Gray Matters

This post isn't really about anything in particular. I am only expressing the fact that I haven't been good about regularly writing longer entries for this blog. Lately I've been concentrating on my photography and my cooking (see above). For me, each of these arts--writing, photography, cooking--over lap in regards to aesthetic, concentration, and form. 


Writing: 

I write when I feel inspired and every writer gets her inspiration in different ways. My writing comes in waves; waves of interest, motivation, focus, and momentum. Occasionally I am hit with random inspiration and every so often my ideas feel endless. Other times I sit down and choose a topic that's been floating about my head and try to pick apart or compose into understandable words. (Hence, what I am doing now.)


Photography:

I've been snapping photos on the reg without ever taking it seriously. I am not trying to make a living off it. I only want to share my view of the world with those around me. The reason I feel so adamant about doing so isn't about me at all. (Well, maybe a little.) It's because I feel overwhelmed by romance in this world. Yes, I am in love with the world. My only hope with photography is to nudge those that don't take the time to look up at the flock of migrating birds in the sky or look down at the two o'clock shadows cast by maple trees. It is those people, hopefully, that I make notice a thing or two of the world's everyday wonders. Even if what I am saying is all a cliche and it's all been done before, that's fine. Beauty is everywhere. Even if it's constantly the same thing over and over that I notice, all the better. My reasoning is to continue--always--to be on the lookout for it. There can never be too much beauty. * 

Cooking:

I guess it's no chore to cook if you spend almost 1.5 hours each time preparing dinner repeatedly. Because my prospective of cooking-as-work has completely shifted to cooking-for-fun, I adore it. Throwing together good food with thought and effort is the best part. I've learned to let go of the recipe-as-bible mentality and just wing it, which allows me to flex my creativity and feel accomplished once I see my idea through.
 


*Don't get me wrong when I toss around the term beauty. I am not only referring to it in the tradition sense, but also the all-encompassing beauty: that which is found in the sad or ugly.

**Photographed above is, well, a cheater's version of homemade pumpkin pancakes. It's the boxed mix from Trader Joe's. :)

Summer into Autumn

*All photos taken by Andrea in San Francisco from September through October 2012.

Sun Rose High

October decided to greet San Francisco with the summer it's been missing. And greet it did. It got up to the high 90s in downtown this week. It is probably the first time I ever wanted to stay in doors on a beautiful day and not walk all over town. Intense heat is not made for San Francisco. Everyone looks miserable on the bus. The streets smell even worse, if you can imagine. And when icecream can't be enjoyed because it is so hot outside then you know there's a definite problem!

I shouldn't admit this, but I already miss the cloudy days sitting in doors with a hot cup of chai and a good read. I won't have to wait too long...Oh look, the cold weather is already back.

Riding Buses For A Hobby

As a Southern Californian advocate for public transportation I just had to live in San Francisco. Moving liberated me from my automotive chains. No longer do I worry about finding a parking spot, paying outrageous gasoline fees, or receiving a ticket. But the transition from LA freeways to life on the bus took some getting used to. Often I am away from home the entire day, so I learned how to be resourceful and organized before venturing out in the city. I always ask myself, “What’s the forecast? Where am I going and how do I get there? Do I have enough food to last me seven hours?” Not that I’ve become a nomad, but living in San Francisco has brought out my adventurous spirit.

Though Belle and Sebastian sing in The State That I am In, “Riding on city buses for a hobby is sad/Why don't you lead me to a living end,” taking the bus is more pleasant than most would believe. You have shelter; you don’t have the anxiety that driving brings; you can sleep, read, listen to music, meditate or daydream. Of course you’ve got to accept what comes with travelling by bus: a mix bag of personalities, being off schedule, breaking down, and having less personal space. But anyway you commute there is always some small sacrifice. I find myself riding the bus, for what feels like 60% of my waking time. Because of it I’ve become more productive with other aspects of my life. I base when I leave the house, how much I am going to carry, and where I’ll end up in the city all on riding the bus. No longer do I sit in traffic in Southern California or feel too lazy to commute. Here in San Francisco the bus has become an extension of my home—a place where I can sit and ponder as the world pans by.   

Trouble Coffee Speaks the Truth

Neil Young & Stevie Wonder have left just as quickly as they've come. Now we can get on with our lives.

The Night Fog

Growing up in Southern California, I have distinct memories of hot, restless summer nights. With all of my windows open, and one sheet loosely draped over my legs, I would eventually fall asleep to the cricket's song. This year is the first summer in which I've experience no summer at all. It is hard for me to fathom. The calendar reads July, but outside the fog is quick-moving and thick. In August I grew accustomed to wearing three layers minimum, always having my toes covered, plus sporting the same long coat each day. I've learned not to let those few clear-sky days fool me. If the sun is out, even in the Richmond District, I know it won't be warm when I return home that evening.

