Month: February, 2011

line by line

Line by Line is a NYTimes 12-week essay series on learning the basics of drawing, presented by James McMullan. I just started reading it today. As someone who has gotten used to creating things straight on the computer, this is a refreshing read. Lately, I’ve been too caught up by technology, thinking about picking up a pencil to draw, but bypassing it – this is a sign that I need to get out of my rut and get to work on some eye hand coordination!

complexity graphics

complexity is sexy

happy f&b fruit gift wrap

Happy F&B made me smile with their orange, banana and watermelon wrapping paper. Love the detail of they put into the autheticity…the light green not yet ripe coloring to the brown banana spots, the interior colors.

via papercrave

ryuji nakamura’s paper

Paper poetry

the scent of life by laura bramon good

her writing is exquisite and when i don’t know where else to turn, her words manage to speak to a part of my soul grasping for air

The Scent of Life
Monday December 13, 2010

By Laura Bramon Good

Two autumns ago, the autumn I would have given birth, I went to London and spent days wandering, working my sadness to sweat in the chilly gray rain. On my first aimless morning I walked from Notting Hill to Hyde Park and on to Brompton Oratory, in whose dark turrets candle smoke hung like clouds and at whose Sacred Heart altar I found a novena leaflet that read like a chain letter.

I considered the leaflet’s bald promise that in fourteen days of novenas and leaflet-ing, my dreams would come true. I pocketed it, knelt at the dim Mary Magdalene altar, and wrote my child’s name in the register of prayers.

Then I continued down the cobblestones and sidewalk to Harrod’s, where I walked straight to the parfumerie. I had just turned thirty. I was a woman. I needed a scent to follow me.

The Chanel counter struck me as a good place to start, but that first day I leaned awkwardly into its gold and glass buffet. I had never purchased a perfume before.

No. 19 was the scent I wanted first—grassy, rainy, like the damp greens I had crossed.

No. 5 fascinated me: it was very bodily, and years later, walking the streets of Vienna, I would pass the sweaty, doe-eyed horses of a hansom cab and recognize in the musk of their bodies and the tannins of their bridles some memory of that rich perfume.

But both scents were so foreign to the floral and vanilla fragrances that had always stood, in my mind, as feminine perfumes. A patient saleswoman noticed my worry and suggested that I spritz No. 19 on my neck, walk the city for a day, and see how it wore on my skin. If I liked it, I could come back and buy a bottle—and if I didn’t, I could try Coco or No. 5.

I took her up on the offer and returned every morning that week, wending my way back through Hyde Park and the dim Oratory to the bright Chanel counter. Each time, I decanted and mulled over all the perfumes and their beautiful bottles, and then I chose the one I would wear that day. Some perfumes pooled at my skin, sweet and rare but glassy, inert. Others clung awkwardly, catching and tugging at my own scent like the stitches of an unraveling scarf.

I couldn’t tell you which notes spoiled on my skin—neroli, mayrose, muguet. I knew and still know almost nothing about the essences and elixirs that compose modern perfumes. But I knew that while walking the fog and chill of that city, the grapefruit-tinged citron of Chance Eau Fraiche caramelized on my skin and made my body smell as if it had bloomed of its own accord.

That was what I longed for: to bloom, magically, despite death and fear and the shame of being a grave. Perhaps it was unwise of me to spend so much money on a small bottle of the leaf-green perfume, but I did it. And I did not regret it.

I still don’t regret it, especially in this new season of grief. A good friend recently asked me how I was making it through, and without a moment’s thought I said: “Chanel, lingerie, and anti-depressants.” “A formidable trifecta,” he said, and we both laughed, but not because it wasn’t true. Every day I have to do the frivolous work of reminding myself I am a body. If I don’t, I won’t make it through alive.

In the mornings I spray a cloud of the leaf-green perfume in the sunlight of my room and I walk through it slowly. The scent falls on my skin and hair, lingers for a bit, and then rises again, changed with my heat, and I know I still living, still breathing, still hazy and pink and alive with the maze of my own warm blood.

 

2 illustrators: hancock & tamaki

James Gulliver Hancock

this is the nicest chinatown representation i’ve seen thus far, from his All the Buildings in New York project:

Jillian Tamaki

suse und hans

i love this Swiss book cover

found on flickr

paper engineering : easy listening

adorable and free diy!

pop-up books for typographers

via Core77

thanks Juan!

l<3ve is funny

thanks Du!

ten answers.

10 answers from Louise Fili, one of my all-time favorite designers.

nyra lang’s tumblr

so pretttty

thanks Connie!

see thru screen

I want this:

via yankodesign

ladder to the clouds

whimsical ideas keep me going through the wintry slog

a former affair

thought i would give a former flame a shout out.

i like Art Project (thx Ang) and their ode to Jules Verne:

%d bloggers like this: