’d never been here alone and I wondered if I would be scared, the result of an active imagination and consuming my fair share of horror films set in the woods. Yet, as the end of my time here approaches, I haven’t felt afraid. I am the only human in this particular stretch of land, but I am surrounded by life. Cricket chirps and bird calls, buzzing hummingbird wings, mournful loons, and diving beaver- the daytime chorus inevitably replaced by that of the nighttime.
I haven’t gone stir-crazy in my apartment or felt trapped during these weeks of isolation, but my world has felt diminished and much smaller, as I’ve primarily limited myself to my apartment and the sidewalks of my neighborhood. One of the greatest aspects of being up here is simply having space. My thoughts soar, no walls or ceilings to trap them, as I hike amongst birch and pine and, sitting on the dock looking at seemingly billions of stars, I am reminded that I am a tiny element of a huge world.
I am immensely grateful and lucky to have this place of refuge and to have the ability to take a break from the city on my own. I am appreciative for this time to insert myself into the rhythms of the woods and to be in a place of beauty and space for thoughts, even if just for a few days.
WEEK 8
I managed to not take a single photo this week (aside from mostly trivial stuff on my phone), but I didn’t want to break my streak of posting consistently, so I’m sharing stills pulled from some movies I’ve watched over the past few weeks (some courtesy of Filmgrab and some snapped with my phone while viewing- apologies these are really low quality).
I grew up a big film buff, taping up lists of Oscar winners and Hitchcock’s filmography on my bedroom door and watching Turner Classic Movies on Friday nights with my family before even DVD rental through Netflix was prevalent. My interest in the history of cinema slowly grew to include a desire to actually engage in the process of making movies. I studied still photography and filmmaking in high school and then got my undergraduate degree in cinematography, all the while continuing to watch movies, only now with an added appreciation for the technical skill and artistry.
Yet, funny enough, the more time I spend working on set, the less frequently I watch movies. Long hours often leave me only with the brain capacity and stamina for something short and easily digestible (much love to King of the Hill). In the past few months, I’ve been trying to get back into watching movies with greater regularity and now, in this period of confinement, this has been especially easy. I’ve watched a movie almost every day since my quarantine began in mid-March, but it’s only within the past few weeks that I’ve started taking photos of shots that catch my attention. I’m trying to be a more active viewer, to watch with an analytical eye or at least be more thoughtful of the technical and artistic choices at play.
I wanted to be a filmmaker because I loved watching movies. I loved the way the movement of the camera or the lighting- elements grounded in tools and gear- could transport and engage the audience with the mood of a person or place. Roger and James Deakins have been releasing episodes of their podcast “Team Deakins” (https://teamdeakins.libsyn.com/) over the past few weeks, which feature conversations about different aspects of cinematography (the one on film processing brought me back to a college course on the chemical makeup of film and the work done at the lab). I’ve enjoyed listening to the episodes, but particularly appreciate the repeated reminders that above all, the goal of cinematography is to help tell the story. This element of production is highly technical and often gear-oriented, but, at its core, it is deeply creative. This has been an important personal reminder, even as I am out of work and the film industry is largely shuttered. I hope to continue practicing active movie-watching, but also incorporate my observations and grounding in the story into my own work.
Below I’ve listed the films where the stills came from and some jottings about what caught my attention:
A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004) - super hot patches of light mixed with areas of darkness. There’s also a scene on the water that feels a bit stagey, but the intense warmth and deep shadows all work for the over-the-top story and I love the beams from the lighthouse and flashlight.
Django Unchained (2012) - Beautiful wide landscape shots (it is a neo-Western, I suppose…). Rich colors- the coolness of the mountains, the greens of the plantation, the stifling warmth of the Candie house
Rosemary’s Baby (1968) - I focused on constriction in the frame- characters (primarily Rosemary) framed within tight hallways or doorways- she is truly trapped. Also the light from the keyhole when she’s in the closet!!
Hail, Caesar! (2016) - there’s an artifice in the lighting of some scenes, which I felt lends itself to the film being a story about old Hollywood, things feel stagey and showy which fits with the period. I also loved the wide shots capturing the studio lot- we never forget where we are
Handia (2017) - more beautiful natural lighting as well as a lot of lovely silhouettes
Star Wars IV (1977) - I’ve seen this movie a bunch of times, but I never appreciated how it’s droids who guide us through the beginning of the film and introduce us to the desolation of Tatooine. I love the wide shots of this desert planet, but also the more contrasty and bold edges of the space station lighting.
