Hi friends. I got the yellow Schwinn bicycle with a basket from my friend Elizabeth in 2006, when she was leaving town, moving West, and wanted to get rid of all her shit immediately. She was clearing out an apartment on the Upper West Side and I met her in a park there, gave her fifty bucks, and rode it all the way back to Brooklyn, where I collapsed immediately. (I was still a smoker then.)
Man, I really needed to read this today. Because of the pandemic I've lived in four different places this past year, none of them permanent. I am still in transit. Most of the things I own are scattered in boxes around the country. I miss my things and then I feel guilty for missing them, because I am a person who likes to beat themselves up for no good reason. Today's Craft Talk helped me realize that what I am actually missing is my life, and the things in the scattered boxes are dear to me because they help me to remember it. Thank you.
I also have a bike that means a lot to me. It belonged to my study-abroad university’s bike hire scheme and I bought it from them when I arrived in town and needed a bike to get around on (they had just bought a new set of bikes and were selling the previous year’s). It’s a heavy steel German city bike, with swept back handlebars and a luggage rack and Dynamo lights, very unlike the standard British market bikes which are marketed for sport and leisure rather than transport and utility. One day it will inevitably get stolen and I’m pre-sad about that.
When I ride it I am a different person - I take up space in traffic, I power up small hills (and inch up big ones!), I shout at drivers who try to kill me! I feel linked to the history of suffragettes in the U.K. for whom bicycles were not just a symbol of freedom but a tool for achieving it.
Same here, I really needed this today. It made me teary and nostalgic for some of my old bicycles in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. I had to leave one behind in Germany when I moved. My then-partner brought over the parts and built it there when he visited. I've since moved on from that bicycle and that person but the memory of who I was and what I was going through at the time remains. The bicycle is so much more than an object. It represents mobility and freedom. I really appreciated this Craft Talk. Thanks Jami for this lovely reflection!
After spending most of my adulthood fitting my life into smaller and smaller boxes, I've let go of most of my books and converted to digital hoarding. One exception is a hardcover copy of Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore. It was recommended to me by a comedy teacher. I bought it used from the Philosophical Research Society in Los Angeles. It came with extras inside: a 1994 book review from the LA Times, an article from Yoga Journal, and a postcard with an image of a fishing dock in Port Orford, Oregon. I keep it because it was loved in a weird and special way. It's someone's legacy. Having it next to my bed puts whatever nonsense I'm reading on my smartphone in a more long-term perspective.
I owned a sweet, red racer bike in Manila. Didn't have a brand because it was built using parts from other bikes, painted nail polish red and sold as a refurbished bike. I rode it with my friends on 50-kilometer rides in the busy city and in the nearby countryside. Cycling for pleasure wasn't a thing in Manila then. And when people saw us ladies in our jerseys and bike shorts they thought we were athletes. Some pigs saw us as meat and one of them actually attempted to spank my but as he rode in a jeepney. My friend was cycling behind me and she screamed at him like a wild woman, and he nearly fell off the jeep.
Sadly, my sweet bike was stolen from my apartment one day. I felt the loss hard for a while but let it go. I hoped it was now with someone who needed it more than I did (or at least SOLD to someone who needed it more.) I think about my bike now and then. It's probably still in Manila and getting more mileage since the pandemic. I now feel more fondness than hurt about losing it. Bikes are good to everyone. I hope she gets a new coat of paint every now and then.
Oh wow. Really needed to read this today. I think my yellow bike’s name is Philippe. He’s sexy af, and French of course. But... he’s also just kind of a bike that doesn’t fit anymore. Letting go. Thank you.
