Josh and I moved into our new apartment not twenty-four hours ago. All my clothes are still in boxes, so feast upon the last of my Maine pictures. I’m gonna go watch some slasher movies.
Sometimes I find a really outstanding piece and never end up photographing it because I’m afraid of ruining everything. This hat, $3 at Battery Street Jeans, almost went that way. I have this weird little hang-up about shooting a new garment for the first time. Like the first photos I take of it will inform all future shoots, so they had better be outstanding. I tend to feel like once the seal is broken on an item my readers haven’t seen before, any future outfits featuring that item will lack quite the same luster. Which is probably not the case at all – I always like seeing pieces repurposed on others’ blogs.
This is why I don’t talk about more of my neuroses: I overthink literally every single thing to this degree. I am basically a raw vegan, a valedictorian on Adderall, and a Jewish mother rolled into one.
I admit these are not the best photos ever. But the only full-length mirror I have current access to is in my dad’s Kung Fu studio, where the light is pretty tricky. Nevertheless, this is a concept I’ve wanted to try for a while, so you’ll have to forgive the quality.
(I’d also like to take a moment to mention that Josh and I signed a lease yesterday on a wickedly adorable two-bedroom apartment in a rambling brick house. No roommates, just him and me. The second bedroom will be for making art/hosting guests/duct-taping each other to the wall. We move in on the 30th, and I cannot. WAIT.)
I’m feeling super &$(@*$% autumnal, even though it’s August sixteenth and Spirit Halloween isn’t even open yet. But I can’t help it – the tide has turned. Once I’ve been to Maine, once I’ve baptized my body in salt and surf, it’s aaalll about sweaters, gourds, and something ineffably fae in the air.
I’ve listened to the Dubliners’ “Whiskey in the Jar” one too many times of late, and I’ve started to envision myself lonesome and boot-shod on storied country roads. Irish music does that to me. I’m a journeygirl. A highwaychick. Gotta get my favorite cloak out of storage.
Since I’m big on both a) creepypastas and b) misleading the public, here are my attempts at some “real live GHOST!!!1111!!!1!” shots. It’s so damn easy to trick the naked eye – I mean, we’re programmed to find faces in just about anything. But it’s kind of amazing to see just how otherworldly you can get with just a point-and-shoot and some lanterns.
I’m still in Maine as long as there’s still sand in my hair, right? (No, but actually: I fear it’s multiplying.) I got back last night, but I’ll probably be processing these photos for days. So you’ll have to keep seeing the seaside long after the leaves have turned and you wish the sand would just wash out of your hair already. Get used to it.
At first I balked at the horrifically misplaced apostrophe. (“Come on, WE’RE LEAVING!”) Then I realized that in this context, “Crumpet” is actually someone’s last name. Confectioners named Crumpet. Christ, that’s way too much twee. I think it’s probably a front for coke. Or, like…ultra coke. Most likely lizard people.
So about this outfit. I packed only my most whimsical clothes for Maine (about half my closet). If there is one look I can’t stand, it’s “tourist chic”. Were I a masked vigilante, my target of choice would be fanny packs and big white sneakers. Into the sea I’d chuck them, while their owners slept none the wiser. In Maine, I wanted to look like…well, not exactly a native. More like a manifestation sprung up from the town’s sheer kitsch. Something catalyzed into being to make the hordes’ days more interesting.
I must have succeeded, because I got circus theme music whistled at me from a passing car.
We practice consensual nonconsent, the ocean and I. My wading into the surf constitutes tacit permission, and the waves beat me down again and again, weighing my swimsuit with salt. I may emerge gasping and stinging, but at least my piercings have gotten a thorough rinse.
I love the ocean. I love kitsch and lobster and docks at midnight. I love falling asleep to phantom swells beneath each rib. I have until Sunday, and I intend to soak up every lick and sputter of my precious half-week.
(Also this bathing suit is authentic ’60s and I got it on Etsy, so that’s pretty cool too.)
Thine eyes deceiveth not! I legit cannot remember the last time I wore pants in public. But these were $1 at Shalom Shuk (for non-Burlingtonians: an awesome thrift shop run out of a synagogue), and they have fruit on them, so. Even when you’re committed to an aesthetic, you can’t always resist the call of the Other.
I won’t be abandoning dresses and skirts anytime soon. But these are the first pants I’ve felt comfortable in for a long time. That’s…kind of remarkable, given that I’ve basically built my entire wardrobe around my hatred of and discomfort in pants. There’s hope for me yet.
I sometimes have mixed feelings about bored/drugged housewife shoots. There’s a fine line between engaging a trope and actually promoting an idea for real. I don’t want to put into the ether the notion that there’s anything inherently unfulfilling about housewifery. But I also firmly believe that art has to play by its own rules. It has to be a space for employing without judgment, with the freedom to make a political statement or not. Emphasis on the not: sometimes an idea is just what comes out of my head, and it’s not meant to signify anything wider.
tl;dr be conscious of implications, but ultimately you are creating for yourself. No one can tell you where not to take your own mind.