There’s a first time for everything — on Monday I inspected a house I’ve previously instagrammed. It was a stunning Queen Anne Victorian complete with gold leaf, arched ceilings, original gleaming mahogany and redwood and gorgeous tile-work and suspended oak pocket doors with attendant keys. The owner was haughty and rude; at some point it was revealed that she’d been a teacher which explained all the challenging silent stares after every sentence I uttered — daring me to start babbling. Afterwards there were a gamut of less interesting homes and after a 12 hour day I felt my age to the bone and wondered how much longer I had it in me to do any of this.
Tuesday I rested those weary bones indoors to write dreary reports all day. I tried to find the inspiration to write a blog post (so many photographs to share right now!) but I didn’t have it in me. I’m creating more than ever — between this blog and our wedding work — and there’s books to make and portraits to process; collaborations and events; cocktails and parties to style — but when it comes to putting it all together in this wordpress square I just stare at the white page and nothing comes to me.
Wednesday the girls and I met as the sun set in Hayes Valley — a tiny neighborhood of soft and bright colors, big trees and narrow alleys. We drank wine and sat outdoors as long as possible — challenging the cold breeze from the coast to drive us indoors, if it could.
On Thursday we rented a zipcar and moved the final items into the new studio. Back in June we were finally evicted from Studio 17 to make room for tech companies, and after floundering for a month or two we found someplace new to call home but for a month it sat empty. It was small where the last studio was grand; dark where it was light; hot and stale where the other one was cool and full of wind and movement. I’d given my heart to this last space even though I knew from the beginning of our 6 month lease that it wasn’t going to last forever — it was harder to adjust than I was prepared for. The week before we’d rolled up our sleeves and returned to the old studio to shake down our former landlord for the $1200 deposit he was refusing to return to us. His reasons were: he is losing his job, his wife, his home and his mind; he has become the most hated man in the mission and in a desperate attempt to exert control he refused to return the deposit during the legal time allowed for no reason other than he felt like it, and he refused to give a time when we could expect the return. He’d become a perpetual victim and no one in the world had any compassion on his poor nerves. I’ve had large sums money stolen and taken from me so many, many times throughout my adult life but this was the first time dealing with someone who was actually not in his right mind. We followed him as he wandered around a grocery store mumbling to himself incoherently, and then into a parking lot where he declared in a monotone that his car had been stolen, at which point I called a cab and we were all lifted 4 blocks away where finally under great duress he finally wrote us the check for our deposit. I was certain that the 2 month delay in returning it was because he didn’t actually have the funds, but to everyone’s surprise the check cashed in the morning — my only conclusion is that we were dealing with an unprofessional madman — not a criminal.
Friday was for photographing and video work with fellow bloggers. And for discovering how to cook the perfect fried egg.
Then there was a happy haze of meals and drinks and sweets with friends; a night when artists gathered in our back room to present and share their work; and less happy but not unpleasant series of meetings; hours of work; house cleaning and laundry and things. A friend came to town and I took her to Alamo Square and then the Page Bar and as we drank martinis I was struck by the surrealism of the moment — she was someone who M had known in college; who I met the morning after a sleepless night crossing the British channel on a bus on a ferry — sneaking into the UK in the dead of night. She took us to British pubs and walked us around town and in addition to being an fabulous person was a beacon of American familiarity in a cold, long winter abroad. Later she visited me in Paris, and then I visited her for Thanksgiving in London — us two American girls alone in a rambling Victorian on the outskirts of town full of Irish, Brits and Scotts. That was the last time I saw her, but she is one of those friends that you carry with you throughout the day or the different locations so it was both perfectly natural — as though she’d always been there — but also completely bizarre because it was actually happening.
Annie captured most of these glorious shots of my running-around-town outfit on this beautiful golden evening and I can only repeat my thank you’s over and over again. We had just met for a quick lunch but (par for the course when the two of us get together) this luncheon evolved into a day of live music, long walks, sushi boats, and aperol spritz on other people’s balconies. Who inspires you in your life and when was the last time you saw or spoke to them? What does a week in your life look like? Send me a note in the comments, to threadandbones @ gmail.com, or connect with me at instagram, pinterest, twitter, or facebook.
Thank you for reading =)