a month without a phone

I entered the Siggi (yes, the yogurt company) writing competition a few nights ago. I got the deadline wrong (I thought it was the next day), so I wrote most of the 500-word entry in 10 minutes. But I’m trying to focus on trying rather than perfection, on beginning rather than telling myself I’ll never make it. So I wrote something. Is it amazing? No. But is it honest? Absolutely. And it made me think about how often I reach for my phone to scroll as an escape rather than a resource or inspiration. I do think phones—especially the social components like texting and social media—can be beautiful conduits of connection, but I don’t often use them as such. I’m often zoning out, escaping. But I don’t want to live a life I want to escape from. And therein is my dilemma. I was the happiest and phone-free-est I’ve ever been during the weeks I documented fans at the Eras Tour, but that doesn’t pay the bills. I sacrificed and lost money todo that. It was 100% worth it, but it wasn’t sustainable. So how do I create a life that both affords for me to live, but sustains me creatively, relationally, and emotionally? I think I’ll be answering this question over and over for the rest of my life, and I think the answer will change as I do. But for now, here is the answer, the first-draft essay that prompted my creative crisis:

I’ve had a phone since I was thirteen. In 3 months, that will be twenty years ago.

It’s the first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I listen to before I fall asleep. As a child, I always thought my first and last interaction of the day would be a partner, but instead it’s this small rectangular piece of metal and plastic.

Twelve year old me also didn’t care about photography, so she never would’ve anticipated that it would become my career. But what twelve-year-old me didn’t realize is that while, yes, there’s a component of photography that is about skill and practicing, a large portion of the art is simply learning how to pay attention. It’s the art of being present and noticing, and I’ve always been good at that. I’d notice my 8th grade crush’s favorite song and cologne, my best friend’s favorite flavor of Chex Mix, the way sunsets are somehow more spectacular over parking lots. All I did was pay attention.

But I grew up and I got distracted, caught up in on-screen comparison rather than youthful curiosity. In the last year, I’ve began desiring to return to the best parts of who I was when I was twelve: hopeful, curious, willing to try new things, always paying attention—and coincidentally never on a phone.

Previously, I’ve made excuses to keep my phone close like: “What if I miss out on a job because I didn’t see it right away?” But if immediacy is the appeal of my artistry, am I really valued for my art or just for convenience?

Really, what makes my art special is now I see things. And when I’m looking down at my phone all day, I’m only comparing, not creating, not noticing. I want margin in my life, I want breathing room. I want to start noticing again. I don’t want to greet a screen first thing in the morning. I want to greet my barista or my roommate (or her cats). Anything breathing. Something real. 

Because a tool of connection can just as easily become a conduit of isolation if I never look up.

And I want to keep looking up. I want to make eye contact with strangers across the room. I want to notice sunsets again. And more than anything, I want to create something beautiful, both through human connection and through art. I want to see what kind of art will come from my hands when I take them away from my tiny screen. I dreamed up a new photo project that involves documenting the people I know in the city I live in, all on film and paper, and if I dedicate the hours I spend on a screen into that art, over the course of the month, I think I can complete the project—and perhaps I’ll find more connection and part of my younger self, too.

Messed Up Plans and a Missed Connection:

Story:

When my plans for this afternoon abruptly fell through, I found myself in Manhattan in a cute outfit with nothing to do. I quickly pivoted: I’d wander the enticing Moma Design Store, but beforehand I’d take a few photos to document my outfit since no one else was going to see it anyhow.

Propping my phone against a light pole, I set up the self-timer and began. Whenever anyone walked by, I’d move out of the way, but suddenly one of those strangers approached me. Wearing a light mauve hoodie and a black peacoat, he offered to take a photo for me. I hesitated for ten seconds, weighing the likelihood of anything creepy happening, but he didn’t give off that vibe so I said yes.

After a minute of my usual “I’ll walk back and forth pretending to be candid” thing, he paused me and posed me, mentioning he was a photographer. “Me, too!” I chimed in—and immediately clarified that it wasn’t usually just of myself. “That’s the problem isn’t it?” he laughed, “we never have any good photos of us!”

He handed me back my phone and I paused again for ten seconds, debating if I should ask for his handle, if for no other reason than to credit him. And in the length of that pause, he walked away. There was a sweetness in that, in knowing that he didn’t want anything in return. But I should’ve asked his name.

I’ve been really hard on my body lately, though I know she’s been doing her best and I’m doing my best to offer her grace for however she carries me right now. But photos have felt less fun lately. However, when I began scrolling through the photos the stranger took of me, I couldn’t believe it. So this is how someone saw me, all glowing and golden. She looks alive and beautiful and so many good things. They’re some of my favorite photos of myself, maybe ever. And if my plans hadn’t fallen through, none of this would’ve happened.

