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issu “PR e No. OV EN 1 ‘pr
e f rom ”
ONE: /photo recipe/ /person place/ /song story/ /insight
mineral de pozos
/from the editor/ I’ve been thinking about how at 23 years old the sight of a horse makes my heart ache, and how at age 7 I saw the world in the belly of the same animal, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, this and the word provenance. It’s been almost eight months on just that one word. “Provenance- to come from.” While it is usually used in terms of works of art, literature- I see it only in the context of life- how our footsteps and the footsteps of our ancestors have in many intangible ways determined our lives. How, to me, there is very little difference between a work of art and a human being. Both have witnessed all of the molding and grooming, and rhythmic sadness, the darkness and the heat, and the slow and steady falling apart. It is the footsteps and the horses and the unraveling, and it is a mountain that was carved out for us before we were born- our provenance and our becoming are one in the same. Every
chosen based on this idea of coming
from. please enjoy the very first, very special,
/PHOTO/ matt forsgren
photograph subjects to share with those who are experiencing this world with me, as well as for those who wonder what the world might have been like before they experienced it.â€?
/ BA K E / lemon-blueberry scones
Thoroughly whisk all dry ingredients
2 1/2 cups flour
together. Add butter and rub into dry
2 tsp baking powder
ingredients until it is crumbly and resembles small peas. In a separate bowl whisk eggs, cream and
1/2 cup sugar 1/2 cup shredded coconut
vanilla until combined and add to flour/
1/3 cup blueberries
butter mixture. Mix with a spatula and then
1/4 lb [COLD] unsalted butter (cubed)
with your hands to form a cohesive mass. Form the mass into an 8”x 2” inch circle and
1/2 cup yogurt or heavy cream
cut into 8 even triangles. Bake at 350ºF for
25-30 minutes until the tops are just golden
2 tsp vanilla extract
brown. Combine glaze ingredients, and drizzle over slightly cooled scones. Enjoy.
lemon glaze: -2.5 cups powdered sugar -1/4 cup milk, more if needed -zest and juice from 1 lemon
/PERSON/ becky & ellie of idle child
We sat down with sister duo Becky Larson and Ellie Niemeyer better known as Minneapolisbased design duo- Idle Child. In just the second year of Idle Childâ€™s life they are prepping to debut the second collection, and these sisters are showing no signs of slowing down. Q: How did you come to the decision to start your own clothing brand? A: We come from a family of do-it-yourselfers. Our dad started his own Carpentry business and our mother her own bread company so it seemed really natural to combine what we love and make something of it... Idle Child! Q: What is the attraction to one of a kind/editorial pieces? A: Who doesnâ€™t want a special garment that no one else has?! Also with Ellie being a photographer she wants garments that inspire a photo shoot...To us it becomes a piece of art, there is a lot of attention made in the details. It is really freeing as designers to create something that is not constrained by cost to mass produce.
Q: Idle Child is a tree, what are three of its roots? A: Risk, whimsy, satisfaction. Q: What’s the most interesting thing about working with your sibling? A: There’s rarely a dull moment, and when there is, we pull out the red lipstick and sunglasses. But really the fact that our different design perspectives work so well together. It’s easy for us to voice our opinions knowing we both have the same goal in mind. Q: If you could choose one person dead or alive to wear a piece of your clothing, who would it be? A: The Olsen twins, and Lana Del Rey.
/ WA N D E R / anversa degli abruzzi, italy
41.98° N, 13.80° E
with a population of 435, seclusion is this hilltop hideaway’s middle name. campari never tasted so good .
aside from being dropped by a chopper,
the only access is a thin, winding road with no guard rail-do not attempt if you have even the slightest fear of heights.
/NOISE/ josh tillman/father john misty
Josh Tillman walked away from the Fleet Foxes and drove alone down the west coast in a car packed with disconnection, uncertainty and magic mushrooms. Somewhere along the way, Tillman found his narrative voice, released the brilliant 2012 debut album “Fear Fun”, and became “Father John Misty”- vocal virtuoso, savior of psychedelic sonnetry and puissant prince of arrogance, condescension and audience-abuser.
listen: “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings”
/ S T O RY / “i came into the world jaundiced” rhea fair crone
I learned about my first year slowly. There was always a crowd’s worth that didn’t
want tell of my troubles revisited. They thought those troubles might reclaim me. That my troubles might be a dormant force loosed only to reckon. One of my mother’s friends, when my mother spoke to her friends of it, threw her voice so far back in her throat she held a growl about her. Her eyes were always widest; and her purse too bright.