So enjoyed this. I recently found, on eBay, an exact replica of a small, metal treasure box I had as a young child. I clicked through the photos of it from various angles and remembered stashing a string of Mardi Gras beads and money in it-- coins I found on the ground, dimes I got from making little newspaper and selling them to neighbors and relatives, a dollar from my grandparents for doing some task-- until I had $6. Six dollars! I showed a new friend, Colleen, who had just moved to the area and who had come over to play. Later, when her mom came to pick her up, Colleen paused at the door and said she forgot something, and ran back to my bedroom. Later, I discovered my money was gone. My mom called her mom and her mom said she searched the girl's room but could't find the money. Not only that, but that Colleen had stolen from other friends at her previous school. But, that was it. The money, and the pride I felt by saving it, was gone, and in its place, a disempowering feeling that nothing was fair, justice didn't exist, and anything could be taken from me.
I, too, feel that clutter eats my creativity, so I debated what to do with the metal box listing. But, finally, I bought it, and it arrived on Tuesday. I unwrapped it and ran my fingers over the embossed designs, remembering every last detail of it. It'll be a jewelry box in this iteration, but I stuck a $20 bill and a handful of loose quarters in the bottom, as if to let my 7yo self know I got her.
I am a visual artist and objects of my creations or inspiration behind those creations clogs my home. and my parent's spare closet.
My paintings and my personal art collection are all over the walls, constantly re-arranged by a roommate who, like you, needs no clutter to feel comfortable. Because I at heart am an abstract painter lol sometimes those pieces get hung upside down.
I have a physical disability so even though I do like to de-clutter I just have so much old junk out of archival necessity. I counted at some point and I have more filled sketchbooks than books written by other people. Since my last inventory I have purchased 4 sketch books and 2 books lol. Digital painting doesnt seem to help because I find myself keeping around old tech that can run old programs!
The physical object's presence is unparalleled when it comes to a wealth of inspirational information to form artwork about. maybe at this point the desire to create physical abundance is part of my art.
I don't have an object. The memory of you riding across the bridge made me so wistful that I rode my bike to work today. I'm so excited for spring and summer more so than most years of my life.
Every time I read one of your newsletters that at all features NOLA it reminds me how much I love that place. I've been three times, and I think I need to go live there for a few months just so I can experience it like a local. I live in Banff National Park, which is in many ways its opposite, or perhaps a different kind of wild. We moved back here the June of Trump's election, and most thought we were trying to escape, but really we needed the quiet, and I wanted to be in what I call a reciprocal relationship with these mountains. One of the objects getting me through the pandemic is a photograph by Graciela Iturbide, one which I bought when my mother died, and I had a bit of cash. That image, Mujer Ángel, Desierto de Sonora, México (Angel Woman, Sonora Desert, Mexico),” 1979, is captivating, complex and a story that keeps evolving as I mature. Thank you for your stories and your work.
No bikes here - I am honestly, afraid to ride one after busting out my front teeth on a bike in elementary school. (I long ago got new teeth.) But the objects? I need them. The Beatles lunchbox? My NBC crew jacket from the 80s? My mom's rings? Everything around me = the voices of those lost to me, & keep me on "nodding terms," as Didion wrote, with the people I used to be.
Thanks, Jami, Your newsletter is an excellent prompt...
It’s green and alive, my object of affection. In 2016 when my husband and I moved into our 1300sq ft condo outside of Boston, I set up my compact writing area— a spot in front of a big window with south-west exposure and expansive view. Nothing special, but it is where I planned to spend my time creating. At Home Depot, I bought a little 12” money tree (arrogant to call itself a tree, but I honored its self-esteem) and put it on the low bookcase next to the printer, snugly cojoined to my desk. (we are short on space) I water it once a week and give it a spa day. In the shower, I let warm water hydrate its graceful leaves. I whisper sweet nothings and ooh-and-ahh over tiny baby shoots. I celebrate its health while I continue my cancer journey and revise my novel. BTW, today my tree has three light-green baby leaves—glorious growth., oh happy day. Now that my tree proudly reaches 30” of lush greenness, I realize it wasn’t arrogant at all. It carried its hopes and dreams of the mighty plant it was meant to be from its humble beginnings.