So all I’d ask is that you’d share this story in hopes that I could find this person and at least thank him for helping me see myself. We met on W 57th, close to 10th on the west side of Manhattan. And if that’s you, if you’re reading this: thank you.

-written on 1.27.22

Outfit details:

Shirt: $8, vintage from Salvation Army in Manhattan
Pants: $6, vintage from Salvation Army in Des Moines
Initial necklace: $45, Leona Ruby
Ring: $163, Chad Barela
Boots: $8, vintage from Salvation Army

Finneas: New York, Night 1

Standing in the back of the venue, as it steadily filled with buzzing voices, I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. The atmosphere before Finneas’ first sold-out night at Irving Plaza was was fun, goofy, happy—quite different from his melancholy indie pop songs. I’m usually pretty good at describing emotions in my room or in myself, but this was stumping me.

Why did this room feel so exuberant?
It didn’t make sense to me. 

Still unable to shake the mystery, I made my way to the front, to the pit, where I’d be shooting the first three songs of each set. While I’m up there, I get a front row seat, yes, to the artist, but also the crowd. Draped over the barricade was a pride flag. On the corner to my left, a bouquet of white hydrangeas was perched in someone’s hand. Held over the metal wall and into the air were signs with stars and hearts—and Finneas’ face, depicted as a photo and as a cartoon (think Phinehas and Ferb). At one point, the folks towards the front each held up their signs so everyone in the balcony and in the back could see them. They were met with laughter, cheers, and cameras. There was this joyful affection, but not in the overtly sexual way you see at some shows.

This was something else. 

The crowd began singing the Phinehas and Ferb theme song and I could see two of the security dudes to my right—twice as big as I am and a little bit older—laughed at the commotion. 

Have you ever heard of anything so wholesome?

As I sat—with admittedly terrible posture—against the barricade, I realized what it was. Much of the crowd is under 30 and likely sees a lot of themselves in Finneas’ sister Billie (Eilish). They feel seen, understood; they’ve found camaraderie in her willingness to say what she thinks, to wear what she likes, to continue changing herself and the world, no matter what.  

And if you see Billie as your peer, if you see yourself reflected in her bright tees and tight corsets and blunt poetic lyricism, then it’s likely you also see Finneas as a sort of older brother to you, too. 

It’s true to his online persona, making dad jokes on Tik Tok and hanging out with his girlfriend and dog.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Everyone felt safe to show up as their happiest, goofiest, nerdiest selves, to sing some sad songs together and in that, to make them some of the happiest songs.

I looked around again, at the upturned faces.

There’s space to be here.

There’s space to be here, to breathe here (no really, the security has made sure of it). Because if there’s one thing a good big brother does, it’s create space for you be yourself. It’s to set an example of speaking the truth, even if you’re still figuring it out. It’s to not being afraid of the hard feelings or hard conversations or hard possibilities—and to choose to love anyways. A good brother is honest and kind and brave and admits he’s still figuring it out, too. And the funny and beautiful thing about someone admitting they’re still figuring it out is it creates space for you to figure it out, too.

You’re safe to be here. 

You can be yourself here: happy or sad, messy or best dressed, complicated and figuring it out. You can bring your art or your flag or your flowers and hold them above your head as you cry or as you dance. You can cry to a love song or dance to the hope of the end of it all but maybe, just maybe, tonight you’re okay in the in between.

And more than that,
tonight might just leave you feeling
more like an optimist.

6 months in New York

Today marks 6 months in New York. Well, more like 6 months and 2 hours. Kassie and I arrived at Lindsay’s apartment in Brooklyn around 10pm on the night of July 9th.

I didn’t realize that until this moment—as I wrote that date—that it’s the same date Taylor Swift wrote about in “Last Kiss” (don’t worry—I’ll update this link to Taylor’s Version as soon as it debuts):

“That July 9th:
The beat of your heart—
It jumps through your shirt.
I can still feel your arms,
But now I’ll go sit on the floor,
Wearing your clothes.
All that I know is
I don’t know how to be something you miss.
I never thought we’d have a last kiss.
Never imagined we’d end like this;
Your name, forever the name on my lips”

My July 9th felt very different—an adventure, an arrival—but it also felt similarly because leaving and breaking up are both different sides of the same coin of grief. But sometimes endings look strangely like beginnings. It’s why I have a sunrise and sunset mirrored on my finger. Even in the beauty of a beginning is the necessary grief of the parallel ending. 

