Be the Ink

 

In the middle of a Saturday afternoon, in midtown Manhattan, we were near collapse after a morning exploring the Upper West Side and Central Park, then shopping around midtown. Then we went to the Modern Museum of Art. I felt it essential to visit at least one of the major, internationally-renowned museums New York City has to offer, even while we were resisting the traditional tourist visit to the City.

Taryn Simon, artist and photographer, has a knack for amazing titles. Her current show: A Living Man Declared Dead and Other Chapters, I-XVIII. At some point as we neared delirium, we wandered into the photography section of the museum, tucked on one of the expansive floors, and found Taryn Simon’s stunning exhibition of photographs. To be honest, the named intrigued me first, as names and titles nearly always do. A great name is the fastest way to get me interested. (I read Angela’s Ashes in sixth grade–I know, right?–because I desperately wanted to know who Angela was, and what was her relation to the little grungy boy on the cover; no other reason.)

We found ourselves surrounded by austere faces, portraits of men, women, rabbits, sitting each by themselves, amid a series of people (and sometimes things) who are somehow related, whose lives and stories intersect by some grand or small event. There was something about “bloodlines,” as after looking deeper at the panels and photographs, I was confused about the organization of the show and its larger meaning. I left intrigued deeply, wanting to spend more time pondering this series, these “chapters,” later, but not wanting to buy the $125 exhibition book–which was the show in its entirety, amazing.

Hours later, I am in the hotel room taking a much-needed rest, and flipping through a Time magazine I’d brought with, when there is this bold headline: “There Will Be Bloodlines: Taryn Simon untangles the ties that bind.”

I kid you not, I got goosebumps. If I had looked at this magazine a day earlier, I might have overlooked this name, skimmed the article at best. Here was this woman, and her explanation of this newest project, which was four years in the making, and took her to twenty-five countries.

Now I have a proper explanation of the project’s theme and meaning:

The organizing principle for this project is what she calls bloodlines: all the living descendants, plus any living forebears, of a single man or woman who sets a story in motion.

And the reasoning, the messy ties and stories and variable havoc that occurs within these “bloodlines” is where her project becomes truly fascinating. It echoes what I see and know deeply: that family lines, genetics, and genealogy have little to do with  the way our lives turn out, have almost nothing to do with the events that shape our individual lives in the present.A simple concept, really; and this explains why the tribal man with ten wives, dozens of children, and many dozen grandchildren appears in a massive sequence. And also, why there is a man missing from his own story–a blank canvas appears instead; he was executed for war crimes after the end of WWII and Nazi Germany, but descendants appear after his spot, along with more missing people, via their empty canvases, as well as pieces of clothing that act in lieu of a person, who preferred not to share his or her face in association with this man. Meaning becomes clear.

Simone depicts bloodlines as flowing charts of small portraits–like a living periodic table of the elements. What resonates is the persistence, and finally the insufficiency, of ancestry and kinship as systems for making sense of unruly destinies. To show that blood lineage can be an extremely loopy line, she sought out unlikely subjects; one is a Lebanese man who claims to be reincarnated, so he pops up more than once in his own family history. “I was always looking for a surreal twist,” she says, “something that would lead to a collapse of logic.”

All the same, even the most outlandish chapters have their universal element. As Simon put it, “We’re all the living dead, pieces of what came before.” What she means is that we all carry the DNA of our forebears; there ghostly current pulses through us. The intricate machinery of her project is designed to show that blood ties are a weak line of defense against the blows administered by history, politics, or sheer unlucky circumstances. [italics my own.]

Yes. This entire work is more stunningly magnificent than I ever could have imagined, aligning greatly with my own theories on this whole world and what happens to us during our time here.

I love pondering issues like this.

The Atlantic headline and subtitle pretty much explain it:

“How the Professor Who Fooled Wikipedia Got Caught by Reddit”

T. Miles Kelly encourages his students to deceive thousands of people on the Web. This has angered many, but the experiment helps reveal the shifting nature of the truth on the Internet. 