Life’s small pleasures take on larger meaning today as we plod through the pandemic with its necessary isolation and crippling restrictions. My tree breathes the same air I do and pleases me daily. It will have babies in our quiet companionship, and my creativity will bloom on the page. I am grateful that we will grow together as my novel takes on a new life.
Man, I really needed to read this today. Because of the pandemic I've lived in four different places this past year, none of them permanent. I am still in transit. Most of the things I own are scattered in boxes around the country. I miss my things and then I feel guilty for missing them, because I am a person who likes to beat themselves up for no good reason. Today's Craft Talk helped me realize that what I am actually missing is my life, and the things in the scattered boxes are dear to me because they help me to remember it. Thank you.
I also have a bike that means a lot to me. It belonged to my study-abroad university’s bike hire scheme and I bought it from them when I arrived in town and needed a bike to get around on (they had just bought a new set of bikes and were selling the previous year’s). It’s a heavy steel German city bike, with swept back handlebars and a luggage rack and Dynamo lights, very unlike the standard British market bikes which are marketed for sport and leisure rather than transport and utility. One day it will inevitably get stolen and I’m pre-sad about that.
When I ride it I am a different person - I take up space in traffic, I power up small hills (and inch up big ones!), I shout at drivers who try to kill me! I feel linked to the history of suffragettes in the U.K. for whom bicycles were not just a symbol of freedom but a tool for achieving it.
Same here, I really needed this today. It made me teary and nostalgic for some of my old bicycles in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. I had to leave one behind in Germany when I moved. My then-partner brought over the parts and built it there when he visited. I've since moved on from that bicycle and that person but the memory of who I was and what I was going through at the time remains. The bicycle is so much more than an object. It represents mobility and freedom. I really appreciated this Craft Talk. Thanks Jami for this lovely reflection!
After spending most of my adulthood fitting my life into smaller and smaller boxes, I've let go of most of my books and converted to digital hoarding. One exception is a hardcover copy of Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore. It was recommended to me by a comedy teacher. I bought it used from the Philosophical Research Society in Los Angeles. It came with extras inside: a 1994 book review from the LA Times, an article from Yoga Journal, and a postcard with an image of a fishing dock in Port Orford, Oregon. I keep it because it was loved in a weird and special way. It's someone's legacy. Having it next to my bed puts whatever nonsense I'm reading on my smartphone in a more long-term perspective.
I owned a sweet, red racer bike in Manila. Didn't have a brand because it was built using parts from other bikes, painted nail polish red and sold as a refurbished bike. I rode it with my friends on 50-kilometer rides in the busy city and in the nearby countryside. Cycling for pleasure wasn't a thing in Manila then. And when people saw us ladies in our jerseys and bike shorts they thought we were athletes. Some pigs saw us as meat and one of them actually attempted to spank my but as he rode in a jeepney. My friend was cycling behind me and she screamed at him like a wild woman, and he nearly fell off the jeep.
Sadly, my sweet bike was stolen from my apartment one day. I felt the loss hard for a while but let it go. I hoped it was now with someone who needed it more than I did (or at least SOLD to someone who needed it more.) I think about my bike now and then. It's probably still in Manila and getting more mileage since the pandemic. I now feel more fondness than hurt about losing it. Bikes are good to everyone. I hope she gets a new coat of paint every now and then.
Oh wow. Really needed to read this today. I think my yellow bike’s name is Philippe. He’s sexy af, and French of course. But... he’s also just kind of a bike that doesn’t fit anymore. Letting go. Thank you.
So enjoyed this. I recently found, on eBay, an exact replica of a small, metal treasure box I had as a young child. I clicked through the photos of it from various angles and remembered stashing a string of Mardi Gras beads and money in it-- coins I found on the ground, dimes I got from making little newspaper and selling them to neighbors and relatives, a dollar from my grandparents for doing some task-- until I had $6. Six dollars! I showed a new friend, Colleen, who had just moved to the area and who had come over to play. Later, when her mom came to pick her up, Colleen paused at the door and said she forgot something, and ran back to my bedroom. Later, I discovered my money was gone. My mom called her mom and her mom said she searched the girl's room but could't find the money. Not only that, but that Colleen had stolen from other friends at her previous school. But, that was it. The money, and the pride I felt by saving it, was gone, and in its place, a disempowering feeling that nothing was fair, justice didn't exist, and anything could be taken from me.