I used to know only the physical aspects. I came into the world with a weak, trans-
lucent web between my pinky and ring finger. It was said I’d never be married because you can’t wear rings on webs, everyone knew and said so. There was the web and my loneliness and the jaundice. I was yellow. With blue eyes, too. I couldn’t take in sunlight like the other kids. I’d scream and roll and crawl a few feet and wedge myself up in the cupboards when I could. It was dark in there and my blue eyes could take it in. Moreover my hair used to grow too slow and my feet seemed awfully small.
I don’t know how they ever took care of me. Just the two of them and the boy who we
will not discuss further since he is grown and doing fine. Way up in Pennsylvania is where they two started. They only wound up down here because of that job that got Pa thrown back up to Pennsylvania, anyway. Pa called it exile. The courts didn’t know what to call it, though they had ordered it. Mother called it failure, quietly, frequently, when she thought my young yellow self was too far out through the main yard, or else too deep in the cupboards to hear. “Failure.”
She spent her days making beautiful things. They were small, and complete as they
were. She arranged ornaments on the kitchen table until she felt she could leave the room. She wove linen around the screen in the door that led to the backyard. The grass and the shed were framed in beige made dark with stains from the damp. She didn’t take into account the seasons when she wove it up there, is all. It was through this screen that I heard most of what I know now and told, then, to my father on the telephone. How the rain was to come on Tuesdays for a straight month and how that must be a sign, for the women all knew it was a sign and I’d have to stay healthy this time; how the ornaments had disbanded and rallied against
my mother; how my skin looked better, how it used to look dead.
When I didn’t want to hear and I didn’t want to speak, I found my way into small
spots. I became acclimated to them. After a while, a year or so, no one could make me move from them, out of them. I loved them. I moved through them. Three of them under the sink all connected and led through each other. I worked my way throughout them. I worked a slow path out to the closets after a month. I sat in window sills and closed my eyes at the lawn which was too expansive.
“Don’t let them tell you that you started out that way, kid,” he’d say through the phone
when I would cry about how they said my skin was. “You looked fine, not dead. Brighter than us around you in the room where you came in. Not like the others, that’s all. You were yellow. Like that dandelion I rubbed on my knuckles before I came back up here. I showed you how it washed off and I was fine again, just like you. Where did I tell you to keep that flower? Remember the places? What place did you pick?” My fingers spread out fine and my hair grew and my feet got long and thin, but the skin, the memory of it in their looks and talk, talk always about the worry of it, it made me so sorry I hid. “In the cupboard, Pa. I have it in the cupboard.”
I found for myself a network between cupboards and closets that I kept to, that I cir-
cuited, for three and a half years. I collected weeds and dandelions when I could and tucked them between the plates that we used at Christmas and the plates that we used at Easter. At the end of three and a half years the talking had not ceased and my mother had not ceased her arrangements of ornaments on tables and my mother’s friends seemed to never have left at all. Not even for a day. My father still was not home. Not even for a night. I drove myself into the quiet, the cupboards, that is, and the closets at such a pace and for such a time that the quiet became what I found and knew of every space in the house.
I didn’t breathe when I ran from cupboard to hall to closet like I didn’t breathe when
I ran back, and I never shut a single door. A slam, a too hard too deep breath, would have caused (it had caused before) Ma’s ornamentations to falter, collapsing and dragging her down with them, in pieces right there across the table and the floor space by the oven. Pieces. I could not hear her again speak, scream the issue of her ornaments scattering, going uncollected for afternoons, evenings at a time. It was a tight love in the throat; a broad, consistent heat in the chest that made me run as light as I did, and speak so little as I was known to, then.
My hurling out and under, quick, detached, was not transcendence; it was not es-
cape, or easy, or loose. That’s easy enough to tell. What is more important is the abstraction of it, how it was an act above all of gathering form. My own form. I gathered an image of myself not unlike a cowboy, dying of heat and dark in the desert; not unlike the lone ranger whom my father loved. I saw myself like the lone ranger who could live in these places because he was mysterious, eternal. I knew he was eternal and I knew how—he would survive because he hid, too.
“You would feel it” Pa’d say. “You’ll know if your organs are collapsing.” I talked
to him, still. Every week. After a while he began to cut me off. My thoughts would trail and circle back to the spot somewhere beneath my right rib, the slow meat, poor tissue that had failed as filter early and I always feared would lapse leaving me colored over too bright, yellow in the dark of cherry wood and red and green dishes. Cowboys don’t get caught. They don’t surrender and they never get seen when they don’t want to be seen. I could not be yellow. I could not be known to be there, in the crawlspace beneath the kitchen sink and cutting counters. “What about those damn circuits, kid, do you think is gonna help out? What about trails? Naw. You should’ve lived in trenches like I did. That’s what it is to cut a grain out and keep going in it.”