 

Yes, truth. And the Internet. As the article points out, trust is often built in (or is lacking) in the types of communities depending on it to get the hard facts, the real truth, about things like, oh, history. And with the fractured and anonymous nature of communities and identities online, the entire process of garnering truth and facts from the Internet poses problems; there is a lack of distinct trust.

This is what Reddit, the social news website, does have compared to a website like Wikipedia. Reddit users, with their internal community and forum-based responses and discourse, were able to see the clues and suspicious bits surrounding T. Miles Kelly’s students’ fabricated experiment in Internet deceivery–an intentional task aimed at exactly this point: who and what is the source of the information you find online?

The Georgia Mason University professor spends a whole semester on this point, in a course he teaches called Lying About the Past. And even though, this time around, Reddit broke open the whole faked case in a matter of hours, the lesson was still there:

The students may have failed to pull off a spectacular hoax, but they surely learned a tremendous amount in the process. “Why would I design a course,” Kelly asks on his syllabus, “that is both a study of historical hoaxes and then has the specific aim of promoting a lie (or two) about the past?” Kelly explains that he hopes to mold his students into “much better consumers of historical information,” and at the same time, “to lighten up a little” in contrast to “overly stuffy” approaches to the subject. He defends his creative approach to teaching the mechanics of the historian’s craft, and plans to convert the class from an experimental course into a regular offering.

There were certainly people, like the founder of Wikipedia, Jimmy Wales, who are enraged by this kind of flagrant misuse of a website like Wikipedia–where the point is to fabricate on purpose, adding plausible, if slightly far-fetched, tidbits to historical Wikipedia entries and seeing how much they can get away with.

But the whole point is to think more carefully, more deeply, about the source of information. His approach is stunning to me, who until very recently had been a constant student of history courses over the span of two degrees. It is essential to make sure young historians understand these lessons. So I am all for his unorthodox methods. After all, with an online encyclopedia that is built on trust, and especially, on goodwill and a common interest, one can spend a bit of time ruminating on what might occur if someone sought to sabotage such an effort, with tiny and insidious bits of fabricated “history.” It is an extreme example of what we know to be existent in many other kinds of sources too, including the heralded Ink-and-Paper-Book.

 

Since I began subscribing to National Geographic in 2004, as a  sophomore in high school, I have only paid for the issues that I get via my membership to the Society. But I acquired an enormous collection, every additional one having been gifted to me. That meant that a good friend would find a singular old copy in a thrift store and pick it up for seventy-five cents, or my Mom would buy me a few if were somewhere together where they were a decent price.

Twice it meant that a retired person was looking for a place to pass off their collection–decades of being a Society member and magazine recipient–once it had grown so massive.

I know exactly what they felt like.

Through these two sizable donations of magazines, I had a spotty collection of 1958 through about 1982 (with some years almost complete, others almost incomplete) as well as an impeccable, full-run of 1990 through 1999, packaged neatly in brown leather containers, two per year. My Mom and I trekked to Macon for that collection, answering an ad in the newspaper that anyone was welcome to the collection, no charge, if they came to get them. We drove. Add to that the years I have, uninterrupted, from 2004 to 2012.

Basically, this was a huge number, a massive group of famously dense and beautiful magazines. I had them stored for years in my parents’ barn in Rubbermaid containers filled so high I could not even lift them. If I moved them, I had to solicite help from my brothers. No one tells you how unwieldy a collection can be, how cumbersome it can be to store, keep, and move giant colletions. I can see how old packrats would just never, ever move.

Well, my parents are mobile people, and we move a lot–my independent self included. In 2011, they sold their 4-bedroom home–finally empty-nesters–and downsized to a one-bedroom converted loft in an old brick building on Main Street in Dublin, Georgia, as part of their larger plan to move into the Methodist mission field in Europe.

This meant I was faced with the task that most adult children handle in the wake of their parents’ deaths, weeding through everything they own to determine what you want to keep, what goes where, who gets what, and all those other, kind of difficult questions. Because we do have issues, as humans, with the stuff we have, the things we keep, the things we carry.

Do you keep the dolls you played with, so that in a decade or more your own daughter can play with them? That’s a long time to keep dolls for an eventual purpose. Will your daughter even care to play with them? They take up a lot of space. (They are American Girl dolls, and yes, I kept them. They occupy a stuffed Rubbermaid in my coat closet now.)