And the last 6 months have been this dance of loss and gain. Loss of sleep, gain of friends. Loss of one job, gain of another. Losses and gains of weight and stress and money. I’m learning to value the calm and the steady: the fresh air and a friendly face and a sunny day.

No choice or change is without loss or opportunity cost, but you have to decide what’s worth it, even if you don’t know the ending. Because you never really know the ending. All you can do is factor in everything you know and lean into the feeling of what you hope for, believing it exists. This is true for love, for adventures, for new cities and new dreams. 

So I think all I can truly ask myself after 6 months is: has it been worth it? And all I can reply is the cliche of a resounding YES.

*And I’m posting this a day late because I watched the new season of Search Party and had dinner with friends and forgot about posting this, which really speaks more to the goodness of life than any photo, don’t you think?

photo by my friend Michael on a good day

Gracie Abrams: New York, Night 1

Keep scrolling for more photos!

The best part of my job is that I’m simultaneously an observer and a participant in something beautiful. It’s like being a bridesmaid. It’s not your wedding, but you’re there and you’re somehow part of it: a spectator and an observer, but you’re also bringing value to the moment by being there. Your gaze, your presence, the way you show up in that place and bear witness: it matters. And that’s what I remind myself. My gaze, my presence, how I show up in that place and how I interact and how I carry my camera and how I use my eyes: it matters.

That is really the only way that being a music photographer is like being a bridesmaid. I’ve definitely never shot a show in a floor-length dress from David’s Bridal (if you know, you know). But I’m there, holding the figurative space between being part of it and being outside of it; and holding the physical space between the stage and the crowd; and holding my camera and sometimes holding my breath. However, you better believe I’m singing along (if I know the song) or dancing or sometimes crying, all while working. If you went to any of the All-American Rejects shows a couple summers ago, you definitely saw me skipping and hollering “Swing, Swing” along with the crowd while I worked. I’m not part of the crowd—not really—but I’m in it and what I’m doing changes the way you’ll remember the night. Or at least that’s my hope. I carry a lot of hope into those dark rooms. Most of my hope is found in the humans. Most of my hope is for my age peers and for those that are coming up after us. It’s for the dancers and the outcasts, the ones who show up to shows alone and who are brave enough to say “hello” to the person next to them.

Since the Gracie Abrams show was pit-free and I had the time, I showed up early so I wouldn’t be that photographer who shows up late and tries to cut the whole line—and then gets stuck standing next to those same bummed or angry fans all evening. No one likes that experience so I try to avoid it as much as I possibly can by getting there early and waiting it out with everyone else. Drew Barrymore said something yesterday that I just can’t shake. She began: “I care what people think [of me]”—she paused and corrected herself: “No, I care how people feel.”

And there is the nuance. You can do everything right in your career and sometimes people just won’t like you because of your haircut or the color you highlight a spreadsheet or something equally miniscule. You can’t control how people perceive you and to the degree you can’t control it, you can’t hold it too tightly. But how people feel around you—while you also can’t really control their feelings—you can control the way you treat them with kindness (yes, cue Harry Styles). So that’s the kind of career I want to live. It’s taken me a long time and I feel like I’m still on the runway, waiting to take off. But I also know that the people I’ve worked with have received beautiful images and I’ve gained their respect and that’s worth so much more than a quick fix. Kindness: it matters.

Since I was waiting anyways, I decided to do fan photos. It’s easily been 2 years since I’ve done them, really (shoutout to Covid for that). I still get nervous every time: it took me about 25 minutes to talk myself into it. But then I did and almost everyone said “yes.” The last gal just lit up, grinning, with the most enthusiastic “yes” I’ve heard. And then I remember why I do this: yes, it’s creativity, but it’s also the people, the connection, the being part of something big and beautiful. 

After photographing the fans all the way to the corner of Ludlow, I made my way back to my perch by the nail salon (cue Lorde). It wasn’t until I starting to shuffle towards the door that I realized (remembered really—I’ve thought of this before) that I’m just the right person for this. While, yes, it is hard sometimes to see yet another inexperienced dude get a huge tour while I’ve worked hard for a decade (cue Olivia Rodrigo: “jealousy, jealousy”—at this point I’ve cued enough songs, I probably should make an accompanying playlist), do you think the moms in line would let a random dude take a photo of their daughter? Probably not. I’m basically the size of a 15-year-old and as a result I’m way more approachable and way less intimidating. 

