“Go to school, graduate, get a job, work your way up, and maybe one day you’ll start your own business”… these seemed like the most logical and viable steps to take through life. Up until 2020, everything was going to plan; I had good job offers lined up for once I graduated from Parsons School of Design. I felt confident I was on the right path, to one day, having gained enough experience and some courage, to potentially start my own brand.
Arrogance is underrated. Period. It takes something to make your way out to New York, let alone be an artist out here. I'm in love with New York. I've dreamt of New York since I was a teen, even though Chicago will always be home. I've always had confidence border lining arrogance, or so I've been told. This city kind of pushes you over that line, and for good reason. You are a speck in a sea of voices within a small sliver of an island of the world that is called, Manhattan.
…And now there’s water on my floor. Four years later and my studio has never been the same. No one really prepares for a photoshoot. You have an idea, past experiences, but the day of the shoot in studio or on location can be generally… chaotic. And that’s kind of the theme for all art, organized chaos. So when your pregnant visionary emerges out of your studio bathroom with puzzled expression, and casually drops to the team… “So I just released a quarter cup of water in the bathroom?”, an apt response is to go speechless and or pale.
Do you get it now? Are we all on the same page? The last few months have made it abundantly clear, you're in the Marketing run of your life. And I mean Run. I hate to say it, but this 24/7 frenzy of online media and social medication is going to slow down soon. Once cities are fully open, Summer rampages on and human contact is deemed OK, we're going to bask in life post digital detention.
I caught up with an old friend this week. It's been a year but it feels like yesterday since we last spoke. Midway through the conversation she says... did you know so and so is now a photographer? I chucked but she wasn't laughing. Ah yes, another five minute photographer. Not an uncommon statement in any craft which got me thinking of the millions of people, during this strange days that have now learned a new skill and confused it for knowing the craft...
If you’ve ever downloaded an app, looked at a billboard, clicked on a website banner, or have interacted at all with an advertisement (chances are you have), then you’ve seen work come out of advertising agencies, digital publishers, publications, tech start-ups, or just about any institution that creates work on behalf of a brand or product. Behind all of those experiences is a producer who enables teams, manages budgets, and ensuring the pipeline of creativity and delivery isn’t disturbed. Sometimes an underrated, or simply misunderstood role, most creatives team will tell you how invaluable their producers are and what they have helped them be able to do.
Blue skies above, can't keep our hearts in jail... unfortunately. Locked in with loved ones? Perhaps you're going stir crazy in singledom? Hard not to feel the effects of this pandemic. Human family units stuck inside with their other loved ones, their progeny, ready to tear their skin off just to get a few moments alone, outside of washing hands ever 20 minutes.
It's Friday night and the grocery store is abuzz. Couples bickering with each other on what to eat, Grandma looking at the Heinz ketchup label trying to decide what's the best ounce option to price ratio, lonely bachelors wandering the isles wondering why they came down that particular isle in the first place, and me, deciding what cereal to pick up...
About three years ago I’m blasting 70’s classic rock in the studio, Chicago’s classic Saturday in the Park to be exact, and we're styling the last bits before shooting some fashion line, and my 30 some year old stylist says to me snidely, “You play all the music my Dad likes. It’s like I’m in his Volvo. You know, Dad Rock.” Ahem, Yacht Rock.
I'm 15 years old and marveling at the broguing on my new wingtips. As instructed, I went outside to scuff up the leather souls as to add traction and not fall on my face later that evening. As a young doubler in my teens, I was headed off to some sort of jazz gig. As I walked back stage with bass clarinet and bari sax in hand, I couldn't help but love the sound of the click of the wooden heel and the stage floor. Click clack, click clack.