What about sweaters hand-knitted by your grandmother? Dishes, quilts, paintings, the Christmas ornaments we made as kids, which are basically old faded construction paper and popsicle sticks, glue peeling off … you can only say its sentimental so many times, before you are inundated with too much stuff. We had some difficult sessions. And my Mom kept those old Christmas ornaments, just some of the best ones that were still in mostly one piece, in a separate container with the Christmas stuff.

Anyway, I got rid of a huge amount of my National Geographic collection. There were just too many. I kept a few dozen of my favorites from the 1958 to 1982 collection, and then all of the 1990 – 1999 and 2004 to present collections. This is still, probably, far too many for me to have. But I’ll see to that when I need to.

They went to a good home, a center that helps children in Dublin. They were certainly not fit for the trash, with so much knowledge, culture, history, science, perspective on the world, and beautiful, classic photography. I get nostalgic, but then I remember how many I can still see in my house right now. I guess that’s why my tattoo is an homage to that yellow-bordered magazine, that opened up my high-school, teenage perspective to the world, deciding what my goals would be in life.

 

Last night I finally began watching a show I’d been reading about, and to be quite honest, sounded just like something made for me, whose characters I might love. Girls, on HBO, which premiered in April.

I love the characters. They are confused, they have both aim and absolutely no aim, they are figuring out men, career, life. I was crying laughing as we breezed through the first three episodes. Lena Dunham, creator, writer, and one of the stars of the show, is a 25-year-old, and she has captured perfectly many of the topics and issues of exactly this–my–generation. Out of college, mediocre economy and job market, living in the city… and from there, the story grows. The hilarious discourse on exactly life right now hit so many touchstones for me.

Hannah makes a ton of bad decisions, but man, how I love her already. She unabashedly tells her parents she thinks she is “the voice of her generation,” and asks them to keep giving her money so that she can determinedly finish her memoir. “Or at least a voice of a generation,” she adds. She also eats a cupcake in the bathtub (which I have been known to do), has the most spectacular tattoos, is perfectly not skinny, and has existential freak-outs about HIV/AIDS that are absolutely ridiculous and hilarious.

Today Lena Dunham talked about the show, and its discourse on twenty-somethings and all the mess of life, with Terry Gross on Fresh Air.

Terry Gross on why Girls has been striking a nerve with many:

I think women in particular are so hungry for a series or a movie, or movies, about young women who are kind of feminist–whether they describe themselves that way or not–and aren’t just all about clothes and engagement rings, and who are trying to  really figure out who they are where they fit in in the world.

Full disclosure — this is an HBO show. Be prepared for the sex scenes. A la Games of Thrones…

I tend to buy fabrics when I see them and adore them, and not when I need them or have any particular project in mind. Add to this my Mom, who sees great deals on small tidbits and passes them along to me as well. Our habit of collecting bits of designs and colors and patterns that we like has lead me to create a very simple twin-sized “sari quilt.”

She found this spectacular pinky-red vintage sari at an estate sale awhile ago for $5, and in the process of my parents’ downsizing, handed it off to me. All the pink-red-and-cream patterned pieces in this quilt were pieces of the long, luscious, lightweight sari strip–over five yards of gorgeous motif. I was terrified to cut it for the longest time, thinking I would find the right project after cutting into it for something else, and waste its glorious hues on something I felt lukewarm about. It is quite thin, and also old and delicate, so I needed to find just the thing to do with it. (There are still several yards left for other future works.)

The fabric featuring Asian ladies with fans was also a gift from my Mom, for advent at Christmas time, as we both have weaknesses for those teals and pinks and blacks. I reminded her when she gave me these that she had also given me a few swatches of Mary Fisher’s fabric line inspired by Africa–which she picked up on a trip to Michigan last year–in the same color scheme.

Suddenly, I had all these bits that worked together naturally. I had also seen a picture of a child’s bedroom that I adored, with a simple large-scale patchwork across the twin bed, which I loved for its bold fabrics and simplicity. That was where this quilt was born; I loved each of these fabrics, and they way they spoke to one another, but not to the point where I wanted to see them hacked up into smaller wedges for a traditional quilt pattern. I just wanted to be able to see them all together, on one bed, contained within one long strip of binding.

I started this just after my foot surgery in December, and finished it today. I used one of my favorite stash fabrics, a grey-and-white ikat, for the binding. I used Denyse Schmidt’s straight-cut binding method (rather than a bias-cut binding) and loved the variation. I don’t think I’ll use a bias-cut binding ever again. Direction are in her new, incredible book.

For the back, Ben helped me chose an amazing neutral that was exactly the right fit–a pale teal and cream interpretation of the Paris subway maps; delicate, small-scale, and almost invisible unless you take a second glance.

 

 

I collect names. I love spotting a new one (my job working in naturalization records, etc. at the national archives means I get many opportunities to collect and find new muses), saying it, relishing the syllables and imaging what type of person is a Josefina or a Beryl or Basilia or Louise.

But many of these names I will never have the chance to name a child, for the elemental reason that I won’t have more than a few kids, and I have scores of names on my “short” list. The other major reason is that many of these names, though romantic and incredible in my mind and when I write them out in notebooks, are serious handles to put on infant babies that will have to wear them the rest of their lives. Some, like Francis/Frances, are harder to wear as they can sound dated. And some are just stupid (see here).

A recent article points out that as more and more names, variations, and spellings are used in our age, the name you give your cute little newborn does mean more, says more about you as a parent and your child’s household, than it might have fifty years ago. According to Wattenburg, a name blogger and one of the article’s sources:

According to Wattenberg, it took a list of six names to cover half of the population of children born in England in 1800 (U.S. Social Security Administration records don’t begin until 1880). By 1950 in the United States, that number was up to 79. Today, it takes 546 names to cover half of the population of U.S. babies born.

What that means, Wattenberg said, is that names send more tailored messages now than in the days when there were significant numbers of little Johns and Marys running around.

This is an extraordinary increase in a short span of time. And we don’t add this many names without handing at least a few kids some very heavy handles. As parents seek out that perfect name–unique, yet appealing–baby name books have swelled to include 14,000 of them (a number that includes many spelling variations). But baby names are the same as salad dressings and ice cream: more choices doesn’t really help at all, and in fact is probably more detrimental.

And so, the buyer’s remorse effects have also been increasing:

Some are frustrated because their unique baby name keeps getting mispronounced. Others learn of some distressing association with the name after they chose it and stamped it on Baby, she said. But most parents she hears from simply feel that another choice on their top 10 list would have fit their baby better.

Another effect? NAME HATRED. There are some names that absolutely make my skin crawl. I feel sorry for the generation who carry these monikers. There have been surveys of the most-hated names, and many include names with many spellings, like Caitlin (the traditional spelling) or Mackenzie.

The ones I loathe made the list, too. All the Jaydens, Braydens, Craydens, Aidens, and Kadens (what?!). Also still-hated are those kind of creepy ones like Heaven, Destiny, and Precious.

We weirdos who are fascinated by names spend time each year observing, reviewing, critiquing the names that wound up on the list of most popular baby names of the previous year. But I think it’s healthy to look at lists on the other end–and to continue to make lists like this–of the most-hated, yet popular names, if to serve no other purpose than as forewarning for expecting parents. Beware the Jaydens!

No offense to anyone whose name is Jayden or Precious.

If you are the parent of someone named Jessyca, then please, take high offense by me. What on earth were you thinking, giving your poor daughter that name? If you don’t want to give her a common name, go for Josefina or Basilia. But at least spell it right. (This is a real name, and a real pet peeve.)

(in my opinion)

I was excited to get a request from my friend Andres, for a list of my “10 books everyone should read,” because it forced me (non-reluctantly) back to my bookshelf to see which books have had the biggest impact on the way I view the world. That is my criteria. Because while there are many books that interest based on my own personal taste and penchants (this includes South Asian politics and history, linguistics, Georgia history, travelogues), I recognize that this is not the material that needs to be on a list “for everyone to read.” Spots on this short-list must be reserved for those books whose stories and message endure beyond their particular topic or subject at hand, and instead resonate with the human spirit, our universal soul.

