My extremely chaotic journey in making the hardest part of my costume!
Friday, 30 October 2020
Thursday, 17 September 2020
Why is the Sky Orange?
Wondering why the sky looks like you're in a bottle of Fanta? Wondering why wildfires seem to be getting more intense and more frequent than a few years ago? Let's answer these questions while I'm stuck indoors from the smoky air!
☆ If you'd like to learn more about how indigenous communities are acting to help our environment: https://www.ienearth.org/ ☆
☆ If you'd like to help those affected by the wildfires ☆
→ California
→ Oregon
→ Washington
Wednesday, 16 September 2020
A Calm (Silent) Vlog: Preparing for the Start of School
The week before students start school has never felt this stressful, so finding moments of calm and self care have been even more important 💖
Wednesday, 26 August 2020
5 Easy Iced Latte Recipes
Experimenting with iced latte flavors has been a really fun way to spend these hot summer months! How do you like your iced lattes?
Wednesday, 19 August 2020
What's the Deal With Voter Suppression?
Frustrated about what's going on with the USPS and our elections? In this video, I explain the ways we're experiencing voter suppression in 2020, and share some actions (both big and small) that you can take to help! I hope it helps you feel empowered and channel that frustration into direct action.
Wednesday, 22 July 2020
A Calm Morning (Silent) Vlog
Now is a great time to reflect on how your digital habits have changed since quarantine. Personally, I've developed this new habit of looking at my phone first thing in the morning and it just... never feels good. So, I'm trying to create space in the mornings to be mindful, quiet, and peaceful.
Thursday, 16 July 2020
Bootleg Nail Art Tutorial
procrastinating got me in the mood for ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* soft sculpture *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 👁️ 👄 👁️
Tuesday, 28 April 2020
Fashion and Climate Change: How the crisis of our era defines the art we wear
In art, as in life, patterns inevitably emerge. Whether we look at one artist’s work or a collection of artists, we can find trends in materials, style, or philosophical approach. Or we can zoom out even further, and look at how collective experiences in society shape artists’ work across all these factors.
For example, all of Modern Art, from abstract video art to impressionist paintings, is about questioning oppressive, long-held traditions. The clash of democracy and science against monarchy and the religious state led to a crisis which became the collective experience that shaped art across styles and media for over 100 years.
Recognizing collective experiences as they’re happening has been difficult. Historians could only do so in retrospect, because you had to work much harder to find enough art and literature to see these patterns. But that’s not true anymore. Now, we can easily access a tremendous amount of contemporary art and literature, in our pajamas, at home.
We don’t need to wait to see what our collective experience is. It’s climate change.
Climate change is the term we use to describe that our world is changing for the worse because of our actions. Humans have long praised ourselves for our ability to shape our environment (going so far as to create a major distinction in our species before and after the agricultural revolution), but we are now finally grappling with the reality of our shortsightedness, and the uncertainty of whether our actions can save us.
Art about climate change is art fueled by this uncertainty. We respond to it with a range of emotions--fear, despair, numbness, diligence, denial, even joy.
Climate change shows up in this season’s fashion collections in their floral themes. Representing flora and fauna in our clothes is a very human thing to do--almost every culture, when the tools to print or embroider are available, represents their natural surroundings on their clothes. But we are no longer just designing clothes when we feel inspired by nature, we are making clothes when we are afraid of losing it.
Some designers respond to this fear with nihilism, like Marine Serre’s Spring 2020 collection, which says “this is for when you’re fist-fighting your mom over clean water, but make it fashion.” It necessitates desensitizing yourself to this kind of future, and succumbing to fear or cynicism isn’t particularly creative. It’s stale.
Some designers respond to climate change with moral responsibility, like Mara Hoffman’s Spring 2020 collection, which uses sustainable fabrics and reuses silhouettes as a protest against fast fashion.
But because climate change is a collective experience in our era, it shows up in the work of designers who aren’t trying to respond to climate change at all.
Alexander McQueen’s Spring 2020 collection isn’t “about” climate change, it’s about ensuring you “feel wreathed in confidence” in their dresses, according to Vogue, and uses bold colors and free-moving fabric to that end.
But, in searching for floral illustrations to use in this collection, McQueen's artistic director, Sarah Burton, and her team were most interested in endangered and extinct flowering plants. They sifted through preserved floral specimens at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew in London, and by showcasing species that are vulnerable to ecological changes, made a statement about climate change anyway. After all, you only shine a spotlight on something you think is important.
When looking at this collection initially, I didn’t recognize that the plant species were either endangered or extinct. Perhaps I ought to. We continue to learn new reasons why biodiversity is important for all life on Earth, and I wonder whether a greater awareness about these species could save them, and us.
Givenchy’s Spring 2020 collection is a historical retrospective inspired by the gardens of Sissinghurst Castle, as well as Hubert de Givenchy’s flower-lace gowns that first put the design house on the map. Clare Waight Keller, Givenchy’s artistic director, isn’t attempting to make a statement on climate change in her work.
However, the gardens that inspired her have experienced cycles of neglect and preservation since the 1500s. Political and economic shifts in England over the last 400 years often meant that the resources in maintaining gardens weren’t always available. But, when those resources returned, people worked hard to restore these natural spaces. Givenchy’s collection affectionately highlights a very old garden, but in doing so, it also serves as a testament to the kind of diligent stewardship it takes to maintain a natural habitat well enough for future generations to enjoy.
Rahul Mishra’s Spring 2020 collection is a successful attempt at showcasing his innovative embroidery techniques. Reviews of this collection highlight his use of feather-light materials to create an increasingly impressive visual detail the closer you look.
But the representations on this garments are inspired by his four-year-old daughter’s awareness of her changing environment, in an attempt to capture it as it exists now, he tells Vogue. And his daughter’s growing understanding of her environment, like that of young people everywhere, is inextricably linked to climate change.
I search and I search and I search and every time I look, I see fashion connected to our changing environment. I see it because I, too, am part of this collective experience. When you’re designing clothes inspired by nature, you’re observing what’s there, what’s not there, and how you feel about that. You, like all of us, are grappling with the impermanence of our natural world.
And I, as your viewer, am grappling with it too. When I look at the ruzhil leaves in Rahul Mishra’s dresses, or the rutaceae flowers on Alexander McQueen gowns, I don’t know that these plants are extinct. I don’t know that Sarah Burton’s dress is an obituary. And I wonder, as we continue weaving our natural world into our garments, documenting and preserving what we see, how much more of what we create is destined to become a eulogy, and how much will become a loving testament to our hope for the future.
For example, all of Modern Art, from abstract video art to impressionist paintings, is about questioning oppressive, long-held traditions. The clash of democracy and science against monarchy and the religious state led to a crisis which became the collective experience that shaped art across styles and media for over 100 years.
Recognizing collective experiences as they’re happening has been difficult. Historians could only do so in retrospect, because you had to work much harder to find enough art and literature to see these patterns. But that’s not true anymore. Now, we can easily access a tremendous amount of contemporary art and literature, in our pajamas, at home.
We don’t need to wait to see what our collective experience is. It’s climate change.
Climate change is the term we use to describe that our world is changing for the worse because of our actions. Humans have long praised ourselves for our ability to shape our environment (going so far as to create a major distinction in our species before and after the agricultural revolution), but we are now finally grappling with the reality of our shortsightedness, and the uncertainty of whether our actions can save us.
Art about climate change is art fueled by this uncertainty. We respond to it with a range of emotions--fear, despair, numbness, diligence, denial, even joy.
Climate change shows up in this season’s fashion collections in their floral themes. Representing flora and fauna in our clothes is a very human thing to do--almost every culture, when the tools to print or embroider are available, represents their natural surroundings on their clothes. But we are no longer just designing clothes when we feel inspired by nature, we are making clothes when we are afraid of losing it.
Some designers respond to this fear with nihilism, like Marine Serre’s Spring 2020 collection, which says “this is for when you’re fist-fighting your mom over clean water, but make it fashion.” It necessitates desensitizing yourself to this kind of future, and succumbing to fear or cynicism isn’t particularly creative. It’s stale.
Some designers respond to climate change with moral responsibility, like Mara Hoffman’s Spring 2020 collection, which uses sustainable fabrics and reuses silhouettes as a protest against fast fashion.
But because climate change is a collective experience in our era, it shows up in the work of designers who aren’t trying to respond to climate change at all.
Alexander McQueen’s Spring 2020 collection isn’t “about” climate change, it’s about ensuring you “feel wreathed in confidence” in their dresses, according to Vogue, and uses bold colors and free-moving fabric to that end.
But, in searching for floral illustrations to use in this collection, McQueen's artistic director, Sarah Burton, and her team were most interested in endangered and extinct flowering plants. They sifted through preserved floral specimens at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew in London, and by showcasing species that are vulnerable to ecological changes, made a statement about climate change anyway. After all, you only shine a spotlight on something you think is important.
When looking at this collection initially, I didn’t recognize that the plant species were either endangered or extinct. Perhaps I ought to. We continue to learn new reasons why biodiversity is important for all life on Earth, and I wonder whether a greater awareness about these species could save them, and us.
However, the gardens that inspired her have experienced cycles of neglect and preservation since the 1500s. Political and economic shifts in England over the last 400 years often meant that the resources in maintaining gardens weren’t always available. But, when those resources returned, people worked hard to restore these natural spaces. Givenchy’s collection affectionately highlights a very old garden, but in doing so, it also serves as a testament to the kind of diligent stewardship it takes to maintain a natural habitat well enough for future generations to enjoy.
Rahul Mishra’s Spring 2020 collection is a successful attempt at showcasing his innovative embroidery techniques. Reviews of this collection highlight his use of feather-light materials to create an increasingly impressive visual detail the closer you look.
But the representations on this garments are inspired by his four-year-old daughter’s awareness of her changing environment, in an attempt to capture it as it exists now, he tells Vogue. And his daughter’s growing understanding of her environment, like that of young people everywhere, is inextricably linked to climate change.
I search and I search and I search and every time I look, I see fashion connected to our changing environment. I see it because I, too, am part of this collective experience. When you’re designing clothes inspired by nature, you’re observing what’s there, what’s not there, and how you feel about that. You, like all of us, are grappling with the impermanence of our natural world.
And I, as your viewer, am grappling with it too. When I look at the ruzhil leaves in Rahul Mishra’s dresses, or the rutaceae flowers on Alexander McQueen gowns, I don’t know that these plants are extinct. I don’t know that Sarah Burton’s dress is an obituary. And I wonder, as we continue weaving our natural world into our garments, documenting and preserving what we see, how much more of what we create is destined to become a eulogy, and how much will become a loving testament to our hope for the future.
Thursday, 16 April 2020
The Sprout
“Why won’t you stand up?” I mutter, holding up the stem of my cilantro sprout. It droops against my finger like it’s going to faint, my finger its chaise. “Are you supposed to still be so wobbly?” I say, wiggling my finger to remind it how to be a plant and stand up. No luck.
I try not to touch its leaves too firmly. They feel soft on my fingers, but I can barely feel them. I imagine this is how butterfly wings feel. When the sprout first emerged from the ground, it stood up confidently and outstretched its cotyledons, its first leaves. These leaves don’t look like its actual leaves, they’re part of the seed’s embryo, sort of like training wheels until the plant is able to grow its usual leaves. As soon as its signature fronds emerged, the plant became top-heavy and fell on its side.
It’s still growing new leaves, so I know it’s… fine. It’s fine! But why won’t its stem grow thicker like that of a hardy plant? Wind makes its whole body whip around like a flag, but it never severs from the root. It’s fine. It’s fine.
“When… does… cilantro… stem… har… den…” I type.
I glance back at my sprout, now drowsily fluttering in its plastic pot, then back at my phone. I read four unhelpful articles about how I’m doing everything wrong before closing all the tabs and taking a deep breath.
I turn my attention back to the sprout, and notice a burgeoning green bud. A new leaf is peeking out from its stem.
It’s fine.
I try not to touch its leaves too firmly. They feel soft on my fingers, but I can barely feel them. I imagine this is how butterfly wings feel. When the sprout first emerged from the ground, it stood up confidently and outstretched its cotyledons, its first leaves. These leaves don’t look like its actual leaves, they’re part of the seed’s embryo, sort of like training wheels until the plant is able to grow its usual leaves. As soon as its signature fronds emerged, the plant became top-heavy and fell on its side.
It’s still growing new leaves, so I know it’s… fine. It’s fine! But why won’t its stem grow thicker like that of a hardy plant? Wind makes its whole body whip around like a flag, but it never severs from the root. It’s fine. It’s fine.
“When… does… cilantro… stem… har… den…” I type.
I glance back at my sprout, now drowsily fluttering in its plastic pot, then back at my phone. I read four unhelpful articles about how I’m doing everything wrong before closing all the tabs and taking a deep breath.
I turn my attention back to the sprout, and notice a burgeoning green bud. A new leaf is peeking out from its stem.
It’s fine.
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