I just returned from a fast trip to New Orleans with friends, which acted as a gateway into my last two months on the Central Coast. I’ve now entered into a period which can only be described as “EXTREME GO-TIME” as well as: “Wait.”
My lease on both my studio and storefront is up on Dec. 31st, so these next few weeks will be a storm of:
- Creating as much as possible in my beloved workspace
- Packing, selling, donating
- Attending a wedding in Big Sur
- Finishing film projects
- Eating cans of room temp kidney beans bc I forgot how to cook
- Hopefully getting some dye baths in, but I honestly don’t know
- Connecting as much as possible through my - still open! - gallery
- Reading novels that mysteriously emulate my life????
- Hanging with Shep by the ocean
- Hugging people really hard
- Surfing as much as possible
- Continuing my special interest fascination with YouTube tarot readers
- Daydreaming and stepping my worries away on my cute little stepper machine
— (list incomplete) —
While I was cleaning my already clean kitchen this morning, this photo popped into my mind’s eye:
This is a self portrait that I took a few days before leaving Downeast. It’s a double exposure on polaroid film, taken in my last studio in Maine. Sometimes when I look back on this photo, it feels like a nod from past to my present. It’s like she’s saying, “Even though I have the least amount of information, I drove this bus exactly to where you are now.”
Other times I look at this photo and I remember the feeling in the room. I see the heater behind me and remember that it was broken. I remember that I was burnt out. I remember that there were rats in the walls sometimes and that I was pretty sure the upstairs neighbors were [trigger warning] probably dealing m*th*mph*tim*ne.
But they were nice enough (the rats and the neighbors) and we kept to ourselves. I almost liked that they were there because back then, life didn't feel like life unless the conditions were less than ideal. I wanted it to be hard and so it was. Maybe some of you remember a period like that from your own life.
And no matter who was upstairs, I created so much magic and enchantment in that room.
#littledidiknow that in just several months time, one of the great loves of my life would give me the gift of surfing, and a small town in California would give me the gift of chilling the f*ck out. Soon, I would step into a new home, a new community, that would welcome me, cheer me on, and nurture me as I learned how to nurture myself.
When I left Maine, it was the middle of January 2020 and I just wanted to be alone. I had hauled water, lived in tents and cabins, gotten my Internet from the library parking lot, ridden motorcycles over ice, split cords of wood, fed countless fires, bathed outside in winter, skated miles of the Narraguagus River, sat in the snow for hours, and stared at layers and layers of stars every night.
At the time, it felt like I had done everything yet nothing at the same time.
I had no plans for where I wanted to go, I just knew that I needed to leave where I was at — partly because I loved it so much and partly because it felt like a trap.
Back then, in Nov. 2019, I was in the same transitional, hurry-up-and-pause period that I’m in right now. But the difference is… now I know it.
A fellow East Coast to West Coast friend asked me recently, how do you think you’ve changed since moving out here? My answer: I’ve softened.
The version of me in the Polaroid would have seen softness as a threat. Back then, I did not want to be soft, vulnerable, or “weak” in any way. I left Maine with a weathered chip on my shoulder and I was happy to feed it and make it the center of my personality, whether known or unknown to the world outside.
But what I noticed as I eased into life on the Central Coast, is that everyone is a character here. In order to fit in, you have to be the fullest extent of yourself. There’s no other path. Be yourself, and, side note: please have a good time. Please focus first and foremost on the positive, and then we’ll deal with everything else.
For instance, when you get out of the water in California, and a stranger asks you: how was it? Your answer should always be some variation of: It was fun.
No matter what: It was fun.
Even if the onshore winds arrived just as you were paddling out, or you underestimated the sets and spent the entire time swimming, or some unknown kayaker/foiler/paddleboarder/CalPoly jock made you fear for your life in some way… it was always, at least a little bit, fun.
And this is coming from someone who has suffered two facial injuries from surfing.
Living on the Central Coast has taught me that bliss is key, bliss is the goal. You’re here to play, so why give power to anything else?
Most of my mornings here have begun with play and it has undoubtedly seeped into my work. I’ve woken up. I’ve stood on my coffee table to get a general idea of the ocean. I’ve walked Shep in my bare feet and PJs. I’ve said good morning to Patrick and his PBR tallboy and his amazing laugh. I’ve gone to the ocean and I’ve let her toss me around. And then I’ve gone to my studio and created whatever came to my mind while I was having that experience.
What has resulted from this ritual of play is a colorful, joyful, unpredictable body of work, with a sense of humor nestled against a sense of perseverance.
A character in the novel I’m reading (Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin) claims that play is the most intimate act you could ever engage in with someone because it requires so much vulnerability. It can’t exist if our guards are up. In order to play, both parties have to feel safe and soft-hearted. No exceptions.
California, surfing, love, friendship… it all invited me to play under perfect conditions five years ago. I didn’t always rise to the occasion, but when I did choose to open my heart, my work and my spirit became what they were always meant to be.
This isn’t a comparison piece. I’m not trying to say that the West Coast is more playful than the East, and thank god I moved away from there and came here. Anyone who knows me knows that my Maine roots radiate off of my soul. Every room I walk into, Maine walks in too. I love my roots and one day I'll write more about them.
And in all honesty, I don’t think the location matters. I was meant to feel what I felt when and wherever I felt it. This time, I happened to find myself in CA, but on another timeline, I just spent half a decade taming wild horses in Wyoming.
On another, I never left my Downeast studio. And life either got better or worse.
Right now, I’m just feeling thankful for the nature and community that I found on the Central Coast because they broke down walls for me in a way that only a completely unknown environment can. I arrived here as a rock, proud of my ability to be stoic and cold, but I’ll exit as a soft, fluid water droplet, proud of my ability to play.
My 90-Day Collection was just updated online. You can shop on the website or come into the Cayucos gallery. We’re still open Wed-Sunday, 10-5 until Dec. 26th!