These are the 10 books that have changed the way I see the world, and which continue to resonate deeply with me. Their subjects dive deep into universal love, pain, suffering, faith, healing, goodness, and evil. Humanity.

Fiction:

The Kite Runner, written by Khaled Hosseini (2004) – You will never see Afghanistan the same way. Possibly the most affecting book I have ever read. I wept for a nation.

Things Fall Apart, written by Chinua Achebe (1994) – I was supposed to read this book for World Lit in college, and couldn’t devote enough time to it to learn the African names; I ended up with Sparknotes to pass the test. But it was assigned to me again in a West African History course the following year, and this time, I was absorbed in the story, blown away by the way its historical point echoes significantly on the state of modern Africa and post-colonial strife on that continent. The title comes from a famous poem (“things fall apart / the center cannot hold…”), and we witness how things do fall tragically and magically apart within one African tribe, when Christian missionaries arrive. It is a tale of the very good and the very bad to come of missionary work in Africa. Achebe forces you to examine both essential parts.

Brave New World, written by Aldous Huxley (1931) – If you’ve ever had a conversation with me about literature, chances are I’ve professed my love for this short-list classic dystopian thriller. I read it in high school and again in college, and its comments on the modern world ring truer today than when he wrote it more than 80 years ago. The other famous dystpoian tale, George Orwell’s 1984, is based on a society where the Big Brother government is so controlling we have no freedom. Huxley’s tale is set in a society where they have so much pleasure–in the form of free sex, pornography (“the feelies”–just your regular cinema experience that often ends in an orgy), and soma drugs to stay happy and carefree–that there is no need to keep us under control– our addiction to pleasures does that for us. Imagine a world where we are so seduced by comforts that no one needs to be controlled by a repressive state. Far scarier, and far more accurate a depiction of what a dystopic future might look like (in my humble opinion). Gripping story.

American Born Chinese, written by Gene Luen Yang (2006) – If you don’t feel like mulling over the failures of humanity (as a few of these others might), then start with this, an illustrated tale of life as a Chinese-American kid. It was my first foray into the world of the graphic novel, and I was blown away by how much emotion can be expressed in an illustrated little boy’s face. (But then again, I should know already how emotional cartoons can be, after 18 years of watching Pixar movies.) A tale of cultural overlapping combines with the Chinese folk tale of the Monkey King, to make for a lighthearted, humorous commentary on growing up as a hyphenated American; in his case, Chinese-American.

Candide: Or Optimism, written by Voltaire (1759) –  This is another book that I basically ignored the first time it was put in front of me, and which became a stunning revelation when it was assigned to me a second time. I guess my high school perspective missed the massive amounts of humor in this classic work of satire. Voltaire’s commentary on the relentless optimism of man–even in the face of never-ending bad news and disaster–is still a touchstone today. Read it (duh).

 

Non-fiction: 

What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures, written by Malcolm Gladwell (2009) – I swear to you, Malcolm Gladwell’s brain does not operate like the rest of ours. He sees the world in a fascinating way, and asks the questions many of us would never think to ask. Why are there numerous kinds and flavors of mustard, but only one kind of Ketchup? Is plagiarism really even a thing? (And does it matter all that much?) Are smart people overrated? This is a collection of the best articles Gladwell has written for the New Yorker in the last decade or so. And they will blow your little, intelligent mind. My favorite in the whole book: “John Rock’s Error: What the Inventor of the Birth Control Pill Didn’t Know About Women’s Health.” Among many other “why-didn’t-I-think-of-this-before?” questions. And blessedly, he has some answers.

And the Band Played On: Politics, People, and the AIDS Epidemic, written by Randy Shilts (1987) – Shilts wrote The Book on the early HIV/AIDS epidemic, and the successes and failures of activists, politicians, doctors, scientists, and everyday people faced with the disease of a century. You can read my Amazon.com review if you don’t believe me: this book is one of most important books I have ever read. It also confirms another truth: journalists are fantastic history writers. Shilts weaves a tale of human drama, and it reads like fiction. How else would I commit to 600 pages on this subject?