This thought always follows: there are spaces made and meant for me. I don’t even know all of them yet, but they exist and I won’t miss what’s mean for me. I will find myself and I will be found. And I’m here right now and that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. So here’s my reminder for you: you’re right where you’re supposed to be. There are opportunities and paths ahead of you that are shaped just the way you are made. You have not missed out on what’s meant for you. So dance through the sad songs and lean in because where you’re headed is golden.

Right at 6 when doors were supposed to open, someone walked by with their phone ringing. The ringtone? “I’ve got your picture, I’m coming with you, dear Maria count me in!” 

And somehow that song, that moment, as I walked into a dark room full of strangers, all holding the same songs behind their eyes and in their throats for a night: somehow it all feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be. If you ask me why I keep doing this work, why I exist in this musical periphery, this story, these moments, these are the reasons. The belonging, the becoming, the space between the crowd and the stage, the space between what I see in through my camera and what I share with the world. It’s beauty in the faces of the crowd and the beauty in the pauses between songs as the artist notices the crowd singing along and grins. It’s catching my breath and catching flickers of light and on lucky days, I get to catch flights, too. But mostly I hope we all catch a little bit of a reminder of the ways we are found and why we need each other. I hope we remember the feeling of everyone else singing along, of feeling less alone, even in our gentle sadnesses. There’s a beauty in those things, too, and maybe the beauty is found in not having to feel it alone, you know?

So here’s your last reminder: You belong here. You belong in the rooms you step into and you don’t have to earn that belonging. You are enough and you are not too much, no matter what feelings you carry today. There will always be songs for the feelings and rooms to dance in to those songs and there will always be someone else who feels the same way, I promise. We are all less alone than we feel and the way that 250 people realized that together on a Tuesday night: thank you for letting me photograph that feeling.

P.S. if you’re reading this and are like, “oh, hey, that’s a photo of me!” email me at estorie@outlook.com and I’ll send you your fan photo. We love to see it!

concrete todays

A month ago today, on a long walk to the Brooklyn flea, I stumbled across the patch of sidewalk pictured in the second photo—and I started writing on my phone while walking. Somehow, suddenly it seemed, it was after 2pm and I was hungry, so I stopped, bought lunch, and kept writing, this time editing in my journal as I went. I’m a queen of first draft dumps and I enjoy editing less, but the time I took to wrestle with these words, well, it cemented the feeling.

All these photos are from that weekend (mostly from that walk) and these are the words I found inside me, this is the poem that found me:

I want a carve-it-in-the-sidewalk kind of love
Permanent and temporary
Concrete as long as we stay right here on 5th
Forever as long as we’re both in it

It’s pausing by the only ground that won’t hold us
(Is the uncertainty temporary or are we meant to last beyond this moment?
Will the unsteady solidify into trust?)
So with a stick like a wand, we turn that quicksand pavement 
Into something that will remember us 

It’s dropping my hand just to write my name 
I know we don’t know next week or forever
But we’ve cemented today

Maybe sidewalks cradle more than hands dropped and words etched 
Maybe every memory is a little like that
Permanent only where we carve them
Uncertain in the end 
And a passerby cannot see a twist or bend 
To that pavement passerby: you’re forever from where they stand

So sidewalks, photos, hands held on the train:
You’re only seeing a window
Never knowing what will last, what will fade
All we have are our concrete todays

Blurry and Significant: and I wouldn't mind remembering this.

Before reading these words, I’d recommend pouring yourself a cup of black coffee and pairing it with an avocado grilled cheese. Crack open your windows for the first chilly whisper of spring—and now you’re ready for this feeling. 

This is a combination of stories I wrote about feelings I had about adventures we took in 2016 and 2017

---

We listened to Bleachers as we drove south on the Interstate and I'm listening to them again driving south to the boot store.

It's too windy to drive with the windows down but I'm doing it anyways. It smells bad, too, but I probably won't remember that.

I'll just remember how it feels.

The song builds. And I begin to sing along. The wind takes my voice and throws it into the ocean of the sky and I shout louder and louder, until my stomach hurts but it feels good. It feels like jumping face first into the ocean, painful, but it wakes you up. You can't fall into the ocean and forget you're alive. The ocean may kill you but the whole while you're very much aware of your life. 

The first time I listened to Bleachers was the first time I visited Katie in Colorado. It was the same time we drank tea in a small town and the same time her car broke down and we sat on a blanket by some train tracks and the same time I wasted two rolls of black-and-white film because I didn't load them right. I've learned since then. 

But even though my film was lost, my memories are vivid. 

The openness of Colorado swam around us, encased by mountains like a living snow globe and (pre-breakdown) we drove in Katie's car and we were alive.

