Kaitlyn

Kaitlyn. We met in the first class of college. Communications 101 with Karen Cristiano. 11 years ago. A few weeks later I complimented you on your music taste. A few years later, as we were about to graduate, you invited me to go shoot photos around Philly. Then that spring we drove out of town to an abandoned school where they sent girls who “misbehaved.” That place was so scary. Then we graduated, I moved to Alaska, you stayed in Philly, then grad school in DC. Then one day in 2020, weeks after being stuck in Baltimore during the pandemic, you reached out. We were both in dark places. We Facetimed and realized we were living 40 miles apart. We decided to hike together. Then another one. And another. Finally, someone other than my parents to hang out with during those uncertain times. I usually brought the snacks, you’d bring the joints, and we’d explore the DMV area. Whether it was sharing our stories, or shouting “SNACK TIME” out onto the Potomac River, those days were very special to me, as it felt like the world wasn’t falling apart. Later that summer you came up to Alaska and you got to experience everything that words would fall short explaining. Hiking, cooking, macarons, free salads, a deep trip, camping, you sleeping in the back of a pick up truck, art nights, and good company. Many cherished moments. Happy Birthday, Kaitlyn.

Chris

Chris. Our friendship began with photography and excuses to get outside— a thread that continues on today. In the summer of 2019 we hiked 100 miles together in 6 weeks. We stayed in tents together and picked up each other’s rolls at Keller’s. We ate pho, thai, and hot pot with Tiff, and hung out with Bessie and Winston. I watched you follow a deep resonance that was pulling you from the path that you were on. You heeded the call. You send me poetry. You’re a wonderful writer. You’re open to change, to growth, something I admire you for. You’ve always told it to me like it is. Honesty that seems hard to find. That second photo, you probably don’t even remember that day. But I do. You helped me work a lot of shit out. Thank you. Happy 30th Birthday, Chris. I’m grateful for you.

already loved

today

I woke up i forgot that i was already loved. 

I went to work and suffered with me- ness

I started every thought with “I”

I shopped for food and felt separate

when I got home I took a walk to the coast.

focusing my attention on the icy path

until I found my balance.

on the way home, I saw a shooting star.

In the middle of Anchorage at 5:23PM

How many others saw it too?

At home I rested

and then I cooked myself a loving meal,

fresh vegetables. 

I cleaned my kitchen.

and then sliced open a pomegranate. 

then I remembered, so I sat down to write this.

just making it up

I would like to cultivate a charisma of uncertainty, a charisma of admitting that you’re making it up as you go along. I remember this funny thing. One day when we were working on the Passengers album with U2 in Dublin, Pavarotti came into the studio because he was singing on one of those tracks. We’re in the main room saying, Should we put the chorus here, no, let’s double that section, da da da. Pavarotti’s standing in the control room watching what we’re doing. Then he says, “You are making it up!” I think it was the first time he realized that, at some point, music is made up!

Brian Eno

A Different Story [August, 2019]

A Different Story.

Last November, I found myself in search of a new art endeavor. Photography had been my form of expression for the past dozen years, but it just wasn’t pulling me in anymore. I had heard of altered books before, as “a found or re-purposed book that is transformed into a work of art to express a healing journey. Pages are painted, torn or collaged to explore new meanings and ideas. The artist can interact with the words or illustrations on the printed page, or create totally new ones.” 

I loved the idea of a continuous project that was more about the process than the product. I came across Pat Conroy’s Beach Music at a used book sale. I had never heard of it but it fit my criteria: thick enough to keep me busy for a while. As I made my way through the book, I was able to avoid the paralysis of perfection that had often stopped me from creating visual art. I simply put down whatever came to mind and moved on to the next page. Some pages took hours, others took minutes. 

As I continued through Beach Music, I started to loosely follow along with the narrative. I realized how closely the details in the story matched those of my life. The story is about the aftermath of a man losing his wife, Shyla, to suicide and his decision to travel to foreign land to start anew. Two years ago, I lost one of my moms, Tyla, to suicide, and I set off to Alaska in hopes of doing the same.

I never thought a book I randomly pulled off a shelf would hit so close to home. I started to see pieces of my life in other stories, books, and poems that I read. Words hidden in the pages that often explained my thoughts and feelings better than my conscious self ever could. It lead to me feel much less alone in the world. Although we may have different stories, there is a thread that connects each of us, even if it’s buried from plain sight.

Jesse Rosenstein is an artist/photographer/filmmaker from Baltimore, MD who moved to Alaska in 2017. More work can be found at www.jesserosenstein.com

The artist didn’t have time to make it pretty

I get how what you’re saying [about surrendering to a world with certain values and attributes] makes sense for a novel like “1984,” but how does it make sense for art forms like nonnarrative music, which you make, or abstract paintings?

That’s the most interesting question you could have asked. I’m absolutely fascinated by this question, because I think I have an answer, and I don’t think it has ever been well answered. What happens when you go look at a painting you’ve never seen before? What I think happens is that when you look at that picture, you’re seeing it in the context of all the other pictures you’ve ever seen. When you go and look at something new, what you’re saying is, “What’s different about this experience?” In many instances, there won’t be anything different, in which case you’re not that interested. But if you can look at it and say, “That’s more angular. That’s fuzzier. That’s much more this, much more that” — we’re very good at understanding differences in feeling within our own long narrative of looking at pieces of work. But what does it mean, for example, when a picture is scratchier than another? You read that as, This is urgent. The artist didn’t have time to make it pretty. We read messages that don’t have a text quality to them, and we still pick up on the ideas that make them different. Or take Bauhaus. When Bauhaus comes along, it’s saying, “We no longer think of the world as divided into beautiful things and functional things.” That’s a philosophical position about the world. Art, even when it’s nonnarrative, makes those kinds of points all the time.

Brian Eno interview with The New York Times

Building a Resort

For a month I helped build an eco-friendly resort in Puerto Escondido called Barbarenas. We worked mornings from 8 to noon, sorting through piles of rocks, grouting walkways, and plastering the pools with natural mud. By midday, it was in the low 90s and we enjoyed lunch together (rice, beans, and veggies in a tomato base). I worked with my roommates (Niels (pictured), Nada, and Stijn). There was a local artist, originally from Cuba, named Yunior Marino, who was part owner and in charge of the interior design. He’s a phenomenal painter and sculptor. He enjoyed sitting in the shade and smoking cigarettes. My other coworkers were locals who worked extremely hard for very little money (although a decent local wage). On the walk home down the hill and towards the ocean, I’d enjoy a paleta. The rest of the afternoon was mine to play volleyball, surf, and swim.