Summer for the Gods: The Scopes Trial and America’s Continuing Debate over Science and Religion, written by Edward J. Larson (1998) – I’ll give you a clue–the famous Tennessee trial on teaching evolution in public schools was nothing like you think it was. It was purposely challenged, and Scopes, a still-green young teacher, was the volunteer offender, who would be used to launch a legal war over the still-touchy subject of science and religion in schools. If you read one history book, read this one. Highly relevant today.

 

On Georgia and the South
(Everyone should understand the South a little better, whether you live here or not!)

Beach Music: a novel, written by Pat Conroy (1995) – The writing is extraordinary, and the drama compares to nothing else. This is a sweeping tale of a South Carolina family across several generations, spanning a century and tackling racial prejudice, a changing South, the Holocaust, multiple wars, and the battle wounds inflicted on a generation in Vietnam. Add a lot of family drama and coming-of-age tales of love (and loss), and you’ve got Beach Music. Perfect for the approaching long, hot Georgia summer.

Praying for Sheetrock: A work of nonfiction, written by Melissa Fay Greene (1991) – Greene lives in Atlanta now (and has written a wide variety of other works), but she was living near the places and events this book recounts in the 1970s and 1980s, when McIntosh County — on the Georgia coast — was still lagging far behind the rest of the state in grappling with desegregation and racial prejudices and injustices. The events really happened, though it reads like fiction. An important piece of history for anyone who lives in the South, or feels they want to understand it a bit better (or maybe this will only add to your complicated image of it–rightly so).

 

A note: I own all these books. I am willing to lend them out.

 

I have been thinking for a couple days on something I read in my May 2012 issue of Atlanta Magazine, in their feature on the craft scene in the city.

The ladies who started Indie Craft Experience (ICE) Atlanta are featured–the very fun and quirky biannual expo in an old warehouse downtown, with food trucks outside and tons of talented craftsmen and women inside. Ben and I went to our first ICE Atlanta last summer and came away with a few really cool pieces, including organic baby clothes for a friend, a funky bottle opener, and a wool-and-cotton stuffed elephant that graces my office space.

The feature includes a few local artists and shops, but one little bit got me thinking, about modern aesthetic, modern craft, and the influence technology on the projects we imagine, plan, and execute today.

ICE features work from the new crafting or “indie” scene. There, you are as likely to find a cross-stitching of Bea Arthur as you are handmade earrings. Urban motifs like skulls and studs have replaced country kitsch. Peterson credits this evolution to the Internet. “Crafting isn’t as isolated as it used to be,” she says. “You can get online and share ideas.” This Venn diagram of technology and handwork is what gives modern crafting its quirky aesthetic, which resonates deeply with a new generation.

While I do not think crafting has ever been an isolating pastime–it has traditionally been based in a community, shared camaraderie–I certainly find that there is a much wider community with which to commune, a huge pool of creative people with inspiring ideas and endless projects for me to admire and bookmark.

The Internet has definitely changed how we craft.

It has changed what kinds of materials and fabrics are available to use, it has given us the blogging community to share in-progress and finished projects and bounce ideas, and then there are all the other kinds of social media to provide continuous graphic inspiration.

For one year, which was the maximum amount of time my (then-more-limited) budget could handle it, I lived alone. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my cat, and I adored it.

The New York Times reported on the “freedom, and perils, of living alone” a few months ago, and spoke to many of the great and terrible aspects of this less-rare decadence of the modern age.

IF there is any doubt that we’re living in the age of the individual, a look at the housing data confirms it. For millenniums, people have huddled together, in caves, in mud huts, in split-levels and Cape Cods. But these days, 1 in every 4 American households is occupied by someone living alone; in Manhattan, mythic land of the singleton, the number is nearly 1 in 2.