I, too, feel that clutter eats my creativity, so I debated what to do with the metal box listing. But, finally, I bought it, and it arrived on Tuesday. I unwrapped it and ran my fingers over the embossed designs, remembering every last detail of it. It'll be a jewelry box in this iteration, but I stuck a $20 bill and a handful of loose quarters in the bottom, as if to let my 7yo self know I got her.
💛 happy yellow bike has a new life. You, too.
I am a visual artist and objects of my creations or inspiration behind those creations clogs my home. and my parent's spare closet.
My paintings and my personal art collection are all over the walls, constantly re-arranged by a roommate who, like you, needs no clutter to feel comfortable. Because I at heart am an abstract painter lol sometimes those pieces get hung upside down.
I have a physical disability so even though I do like to de-clutter I just have so much old junk out of archival necessity. I counted at some point and I have more filled sketchbooks than books written by other people. Since my last inventory I have purchased 4 sketch books and 2 books lol. Digital painting doesnt seem to help because I find myself keeping around old tech that can run old programs!
The physical object's presence is unparalleled when it comes to a wealth of inspirational information to form artwork about. maybe at this point the desire to create physical abundance is part of my art.
I don't have an object. The memory of you riding across the bridge made me so wistful that I rode my bike to work today. I'm so excited for spring and summer more so than most years of my life.
Every time I read one of your newsletters that at all features NOLA it reminds me how much I love that place. I've been three times, and I think I need to go live there for a few months just so I can experience it like a local. I live in Banff National Park, which is in many ways its opposite, or perhaps a different kind of wild. We moved back here the June of Trump's election, and most thought we were trying to escape, but really we needed the quiet, and I wanted to be in what I call a reciprocal relationship with these mountains. One of the objects getting me through the pandemic is a photograph by Graciela Iturbide, one which I bought when my mother died, and I had a bit of cash. That image, Mujer Ángel, Desierto de Sonora, México (Angel Woman, Sonora Desert, Mexico),” 1979, is captivating, complex and a story that keeps evolving as I mature. Thank you for your stories and your work.
No bikes here - I am honestly, afraid to ride one after busting out my front teeth on a bike in elementary school. (I long ago got new teeth.) But the objects? I need them. The Beatles lunchbox? My NBC crew jacket from the 80s? My mom's rings? Everything around me = the voices of those lost to me, & keep me on "nodding terms," as Didion wrote, with the people I used to be.
Thanks, Jami, Your newsletter is an excellent prompt...
It’s green and alive, my object of affection. In 2016 when my husband and I moved into our 1300sq ft condo outside of Boston, I set up my compact writing area— a spot in front of a big window with south-west exposure and expansive view. Nothing special, but it is where I planned to spend my time creating. At Home Depot, I bought a little 12” money tree (arrogant to call itself a tree, but I honored its self-esteem) and put it on the low bookcase next to the printer, snugly cojoined to my desk. (we are short on space) I water it once a week and give it a spa day. In the shower, I let warm water hydrate its graceful leaves. I whisper sweet nothings and ooh-and-ahh over tiny baby shoots. I celebrate its health while I continue my cancer journey and revise my novel. BTW, today my tree has three light-green baby leaves—glorious growth., oh happy day. Now that my tree proudly reaches 30” of lush greenness, I realize it wasn’t arrogant at all. It carried its hopes and dreams of the mighty plant it was meant to be from its humble beginnings.
Life’s small pleasures take on larger meaning today as we plod through the pandemic with its necessary isolation and crippling restrictions. My tree breathes the same air I do and pleases me daily. It will have babies in our quiet companionship, and my creativity will bloom on the page. I am grateful that we will grow together as my novel takes on a new life.