So here’s where I’m at, from a very non-medical front. Here’s a simple dress that I actually struggled with. A lot. Here’s a long blog-post about suffering and not about an exciting adventure around the world with pretty people and tasty food. Here’s a glimpse at some cracks in my heart. Here’s some honesty. And I hope, here’s a safe place for anyone who’s suffering to feel like they aren’t alone and maybe even to share. Whether it’s in the comments below, private message, or a phone call to a friend, you may be surprised by what a little imperfect, mad, or seemingly ridiculous honesty can do.
A few months ago, I got my second commission for a custom “Denim Jacket Do-Over.” A sweet friend of a friend in the dairy world, Carey Alberg, asked me to make something inspired by her sparkling tween daughter, Grace. It took me a while to decide on a design because Grace has a lot more to her than just the dairy farm aspect. She’s also spunky, loves to dance, and is sort of obsessed with Hamilton. Plus, her grandfather’s dairy, Ronnybrook Farm, produces some of the greatest ice cream ever, which pretty much makes her royalty in my book.
The story behind my Sister-In-Law’s bespoke bridal ensemble.
Here are a few photos and a poem from an especially magical high desert sunset over my family's farm in Central Oregon.
Be it our media our our mothers, there's no shortage of resources conveying the idea of beauty coming from within. One way or another, we've all heard that it's what's on the inside that matters.
The same applies to clothing.
In my experience, there are two types of artists in this world.
There are the conceptualists. The ones who wield their arms about and plan together over cold Starbucks coffee in shiny conference rooms. They tend to be the ones who make money.
Then there are the hands-on creators. These are the ones with greasy hair and difficult, or to be kind, whymsical, dispositions and a preference to work on their own. Their coffee might be cold too, but they probably brewed their own.
It's been one year since Ieft for London. Here's a collective account of my summer interning abroad.
Last week my mom and I took a mini excursion to Cannon Beach, about 90 minutes West of Portland, Ore. The sun surprisngly was out, the wind less surprisingly was also out. We didn't stay long. As we were walking back along the ocean to the car, we saw a family of geese who were also having a family outing at the beach. Momma Goose, Papa Goose, Brother and Sister Goose.
Time doesn't exist in Cascadia, a tiny memory of a town in Oregon's Wilamette Valley where ladies in pointed shoes and gentleman in tall hats used to flock to drink the spring water in the 1930's. The trees are so tall, the light that does filter through feels eternally like sunrise, with air that is damp, and smooth, and new. A handful of cabins line a winding street, with blackberries twining out the windows of abandon cars and smoke puffs rise from tin chiminies.
A Guest Post 'a la Ma' -- From fashion shows to fashion school, I've written a lot about the "designer" part of my life. You've read about days exploring New York City and seen pictures of models in fancy clothes. Well, surprise! There's a lot more to my life than all of that. I actually grew up on a farm in Central Oregon and my parents were high school sweet hearts.