My other memory tied to these melodies was the first time I visited Kansas City. It was September and my car nearly didn't start the next morning and I was full of coffee and late to work as a result, but I played Bleachers on repeat on the sepia September morning drive. Gloomy and grateful and praying I'd make it home.

I'm still learning how to pray. I'm still learning how to make it. I'm still driving.

That album is still playing. Faster now.

And now it smells like cut grass and the same song is playing 

and I wouldn't mind remembering this. 

---

Bleachers has written the songs of my in-between. The songs of the road between there and home. The songs between grief and healing, between hope and something a little more tangible. They're honest and of most people and most art, that's all I can ask. 

Bleachers introduced a new song on a Sunday night, saying it's about the clarity in the moment between dreaming and awake. 

Maybe all their songs are that clarity in the in-between. The words I sometimes need, for drives, for grief, for the in-between.

We're getting better. We're nearly home.

---

We’re chasing light in every way, bodies canvases of where we've been, maps to where we're going, dust churning up behind us, and we are on our way. I still don’t know where I’m going, but I'm growing into the belief that the intersection between the unknown and being known is the most human and alive place to dwell and

in that golden hurricane of dying light tonight, we were the most alive.

---

Author’s Note:

In the initial post about this collection, I mentioned an intention to share this piece on the 16th. As an afterward, I’ll offer you a bit of the story of why that didn’t happen and why that’s okay.

When I said that I intended to release this piece on the 16th, I did. I had everything written and edited and re-edited and condensed into the shortened format that Open Sea allows, but also into a longer format for this post, so you can read the whole story. I had an image chosen. My friend Trish helped me get my Open Sea account all ready to go. I was set. It was perfect.

Then my collection wouldn’t upload. I clicked the button and a cute teal cousin of the circle of doom popped up and asked me to wait patiently—then disappeared and nothing happened.

But that was alright, I told myself. While the photo was taken in 2016, some of the words were written in 2017, so posting on the 17th still felt poetic. The morning of the 17th, I took down every possible extension that could’ve caused an issue and it worked! My collection was up. Now the pieces themselves weren’t for sale yet, but that seemed like the easy part. After my first tattoo in 492 days, I sat down again to list them, carefully following the instructions and everything looked like it was working.

Then my little Metamask fox popped up, telling me with cheerful aggression that I was $57 shy of the amount of the gas fees (essentially the cost to list them, if you’re unfamiliar with that terminology and don’t feel like googling it). That’s unfortunate, but not insurmountable. I added the extra funds and refreshed the page so I could list my piece. But in the 5 minutes it took me to add the extra money, the gas fees had jumped to over $400. I refreshed again. $426. I refreshed again. $440. The cost kept climbing.

My dentist appointment is on Tuesday and the estimate they gave me was similar; if we are being frank, I cannot spend that amount twice in 4 days. Do I choose my teeth or my art—or wait, and forfeit the date I’d chosen?

By that time, it was 10:52pm. In that moment, I realized my plan of releasing the image and words I’d created in 2016 and 2017 on the 16th or 17th wasn’t going to happen. (I really do need to go to the dentist.) And I don’t want to wait another month for May 16th or 17th, since I have other projects I’d like to release in the interim. So here we are on the 18th. And the 18th means nothing to my project. The number has no significance or poetry or any deeper meaning.

But maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the whole point of this whole collection is finding grace for the in-between and beauty in the middle and memory in the places we expected to gloss by unannounced and unremembered. Maybe it’s about letting go of what we thought we should be so we can find new songs on backroads and meet people we didn’t know we needed—even if it’s just a future version of ourselves.

So here I am, on a day that feels more bleary than blurry and far less than significant, still learning to lean in to the same words I wrote 5 years ago—which is strangely parallel to something I wrote in 2016:

“I feel like I'm still writing about the same things. The things I wrote about two years ago. The skin I'm still settling into. The words I'm still learning. Being known. Understood. There aren't often places I find where I can dwell both in the honest struggle and the chase of beauty. But maybe it's not about the places where you run but it's the people you run wild with.” 

I wrote those words about an adventure with Katie—who is pictured in this piece—and our friend Hannah, but today it’s about you, too. Thank you for reading, for listening, for offering understanding to me by way of your readership. I hope my words leave you feeling seen, too. At the end of the day, all blurry and bleary with some hopeful crescendo of significance, that is the best thing I can do.

Blurry and Significant: an NFT Collection

Over the past 11 years, I’ve created thousands of images that combine motion and emotion within the music industry. However, I also have a collection of photos that were taken while chasing the last bit of light or chasing the elusive commodity of human connection, while existing on the road or in the in-between.

