Change of Plans

April 10, 2014

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Its interesting to see what happens when you lay your plans out in the sun to dry. I have been working on clothing for 8 year olds for the last five months and felt very secure in the decision to make expensive avant garde subtly beautiful parent-selected garments for this age bracket. A couple of days ago I asked, via social media, for an 8 year old fit model. The second I sent this request I knew I was mistaken. I was fundamentally off. 8 year olds go to school. They are big. They are opinionated. They dress their own damn selves. And what they choose to wear is not generally what I am making. The fit, the feel, the mobility, the softness… yeah sure, that’s cool. But those elements are quickly losing ground to aesthetic concerns. 8 year olds are already a little bit adult. They are already exchanging comfort for cool. Just like the rest of us big people. They want bright colors and trendy graphics. I get it. I would too. I would rock all the fresh angles. I would look down my nose at my out of step parents. I would not want to wear some watery colored matching set with sophisticated proportions and nuanced prints. I’m not in a Norweigen conference retreat for the gifted! I am a 2nd grader at B-40 elementary and I want to wear bright purple!
Whoa. You get the point. And if you haven’t, because I was yelling, the point is I should make clothing for a younger, less empowered age. Kidding. Kinda. I should make clothing for an age that still puts on whatever their parents hand them and rejoices in the fit, the feel, the mobility and the softness in their last years before growing up. I’m thinking 3-6 year olds.
6 year old fit model needed!

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Looking For A Model

April 7, 2014

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I have embarked on a new adventure designing a children’s line. I love how fucking small the mock-ups are. They take up so little space on my table. They hang on the wall on tiny hangers. They make my studio happy. And me too. 

I would like to begin a relationship with a 8 year old fit model. A girl preferably. Of average size. Living in Portland. 

I can trade her mom some Filly for your time. I can trade her some ______ for her time. I imagine meeting 3 or 4 times at my house (or yours) before this month is over. I will ask her to put on the garment and mostly likely I will fuss and fiddle with it and take her picture. It should take no longer than 1/2 hr. And if she didn’t like the experience, it doesn’t have to happen ever again. And if she does we will all know it and feel good. 

Give me a poke if this sounds like the girl in your household…

 

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(Business meeting, LACMA grass, Roald Dahl adult short stories and an apple)

That title has been my motto for 2014. And I would say I am working harder than I have ever worked in my life. But not in the classic up before dawn, head down go go go, fall into bed in the wee hours, asleep before my head hits the pillow. I know that version of myself. I love that version of myself. That’s working god dammit! And if there’s one thing I learned growing up a Christensen is that work itself is what counts. The effort, the hours, the sacrifices, the ethic. What matters is that you labor. What matters is that you don’t spend your day doing nothing. Doing nothing is akin to elder abuse or hurting an animal. It’s repulsive.

My other motto for 2014 is Let It Be Easy. Despite its title this one is far harder. It’s harder to try for, to want, to prioritize. Because it’s about letting the life that is yours come to you. The “work” is allowing. And it directly relates to the sentiment expressed above although they seem at odds.

If work is what I value than the harder I work at something, the more valuable it is. Then how do I value holding still? How do I value allowing my heart to reach out to another’s? Or better yet, staying receptive when I feel his love coming toward me? How do I value laying in bed so my body can grow new bone? What about the hours at the acupuncturist, chiropractor, massage therapist, yoga, swimming and walking? How do I value my new business venture if my role is simple and doesn’t take much time? All in all, how do I value witnessing and enjoying the life that comes and goes and washes over me without putting twenty rocks in the water to create the churn?

The churn is not what I want. I want to close my eyes at night after a peaceful day and still feel productive. The business, the man, the friends, the feelings that are with me right now came as easily as if I was born with them. This is what destiny looks like. One doesn’t struggle and fight and cry and sweat and force destiny. The work is knowing it when you see it.

I am working harder than I ever have in my life. I’m floating down a calm river with the blue sky above. I am allowing myself this. I am seeing the value in this. And I am not throwing a rock in my way just to watch the churn. 

 

 

Laying

April 1, 2014

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I have been laying for two weeks. Laying in bed, laying on the floor, laying in front of the fire, laying in the bath, laying draped over a yoga ball. I am injured. How many times have I written that? David suggests it’s because I’m the person that climbs the ladder instead of just noticing it and walking by. I climb the ladder even though it is late on a Sunday night and Coderre and I are about to watch the last episode of House of Cards. I still decide that the best thing to do is experience the new stairs leading to the attic. The stairs arrived that day, replacing a rickety ladder that all but forbade me to check on the attic’s progress. I was taking in this delicious new experience slowly, as one would savor their half of a cookie. This was, afterall, the entryway to my future private penthouse suite. Ooh, this is so nice. I love this. I reach the top step of the stairs and stand there. And the stairs fall away. They simple leave my feet and fall to the floor below. I’ve been asked if time moved slowly and I can say that this moment seemed to stretch. This moment when I stood on air before falling backwards, through the opening, like Kim Novak in Vertigo, arms and legs akimbo searching for anything to slow the descent before landing, on my back, on the ladder. Before I went into shock my brain took stock and said Not Good. 

Not good. She was right. But not terrible either. I suffered a minor concussion and fractured two vertebra. But I am alive! Fuck yes! I have use of all my limbs! Praise be! I am battered and bruised and tangled and crooked but I am still me. It makes me cry just to say that. 

And so I lay here and read the Times and read my books and listen to an audio book. Words fill the gaps when I’m not just thinking about my body and trying to understand what the pain is telling me and how to ease it. I spend hours laying on my stomach tracing my insides, asking questions, listening. Trying to understand what the climb tells me. What the fall tells me. And how I can be content with two feet on the ground. 

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