The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966) - intercutting of big wide shots with super tight closeups. The closeups capture the subtle movements in the characters’ eyes and everyone in the cast has an interesting face- I love seeing all the details- the shine of sweat, the creases in their skin… The final scene in the graveyard is also overwhelming and great- again that wide scope cut with extreme tights just adds to the tension.
Killing Them Softly (2012) - there’s a scene at the end with Brad Pitt’s character walking through a celebration in the street where fireworks are going off and he’s sometimes fully lit, sometimes in silhouette. It’s chaotic and colorful.
The Witch (2015) - the stillness of the frame, with occasional subtle movement (like a slow pull back). Feels very painterly- the candlelit scenes reminded me of the paintings of Georges de La Tour. Also- everything is so soft and so grey!
The Matrix (1999) - I hadn’t seen this one in awhile… I love the gritty green coloring of “the Matrix,” the use of reflections, and the deep contrast (after all it’s black latex, and sunglasses, and slick hair)
Hostiles (2017) - beautiful studies in natural lighting at all times of day as well as use of period lamps/lanterns
The Bad Batch (2016) - Harsh, blinding desert sun, but night scenes lit by cool-hued neon and Christmas lights
The Two Popes (2019) - I was particularly drawn to the black and white sequence retelling Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio’s history. I couldn’t get a good shot, but the scene where he enters the church for an unanticipated confession- the depth of space in the cathedral, the silhouette of Bergoglio in the foreground the priest in the background…
WEEK 7
I’ve been slowly chipping away at a drawing project and finally sat down to work on the coloring portion this week- hours of sedentary work supported by a couple gloomy days. As I sifted through my colored pencils and began coloring in the outlines of my panels, I listened to the entirety of Anne of Green Gables on audiobook. I’d never previously read the book, but I was familiar with the story through some film or television adaptation watched years ago (and on the Prince Edward Island leg of a family trip, had seen Green Gables itself). While I found Anne’s chatty personality and flair for the melodramatic (or “poetical” as she would say) a bit grating, I could see how her boundless imagination and ability to elevate the ordinary in wonder and appreciation was appealing to me growing up, a kid pining for magic and mystery in a suburban environment. Throughout the story, Anne is delighted by her adopted home of Avonlea and celebrates the beauty of surroundings that, for everyone else, are seen as unremarkable. Anne’s sense of wonder towards the everyday feels especially relevant during these times of limitation, when it feels like the scope of the world has shrunk and life in confinement, now going on for several weeks, is beginning to feel rote. In the walks around my own neighborhood, I’ve been trying to borrow from Anne and allow myself to be delighted by elements of this now familiar walkable slice of the world.
This week, I’ve scouted spots for a mental “parade of homes,” honing in on a particular feature of a building or yard that catches my attention and dividing them into made up categories. There’s the best yard art- the apartment with the shrine for La Virgen de Guadalupe featuring a host of characters, including a baby doll wearing a medical face mask. There’s the house on the corner with the stone path carving through the multitude of plants and found object sculptures- winner of best garden- and accolades for smaller details- best tulip patch, most colors of siding used, coolest front door, kitschiest lawn ornaments, and best tree. A walk becomes a time of active observation, intentionally looking for the weird and wonderful amidst the commonplace.
Some of my favorite parts of Anne of Green Gables are the descriptions of the seasons, particularly spring, with the reemergence of flowering trees and colorful blooming. Spring is significant for Anne, it being the time of arrival to her new home and marking the beginning of a fresh start. While Chicago doesn’t possess the rustic charms of Avonlea, it certainly is not lacking in beauty. I recently realized that I haven’t spent May or June in Chicago (or the United States) for the past few years and I’m remembering how it is one of the best seasons in the city. Midwest weather is perpetually fickle, but sunny days appear with increased frequency and warmer temperatures allow bare skin to taste the sunshine. This week, I’ve been particularly noticing color. Reds, purples, yellows, greens feel impossible in their hues and vibrancy, which, in a way, they are, as each flower and plant only has so long to bloom. The improbability of these colors is a spectacle to behold and, while normally I use this time to travel and to experience the visions of faraway places, I relate to Anne in a feeling of delight to be reminded of the local beauty of my home.