This series is entitled: Blurry and Significant.

You can see the whole collection here.

---

The first piece is this collection is called: and I wouldn’t mind remembering this.

You can read its story here and purchase it here. I hope it makes you feel something.

While planning this collection, I also revisited pieces I wrote on the days that I took the images. One such photograph was taken on a November evening that began with a melted chocolate chip cookie and my third cup of coffee and ended with running through downtown and into two friends and running together through parking garages and side streetsuntil we ran out of light. (That’s the only sort of running I like.) Later that night I wrote these words:

“On my drive home tonight I turned the heat on to keep my fingers from growing too numb to grip the wheel and rolled down the windows and put the Bleachers album on. I could feel a giant smirky derpy grin creep across my face, the sort that isn't particularly attractive or winsome, but the kind you get when you're swinging or you spot an old friend in a new city or you magically get your mug of coffee for free. Genuine unhindered happiness. My gas light came on--is on--is probably empty. But I feel so full. It's strange and wonderful how I feel fullest when I hold my days and my life with open hands. This is today, tonight, all blurry and significant.”

In the five years since, I have not been able to shake that phrase and how the best parts of life feel like that. It’s the weighty, momentary in-between. 

It’s the exit you didn’t plan on taking with the friend you didn’t plan on meeting that leads to the small town gas-station-turned-thrift-store where you find a tiny mug from Wales and wonder how it arrived there. It’s running through the rain in Indiana when you’re 15 and 14 years later still remembering how it felt. It’s finding out your best friend is in love with you and knowing you have everything to lose no matter what your reply. It’s walking off the plane in New York and wearing the same clothes for three days because you only brought a backpack. It’s that same day and dancing behind the sound booth with her, screaming lyrics about sleeping in clothes and lavender lips. It’s laying on the cement floor in the back of a crowded arena so the phone lights look like stars. It’s seeing a man across the room and then walking into his cafe in a different city the next day. It’s Monday nights laughing on your best friend’s rug with that third glass of wine, watching the show you all like even though you hate it. And it’s spending all night awake in Chicago after locking yourself out of the apartment, but it’s the sunrise on the beach that made the rest of the tired day worth it. It’s writing these words while sitting under a garland of lights on a neighborhood patio, hearing the murmur of strangers’ voices again and feeling hopeful at the white noise of possibility. It’s not always a clear memory, but it’s a vivid feeling.

Those moments, the most important moments when you look back, they aren’t the crispest ones: they feel blurry and significant. 

Each of these images represents a day that felt blurry and significant. My hope is that my words and images connect you to parallel feelings you’ve experienced in your own life. You may not have run into the ocean with your clothes on after watching Toy Story and drinking champagne on the beach with a friend you met on Twitter (or maybe you have), but I hope to connect with you from a place where you felt that same way. Though we all hold varying experiences, we also all hold synonymous emotions. Beyond just connecting with your emotions, I hope my words and my work make you feel seen. Less alone. More alive, if only in this small way.

Each image is titled with a word, phrase, or portion of poetry that was written during the same period of time or represents that time in my life.

Because this collection is a reflection on meaning and nostalgia, it’s appropriate that all of the images are from prior years and that their release dates and pricing are connected to those years. For example, the first image and words were taken and written across 2016 and 2017. So I intended to release it on the 16th (more on that on the post about the piece itself—see the link at the top of this page). There will be only 3 copies of each piece. I believe in pricing my work according to its value, but also creating spaces for friends to purchase it, so each copy is priced differently. One of the images will be priced at 1.6ETH—which reflects my piece’s value—one will be at 0.16, and one will be at 0.016. Even with the two pieces at initially lower price points, the exclusivity in only have 3 editions allows for the retention of value. Additionally 16% of the profits of this series will reinvested back into small businesses and the art community.

As I want this to be a fully immersive nostalgic experience, I have a small additional gift for each collector. Many of these photos were taken as I traveled across the continental United States. Instead of collecting physical souvenirs from the cities I visited, I began stopping at local coffee shops and bringing home pounds of coffee. With each purchase, I will be sending you a bag of coffee from the shop I associate with the memory of the photo. This gift only available to the first collectors of each copy.

Fearless

On Thursday:

“And it's a sad picture, the final blow hits you.
Somebody else gets what you wanted again and…”

“…You know it's all the same, another time and place,
Repeating history and you're getting sick of it.”

Nothing went the way I planned today.
I mean I’d made a plan. Granted, it was only yesterday when I decided that I’d thrift a dress, buy the Rare Beauty lip soufflé in “Fearless,” dance, and take photos outside in the rain—because, yes, in a beautiful twist of fate, it was supposed to rain today.

