My cousin Todd recently shared this picture of my grandmother, my mother’s mother, that I had never seen before. I don’t know if there aren’t very many pictures of her when she was this age or whether they’re just hiding somewhere waiting to be discovered, but the only other ones I’ve seen have been sort of formal portraits, best-outfit-posed-for-a-big-occasion shots. But this is different, candid, something wistful, is she on the deck of a ship? Who took it? She looks so very much like my mother here, impossibly tiny and incredibly beautiful. And, I mean, the dress, hat, and shoes are totally perfect and wonderful. I love it so.
Tag: style
New Mural
Peeped this new mural going up next to BAM the other day. It says “pimple”.
Emmylou
Today is a good day for Emmylou: personal style icon, heavenly angel voice on the high harmony, and strongest argument yet seen for going grey gracefully. Put on the Pancho & Lefty, sit by the open window while it rains, and think about all of these outfits.
love and thanks always to woodsmaiden for these and oh so many other awesome images.
Stump Speech
When I first stumbled across Best Made, a New York based company whose absolutely gorgeous hand-hewn and painted axes retail for up to $300, I had a smarmysmirk. I can certainly get behind the idea that objects of use should be objects of beauty, that form, function, build and tame are among the most ancient human impulses as we have. But, I thought, come on. A (stunning) $300 axe for uppity, bearded, maketank New Yorkers to hang on the wall of their lofts for show? Because-seriously-who-in-New-York-has-a-tree-and-if-you-were-lucky-enough-to-have-a-tree-why-on-earth-would-you-chop-it-down. Birch Please.
Then. I found the stump in my backyard. This old stump had at one point been burnt, covered in bricks and debris, forgotten until Sweetheart and I unearthed it in a torrent of centipedes and (my) shrieking. On Monday, it was the size of the red oval:
I broke it up myself using a rusty old axe I found in the backyard that must have belonged to the original landlords from the 1850’s. This is what my axe looks like:
Oof. My axe is like off-brand jeans. It works OK, but it could be a little shiner and a LOT sharper. New York is funny in this way, it can give you little nuggets of self-revelation that come with sweat and honest toil, and in the same fell swing can make you covetous of a $300 axe named “Flashman”. And the crazy thing? I think I might have earned it.
Feather By Feather 