WEEK 6
I went for a walk yesterday, knowing a period of rain was forecast to begin that afternoon. I wanted to enjoy the weather before it became another reason to shelter in place. The air was warm and the sun peeked in and out from behind the gathering clouds. After putting up with months of winter, these are the types of days Chicagoans are well-versed in taking advantage of, especially when they make a more rare appearance in early spring. On a trafficless stretch of road, a man guided a girl teetering on a training wheels-free bike. A person sat in a camping chair beside a patch of tulips of brilliant pinks, reds, and yellows. Further down on the same grassy median of the boulevard, a couple people tied a slack line between two trees.
People walking, running, out with dogs and strollers, skateboarding, cycling, resting in the grass- a normal spring day, with the new normal addition of masks. A few of us pedestrians ended up at a crosswalk and, without speaking, lined up with space between us, waiting for the light to change. Our adaptability is quite incredible, how we can wordlessly engage with new patterns and practices as well as with each other.
XXX
The rain began late yesterday afternoon. I’m of two minds- I miss the sunshine that motivates me to stretch my legs and get out into the world, but the rain has its own comforts. The sound of rain reminds me of camp, where drops on tents or cabin roofs are particularly audible. At camp, when the rain came, we’d often curl up in our bunks- reading or writing letters- or gather in the mess hall and sing songs. Normal activities were put on hold as we took the time to keep ourselves warm and dry.
I used to love going to school on rainy days because it meant the day wasn’t wasted by being stuck inside. This sentiment feels relatable now, when being inside is encouraged and less fraught. It's easier to stay indoors because of rain, instead of the virus, which often feels intangible. Rain also feels like an excuse to suspend the grind of motivation, to pause and find coziness, whether watching a movie or reading a book. With the rain, I can rest and relax for a moment, free from beating myself up about not being productive enough. Physically, like at camp, I am keeping myself warm and dry, but I am also giving myself a chance to breathe mentally.
I wrote previously about not feeling bored in confinement, but discontent that I hadn’t been able to check more off my projects list. Now that six weeks have passed, I feel like I’ve settled into a routine that acknowledges the fluctuations in energy and anxiety that comes with this time. I’m trying to tap into more things that will keep me busy and engaged- union meetings, a weekly French class- but also allowing myself the space (with or without the rain) to rest and take a break from a pursuit of productivity that is so often demanded and idealized both on a personal and societal level. In my isolation, I only have myself and I’m trying to be more in tune with this person- this body and mind that is me. Some days, I need to set an alarm, force myself to get up and work on projects or take a walk. Other days, I appreciate the comfort of my bed or sit in the backyard reading chapter after chapter, without feeling like there’s anywhere else I need to be.
WEEK 5
I grew up with family dinner, sharing an evening meal with my parents and sister almost every night. Laughing, crying, turning up a nose at undesired foods. Eating, talking, being present with one another, in good moods and bad. It was strange to me that classmates would eat alone before rushing off to a sports practice or other activity. Maybe I was never busy enough, but even with anything from rehearsals for school plays, house league soccer, or my sister’s lacrosse or rowing, this shared meal was a regular occurrence and an integral part of my routine. Even now, when I visit home, whether alone or with someone else, I continue to eat dinner with my parents, returning to the same table to gather and converse over a meal.
As my situation has changed and I have found a home in Chicago, shared meals have remained a presence. There were definitely inconsistencies while I was in college, but for the past four years, I have been part of a crew on a television show. Due to the hours, I’d usually end up eating breakfast and lunch on set (if not dinner on those especially long days). I would get to set in advance of my pre-call, make my way to catering, and ease into the day with a few other early arrivals- our unofficial breakfast club. Six hours into the day (usually…) and for only 30 minutes, lunch posed the challenge of either eating or trying to squeeze in a nap. Yet, even on exhausting days, I’d often go to lunch anyways and sit with the rest of the camera crew. We’d spend the whole day with each other- 12, 14 hours on set- but mealtimes had a special sense of community. I loved being able to sit with these people, to have a brief moment to relax and recharge. We shared this daily meal, not only eating together, but it was also a time of conversation and laughter.
In the years I have worked on the show, some of these people have become close friends. Now confined in my apartment alone, I am especially missing the meals shared with these people- discussing the day to come over breakfast burritos and oatmeal, cackling hysterically at yet another stupid (i.e. hilarious) bit as we spread our plates and silverware on tables set up in that same church basement in Canaryville or the classroom in the carpenter’s union building. These hours spent with co-workers and friends, sharing meals with one another, day after day and season after season, have become their own iteration of family dinner.