He told me I’d lose my head, down there. That if I kept going on about it he’d
tell me about his friend Steve who came home from the trenches and blew up a cat and choked a rabbit that he found in the woods off Germantown Road in northern Maryland (I know about Steve because I kept going on about my closets and the dishes and how I wasn’t yellow yet so I was safe). After a year Steve was gone. Gone in the way a trench can take you. No one saw him again.
Pa often had the worry tones like Ma and the women did. His were only slightly
different. His kicked in strongest when he tried not to tell me about things, things like Steve who was not a person but a figment and memory and sad. The tones wound down, though. I don’t remember how long it took. They wound down and were depleted. Then I didn’t hear his voice at all. There was the divorce, and there was the hospital, and there was the first night that nobody could find me. Not even the women, not even almost.
Ma eventually stopped looking for me. There had been a stretch of interest in my
whereabouts, where I walked off to in one of two directions from each room, where I took my food, where I came from in the morning. She never did ask me, only tracked and
stared. She tried to anticipate where I’d wind up once and stood in the hallway closet for 25 minutes. It was too hot in there, though, and she had to get out. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that coat closets were some place I would never be. Never. There’s an air in them that’s too alien, too far removed from the majority of seasons. Nobody could ever use all the coats in that closet. Not on our street, not in the small and crooked air stream that worked that valley. It never got worse than 20 degrees, anyone could have told her that, and that’s besides all the should’ve known on her part. She hadn’t lived there any less time than I had and I knew. But there she went into the coat closet in the middle of summer, thinking she’d find me at the end of some circuit or else somewhere mid-path. I never did tell her the difference between coat closets and cabinets or between coat closets and the space beneath couches, long couches and short couches, short couches and wooden chairs. If she didn’t know all that going in (like she still did not know upon going out after 25 minutes of suffering, sweltering, staying quieter in there than I think I ever did) no one could have explained it to her. Certainly not I who had been behind the plant in the foyer the entire time.
I think of those years, still, though I am never asked of them and thus never speak of
them. The skirting and the quiet and my perfect health in the dark of dishes. It was a pent up span. It was an original dream. To disappear and gain a form, to lose old Ma and keep perfect track of her, to lose poor dead Pa via the telephone first and think all the while of nothing but Steve. To hear nothing but the women and the swelling of chatter and the rock and tilt of worry within it, buoyant, shrill, and find a coolness and quiet behind their purses which each hung too low on the sagging wooden coat rack near the screen door with the frame stained and sorry, darkened with damp.
I never turned yellow again, though the webs came back and my hair fell out. I have
three loose teeth, which is better than having the small wide feet that I did. I have a doctor who tells me I should have had treatments several times over and that I should have had them all early on. I tell him I cannot remember any treatments when he brings it up. I tell him that nothing like that had been advised. Then we speak of my fear of small spaces and I shake my head a great deal and he writes down his ideas for my next medication on the slip of paper I take to the pharmacy. The medications he tells me to use, the medications he writes down with a confused look on his face, have nothing to do with my hair, since there is nothing he can do except for buy me a wig (and that is not his place as my doctor, he has said); they have nothing to do with my webbed up fingers, since there is nothing to be done besides a brand new surgery
(which he cannot perform, being just a physician). My teeth will be loose until I go to the dentist which I cannot do because the waiting room is too small and I imagine there, like I imagine in all small spaces, that I have finally been caught.
It is too much to ask at this late juncture to have me go into such an office, really,
and lose all that work. To lose track of where I started; ask me to be caught in a waiting room and have to explain it all from the dark, dark, quiet beginnings, will you. Why, thatâ€™s to lose and lose again. The women, see. Pa, Ma, my way, my whole way there and back. What a sickness is a provenance. What a gravity it must have to have pulled me so from there to there, from here to there, from offices to pharmacies and back, back, hearing women, seeing mothers, as exiled now as their husbands had been, as I count myself now. White sheet of paper ripped from a thinning pad marked RX in the corners folded up in my pocket. I am en route with it. either.
I think of Steve, of a trench, of the coat closet, of wigs. They never found Steve,
/INSIGHT/ f. scott fitzgerald
â€œAt fifteen you had the radiance of an early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.â€?
/EXTRA/ shop the limited edition provenance tee shirt collection here.goodsie.com