I don’t live in Manhattan, and I actually do not know very many people who have spent time living alone, with not one other human soul. There are appealing delights in the entire set-up, that I appreciate even more so now that I no longer have them. If I happen to have a messy week, it bothers no one except myself; so only when I am annoyed by the dished left on the counter do I have to do anything about them. (Being messy: most decadent of behavior.) You grow quickly fond of walking around completely naked as you do things in the mornings or evenings. (Truly.) There is quiet when you want it, and loud also when you want it. There is always a dance floor in your living room, with an audience of one (the cat, who is not in the least judgmental of your moves) and no one will barge in on your party-of-one. Push the couch out of the way if it’s getting really serious. Solitude when you need it, a space to recharge, foster creativity, watch any damn thing you want to. No one’s opinion matters here except your own. We all need tiny spaces  where this is what dictates the way of things; even if, obviously for many, that space is not your own, magnificent single-occupancy apartment.

Because that is also where the peril lies. “The single-occupant home can be a breeding ground for eccentricities,” the NYT reports, to no one’s surprise or shock. Think of, “Kramer on ‘Seinfeld,’ washing vegetables in the shower or deciding, on a whim, to ditch his furniture in favor of ‘levels.’” Because it offends no one else!

One woman, Amy Kennedy, featured in the article readily admits that she can see, over the six years she has lived alone in North Carolina, that she has gotten “quirkier and quirkier.” I can absolutely see how this would happen. Amy:

“The entire apartment is your room,” Ms. Kennedy said, by way of explanation. “If I leave a bra on the kitchen table, I don’t think much about it.”

Living alone breeds very strange wardrobe decisions, as others in article point out, and to which I can readily attest. Weird, embarrassing stretchy pants and third-day greasy hair? No one’s there to see. Other usual suspect habits? Leaving the bathroom door open. Talking to yourself. And eating strange versions of “recipes”–what I call “single-people food”–inventions that arise out of the need to eat without the urge to prepare anything too time-consuming or elaborate for a party of one. Cereal. A can of black beans mixed in with some other can of soup. Expensive cheese, by itself. Cereal. Something that is usually a side-dish but I choose to make the whole meal. And so on.

What emerges from this much time spent alone?

What emerges over time, for those who live alone, is an at-home self that is markedly different — in ways big and small — from the self they present to the world. We all have private selves, of course, but people who live alone spend a good deal more time exploring them.

This can have good and bad consequences, depending on how well you handle the quirks that arise. One of the perils the article mentions is the work of resocialization when you do eventually cohabitate. As a lifelong introvert, I’m quite skilled in manuvering myself within a social world without neglecting the need for quiet, solitary space.  I lived naturally alone, just as I live quite naturally and happily with others. But it was such a lovely year, one I cherish.What emerges over time, for those who live alone, is an at-home self that is markedly different — in ways big and small — from the self they present to the world. We all have private selves, of course, but people who live alone spend a good deal more time exploring them.

For me it was such a pleasure (albeit, too expensive). It wasn’t that all my time was spent alone. But I am a person who cherishes, relishes, in time I have to myself, and I continue to relish evenings or mornings or afternoons of solitude, time to devote to a skill, a project, a paper, a book, an exercise machine (less often), a cup of coffee, a bookstore outing, a quiet meal, a movie alone, a design idea, a blog post, research, a recipe, a cat snugglefest, a dance party for one. Sometimes, I even clean.

 

I have been obsessing over the triangles and colors in this quilt, by Blue is Bleu, for several days now, since it came up on my Pinterest feed. I’ve sketched it several times, poorly as I am wont to do, because I just can’t get it out of my head.

Triangles and their bold geometry have been on the back-burner of my creative juices for awhile. Back in September, I impulsively bought a bunch of fabric for a menswear quilt (different project) and added on a flying geese triangle plastic template, which I have yet to use at all. To be quite honest, they look stunning, but I know how sneakily tricky triangles can be in quilts– all those points to match and perfect. And while I embrace wonky shapes and modern aesthetic, I still don’t want to end up with a quilt made of triangles that, well, suck.

So I’ll keep this image in my brain for the day when I’m ready to tackle triangles. I adore everything Audrie has done: the all-solids, the rich splashes of tangerine and gold and red, the quilting lines–simple and geometric–the binding (that black and white punch!), and the shapes themselves.