I don’t know when I’ll go back to work or how my work might change in the wake of this pandemic. I don’t know when I will next go home to see my parents. But I look forward to once again being in community with others, sharing conversation, food, and simply being present with one another.
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Food occupies a particular space in my mind nowadays. It’s a stressor- the worry of overeating or not eating “right,” along with the anxiety of seeing empty shelves in the grocery store or the annoyance of not finding that one item on the list (yeast!!). But it’s also a comfort- making something I’ve been craving (blueberry muffins this week, pancakes the last) to discovering a recipe online that begs re-creation. Over the years, I’ve found that I enjoy cooking and it’s been nice to take the time to savor a meal- from the preparation to the consumption. Food is also nostalgic. In this time of isolation, food reminds me what I miss- a specific person, a dish from a favorite restaurant, the idea of just being out with other people…
Trips to the grocery store have become something of a special occasion. Aside from neighborhood walks, grocery stores are the only public spaces I’ve visited. I have been trying to limit trips to the store to every two weeks, which has necessitated precise planning. I’ve always been a list-maker and meal planner when cooking for myself, but the gathering of recipes and the crafting of a shopping list have become carefully executed tasks. As the two week mark approaches, there’s an excitement for what I’ll cook in the next cycle, what special treat I’ll purchase ingredients for. Yesterday I woke up early to get to the grocery store when it opened at 7AM. With my 3rd draft list in hand, I scoured the aisles for the desired items. There was the surprise of seeing flour in stock, the excitement of a fancy brand of oat milk on sale, and the persistent strangeness of being surrounded by people in masks and intercom messages urging people to keep a distance from each other.
It’s funny that basically the only place where I get any face to face contact with other people is the grocery store and everyone surrounding me, everyone I speak to, is a stranger. I see my friends and family on video chats or hear their voices on the phone, but the most direct human contact- that kind that has become both fraught with danger and so precious- is with people I don’t even know. In a time where everyone is yearning for connection, for touch, for being present with one another, it feels odd to share this with a stranger. Maybe it’s a lesson in not taking advantage of even these smallest interactions or finding the value in engaging with someone unknown. Or I’m just starved for human contact after being alone in my apartment for weeks and trying my best to smile with my eyes at a cashier, attempting to communicate the smallest gesture of gratitude and greeting.
WEEK 4
This morning I scrolled through the headlines on the New York Times and felt my breath catch and become labored. Anxiety is more physical these days- restless nights, difficulty breathing, picking at the skin around my fingernails… I’m trying to stay informed, but at an arm’s length and in small doses. Right now, I’d rather stay calm than keep track of the daily inundation of numbers- how many more unemployed, number of cases, number of deaths. I’ve found that coping for me is focusing on something, from reading a book to drawing. I’ve been listening to a lot of stories too. The voices of Phoebe Judge and Levar Burton read aloud mysteries and science fiction while I wash dishes and a backlog of “Snap Judgement” episodes overlay time spent sketching. These stories have provided a respite from a world of news that is chaotic and tragic.
Motivation has come and gone at various intervals this week. I derive much of my mood from the weather and, in Chicago, it’s grown chilly again, with stretches of overcast skies and even some snowfall. I’m stubborn and refuse to turn up the heat in my apartment and found myself curled under a blanket on the couch, sleeping for a couple hours. I’m still working on being kinder to myself, to acknowledge that I do not need to (and cannot) be productive or creative or athletic at every waking moment and that in these strange current circumstances, sometimes my body needs to rest. And while I have spent a fair amount of time scrolling mindlessly through instagram or drifting asleep while reading a book, I have also cooked meals for myself, cleaned my apartment, and spent time writing and drafting a comic piece. Small accomplishments, but accomplishments nonetheless.
I didn’t feel as inspired with the camera this week, although it remains sitting out on the counter, ready for any moment that feels worthy of capture. The images this week feature fleeting light, views from out the window, and other little details. They are certainly nothing special- the way light passes through an onion skin or creates a galaxy on a counter sprayed with cleaner- but I found a sense of beauty in them.
WEEK 3
In the course of an hour the view from the back porch transforms before my eyes. Afternoon sun shines contentedly, then is suddenly replaced by a rapid congregation of dark clouds. Light is extinguished as the clouds travel, but a break in this dark blanket allows light to slip through as well as rain. Raindrops are first sporadic, but a few minutes of these initial scouts give way to streaks of heavy rain. Lighting flickers in the clouds, but only ever a distant glow and not those blinding and defined cracks in the sky. The sky opens again, peeling back another layer to reveal the sun. A sun shower, the conditions for a fox wedding as some say, and the light glints off diamond water still plummeting from the sky. The colors change too- green to steel to something warmer. And then, the rain vanishes. A startlingly red cardinal lingers on the treetop outside the porch window before flitting away, returning the landscape to the neutral bluish grey as another phalanx of clouds assembles.