Then everyone I invited couldn’t come. My leg pain was flaring up (anyone else have meralgia paresthetica?). I was tired from sitting at a desk all day. I was lonely. In this pandemic year, in this city where I have literally 5 friends, it was yet another night alone. I almost didn’t show up for my own Fearless (Taylor’s Version) release party.

“But I believe in whatever you do,
And I'll do anything to see it through.”

But ever since college, I have learned to do the things I want to do, even if nobody else wants to do them. It began with exploring new neighborhoods and coffee shops when everyone I knew would rather stay on campus. It turned into going to hardcore shows when no one else enjoyed the head banging and the circle pit vibes. Then I began shooting shows out of state, alone. I grew to enjoy my own company—and I still do—but the pandemic has brought out my gaping additional need for community. However, that wasn’t an option tonight, so I reminded myself of the ways I’d found joy alone and how I could do it again.

“Because these things will change—
Can you feel it now?”

So I put on the dress. I put on the lipstick (and gold eyeshadow, because what would 2008 Taylor do?). I packed up my camera and my tripod. And I drove to an empty parking lot and then to an empty street corner and I walked and I twirled and I took photos as cars drove by and their drivers stared at me.

When I paused to look through the images, I could see the loneliness on my face. I didn’t want that expression. I wanted to have this headfirst, lovestruck, fearless look on my face, but I’m not an actor and my face doesn’t lie. I wear my emotions vividly and while that’s not a weakness, in that moment I wished I could fake it a little better.

“These walls that they put up to hold us back will fall down.
It's a revolution, the time will come
For us to finally win.”

But as I walked and as I danced, I started to feel a little better. You can see it in my face again. (With the exception of the first image, which I put at the top because I like it, the rest of the images shared chronologically, so you can see this progression of emotion, too.)

One foot in front of the other. Ignoring the cars. Ignoring the rain. Looking only at the sky and the light on the pavement. Feeling the water on my face and the denim over my arms. Moving to an invisible song. It’s how we dance, but also how we get through hard days. Maybe that’s why I subconsciously love dancing and consciously dance on hard days, just to get through.

“And we'll sing hallelujah.”

I realized on my drive home that maybe tonight, in all its loneliness and longing, was more perfect for Fearless (Taylor’s Version) than if it had been full and idyllic. “The Best Day” talks about Taylor’s mom being her only friend. “You Belong with Me” is about unrequited young love. In “Superstar” she pines over an unattainable “superstar.” “Forever and Always” is the perfectly angry anthem about the boy who said forever, but at the end of the day, he couldn’t follow through. “Love Story” is a hopeful manifestation of a fairy tale love that she hadn’t found yet. In “Breathe” Taylor finds her own lungs after holding someone else’s breath for so long that it felt like her own. Vault track “Mr. Perfectly Fine” is an angsty bop about the boy who seems skate unfazed through the breakup, while your heart is left with bloody knees. “You’re Not Sorry” is about learning that people will be who they are (as my therapist has reminded me when I’m disappointed). “Change” is a reminder that life will not always be this way.

And “Fearless,” the title track and a bright anomaly of the record, is a beautiful homage to a headfirst, reckless love in the present tense. But Fearless (Taylor’s Version)—the album—wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for all the loneliness and longing of the other 26 songs. There are only a handful of “happy” songs on the record, but the way Taylor magnifies each emotion with equal importance somehow gave me the space and permission to do the same.

What Taylor Swift has created with her music, with her words, with her genuine joy for her fans and candid embracing of her emotions is a space of belonging for those in the in-between. I have a theory that there are two ways to create community and create art, two ways to use social media: you can either make people wish they were you or you can make people feel like they are part of something. Somehow Taylor has created a space for being, for feeling, for belonging. Despite their specificity, you can find your own story mirrored in her lyrics and your own emotion echoed in her melodies. So I could show up, lonely and tired, in my best dress, and still dance to her songs and feel seen by her words.

On Friday:

While I listened to most of the album last night, it was nearing 2am and between the late hour and the glass of wine I’d finished, I knew I couldn’t give the vault tracks the attention they deserved. So I saved them for this morning. But then I was at work. And you only get a first listen once and I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted the perfect moment.