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Temperatures passed 70 degrees yesterday and, with the sun, it felt like a day pulled from summer. While I managed to get slightly sunburnt reading in the backyard, the weather was a high point in an otherwise challenging week. Motivation has been in shorter supply in this third week of isolation and I’ve had greater difficulty sleeping. I’ve been more attuned to my anxieties regarding the state of the world and have felt a real longing for the physical presence of other people that this virus has denied. Watching movies doesn’t provide much comfort in this state of mind- everybody touching one another! And introvert though I may be, there’s something undeniably human about being in community with others and I miss that.
While this week has not felt particularly productive and anxious thoughts were able to take root, there have been many small moments that have brought humor, contentment, and peace: doing yoga with a group of familiar faces via Zoom, the excitement/wonder/”how does this even work?” of using aquafaba as an egg white replacement in a cocktail, cackling at the goofiness of “Space Jam,” feeling post-apocalyptic while wearing a mask to the grocery store, cooking with dried beans for the first time, satisfying a craving for homemade buttermilk pancakes, the joy of seeds beginning to sprout, drawing and drawing and drawing, reading and reading and reading.
I may hope for more things to be “checked off the list” next week- to be more positive and productive- but this week has acknowledged the the worry, the loneliness, and the uncertainty of these times. Unfortunately, I think this is going to be a long game- trying to learn how to cope with the good and bad while continuing to move forward.
WEEK 2
14 days of self-imposed quarantine down- with (seemingly) no signs of the virus. A small victory, I suppose. It’s strange how time both elongates and contracts in confinement. When I think back to just over two weeks ago, finishing my last couple days of work, talking to my co-workers, it feels like an eternity. Yet, the days go by quickly. I journal each morning and, as I consider what to write about the past day, I often struggle to determine what I actually accomplished. Thinking back over these two weeks, I feel like I’ve barely finished anything, despite having seemingly worked on all number of projects and tasks. I haven’t felt bored during these two weeks, but what do I have to show for my efforts?
I have always experienced a sense of pressure when it comes to free time, particularly because I have so little of it when I am at work. I am a list-maker and derive a feeling of accomplishment from checking off items from these lists. And while chores like “vacuum the living room” can be easily marked as complete, my time in isolation has been primarily devoted to unpacking the various creative projects and ideas that occupy the back of my mind. This type of work isn’t something that can be finished, crossed off, and then onto the next thing- it requires thought and ample time. And now, presented with an indefinite amount of time, I am learning to break from the pressure to complete, figuring out how to take my time, to make progress while also allowing myself space to relax.
In the present climate, I am privileged with the luxury of controlling my time. It’s just me in my apartment- free to set my own schedule, to do what I want and when I want. My time has always been valuable to me (who of us isn’t always wishing for more time?), so it’s funny to now be faced with nothing but time. As my isolation continues into the next week and into the indefinite future, I’m sure I’ll continue to stumble to figure out the best way to approach this new way of living and, hopefully (eventually) check off some of those projects from my mental list along the way.
XXX
This past week has been mostly grey and overcast, with some moments of rain. But today the sun broke through the clouds and beamed in through all the windows. “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb” says the old adage. The state of the world still feels very lion-ish, but the brightness and warmer temperatures today felt like a celebratory way to usher in April.
I’ve been sitting on my back porch since mid-afternoon, soaking in the light as I work on various tasks. At some point into my self-quarantine, I told myself that on the first day of April I would plant some seeds. Perhaps it’s a touch premature to start planting (especially considering the temperamental nature of Midwest weather), but I sowed the seeds in my collection of containers and pots. The beautiful day and the beginning of a new month seems a fitting time to begin this process of growing and cultivating- guess we’ll see how it goes…
I feel like the photos from this week capture a range of moods. The news has not been particularly uplifting and, even on walks around my neighborhood, there are signs (quite literally) of how the world has been impacted by coronavirus. I’ve tried to present more day-to-day elements (i.e. I’ve been building my mixology skills), but also included some self-indulgent ‘selfies’ (in my defense there’s no one else to take pictures of!), which give me a chance to capture interesting light or tap into more creative expression.