And if I think back on it, that’s what I’ve always been chasing: perfect moments. I’ve jumped in the car and driven hours on an hour’s notice to photograph surprise events. I’ve danced in more parking lots than with people. I’ve bought clothes with stories. I’ve taken jobs that have left me basically broke because they’ve given me margin for adventure. I’ve thrown myself theme parties and thrown myself into love and thrown myself into the great perhaps of missed connections and I’m constantly throwing myself off cliffs of what-if’s and into wonderings and really all along what I’m looking for is a life that would make a good song or a good story at the end of the day. At the end of the day, I’m terrified of monotony. I just want to live something beautiful.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop chasing all of it: sunrises, first kisses, songs that feel like dancing, new cities, the feeling of being alone and full in a crowded room. But what I’m learning is it doesn’t have to be “perfect” to be meaningful, to be song-worthy, to be a good story. In fact, some of the most beautiful, emotional, meaningful songs have come out of pain. (Can you say “All Too Well?”) It’s easy to dismiss loneliness and heartbreak as lesser because they don’t feel “good” or “fun,” and while I won’t contrive pain just to feel it, I’m learning that feelings are just feelings; they’re information about the world and how I’m processing it. They’ll pass, both the savory ones and the hard ones. But maybe if I lean in, if I listen, if I dance, I might create art out of them before they fade.

And maybe finding beauty and creating art through longing and loss is the most fearless thing of all.

And, yes, I did pick my favourite 13 images to include because, again—what would Taylor do?

"I Still Got You All Over Me": between now and 17

me and Bek in 2012

it’s 11:08 pm.

It’s 11:08pm and I don’t know if that is significant, but if it was a Taylor Swift song, it would be. 

I’m listening to “You All Over Me” for the first time and I’m trying to remember where I was in 2008 when Fearless was released. I was 17 and so bright and so unsure. I felt the weight of obligation and I sacrificed so many dreams in the name of future guarantees. I felt so unworthy of love and belonging and achieving the dreams I was too afraid to say—but I quietly hoped for it all.

I remember being 17.

I remember being 17 and waiting for a ride because I didn’t have a car, listening to music on my teal iPad mini and watching the boy across from me on the bench. There’s a Taylor Swift song for every boy I’ve hoped over and his was “Teardrops on My Guitar,” only solidified when he gave me two of his guitar pics. I wore them on a chain around my neck until I found out he was as in love with another girl as a boy can be at 17.

I remember a summer night in Indiana.

I remember a summer night in Indiana; it was before Fearless came out, maybe in 2005. I was wearing a bright pink t-shirt and we were out late. It began raining and instead of hiding from the storm, we laughed and ran through it. I don’t remember their names and we don’t keep in touch, but when I think about how Fearless feels, it feels like that memory.

I remember a 2012 Chicago night.

I remember a 2012 Chicago night and running through a downtown park and laughing—for someone who doesn’t like to run, apparently I do it often when I’m happy. I wore a blue and green flannel I bought for $3 and I jumped on my best friend’s back. I don’t remember who took the photo, but I remember how happy we felt.

I remember being 17.

At 17, I thought I’d shortly meet a boy who would buy me a ring and I always thought by 29 I’d have my own family. It’s been a decade and now I buy myself rings and I’ve learned both when to leave and when not to let go. Sometimes you have to do both, but what you learn to always hold onto is your own becoming.

“I lived, and I learned, and found out what it was to turn around and see that we were never really meant to be.”

I don’t talk to that boy or the folks from that rainy night and I’ve left almost every dream I had at 17, but sometimes I still talk to my best friend from college. Yet it all feels lost and distant and maybe it’s just because I’ve changed. I wish I could tell that girl at 17 that she can feel it all and it’s okay to cry over boys, but you’ll remember the dancing in the rain and the laugher in the park even more. I wish I could tell her that all the belonging she needs is within herself and that the right people will find her at the right time. Yes, it sounds cliche, but she’s always loved poetry and happy endings. Her happiness will come, just not in the ways she expected. 

Tonight happiness found her on a black barstool in an apartment she’s paying for herself with her 2nd mug of chamomile tea and a plant she’s managed to keep alive. She’s listening to a song (on repeat for 63 minutes and counting) that was written when she was 17 and she’s absorbing the feelings she had then and the ways she’s left and lost and become in the in-between. She’s melancholy, but she’s also happy. She’s learned that both of those feelings can exist at the same time. She’s learned that loss is sometimes necessary for becoming and so is letting go. So she is letting go.

“I lived, and I learned, and found out what it was to turn around
And see that we were never really meant to be
So I lied, and I cried, and I watched a part of myself die
‘Cause no amount of freedom gets you clean

I still got you all over me.”

This time the “you all over me” is the feeling of being 17 and the memory of who I used to be. I’m still dancing and crying to the same songs in new cities and becoming the woman I’ll look back on at 40 as who I used to be.