Without having a real summer I try to make believe one exists every once in a while. Sometimes I'll go outside wearing sandals and a sunhat, fully aware of the inevitable suffering the night fog will bring upon my return home.

*This photo was taken by Andrea in the Richmond District on an August night. 

What's Cookin'?

There is nothing like not cookin' this summer. Just whip up something on the fly. It's easy in the heat, plus delicious to enjoy in a shady spot. Here's my cold couscous salad with sauteed kale, onions, garlic and fresh tomato, cucumber, radish + one hard boiled egg. No dressing necessary. The summer vegetables have all the flavor in the world. 

Architectural Bits--A Tour of SF Exteriors

*All photos were taken by Andrea in San Francisco in 2012 from June through July.
*The sketch drawing is by Paul Madonna.

Build That Dark Wood Stained Craft Table

There’s always been this trend of looking nostalgically towards the past. After a few decades, we look back. Either we hate the fashions or we wear them with pride. These last couple of years has been heavily influenced by minimalism. We crave the simple life: farms, rooster calls, summer linen drying in the breeze, homemade jam, shared gatherings underneath the stars. Currently, blogs are ranting about how you must DIY your life—drink mint lemonade or Tennessee whiskey out of mason jars, sew some flowers on your shirt, and collect shells for a necklace. It’s been enough solicitation that I am starting to get sick of it. Why do we need to be constantly reminded of the simple pleasures in life that already exist? If they are so simple, then we shouldn’t need to make an endless effort to complete them. Why has slowing down become exceedingly hard for us to achieve?

Perhaps our forgetfulness is linked to technology. We’ve got everything we could want at our fingertips. We are lazy. Let’s watch another episode of Portlandia. Take-out sounds good tonight. We aren’t required to physically work for our food like our father’s father’s did in the past—hunting deer and slow cooking it over the fire. Dinner comes in a can now. The grocery store has everything we could ever want, year round. Unfortunately, that isn’t how nature works. We shouldn’t be allowed to buy a banana from Jamaica or Kiwi from Australia 365 days a year. Nonetheless we do it because we have outsmarted Mother Nature. Thus, our own skills have turned society around full circle. We are at the point where we can’t think for ourselves. (I always use a calculator because I avoid doing mathematical equations in my head at all costs.) We longingly gaze back at where we started from: simplicity in the 1800s never smelled sweeter (minus the diseases).  

We don’t, however, live in the age of Thoreau where we can chill at Walden Pond for unlimited months and write about dandelion seeds scattered in the wind. We’ve got work to do. But, in today’s tech world, with everything able and ready for us, we should have a lot more time to make that dark wood stained craft table seen in Kinfolk. So what’ the problem? We are over stuffing our schedules with additional work. We are neglecting our leisure agenda and not setting aside enough time to do things we enjoy. Also, the thought of making something ourselves is tiresome when everything else comes instantaneously. What we need is to reprioritize.

I guess all of those fancy blog posts about listening to the sound of the waves or making your own apartment herb garden have worthwhile intentions. Though it’s all I see 24/7 on the blogs that I read, it is necessary to keep repeating the mantra: Slow down. Enjoy your life. Slowing down takes time. That is the entire point. And in the twenty-first century, every day gets harder and harder to move into this backward mindset. Just the same as setting a morning alarm, we have to remind ourselves that we are living to live.

Words + photo by Andrea Dumovich

The Joy of Being

Eternity In An Afternoon – by Rebecca Martin / Kinfolk Issue 4

“The days are long,” say other moms who see me toting my baby around. “But the years are short,” they always add. They mean carpe diem, or something like it: this time won’t last forever, so enjoy the moments while she’s still small. But in my experience, the days fly. Between lifting her out of her crib at daybreak and laying her down for the night, I feel like I’m chasing down the clock.

             I pull her from the crib, change her diaper and her clothes (sometimes twice, if I’m unlucky), and head for the kitchen. I’m always surprised: eight-thirty already? But the glowing green numbers on the stovetop don’t lie. Breakfast is a longer meal than it used to be, and I’m learning to savor the calm time with my daughter; the carpe diem lesson applies here. But then we’re off to play, and in no time it seems, to sleep again: morning nap. If I’m disciplined, I write. I fill up an hour and a half with words and imaginings. Otherwise, I twiddle the time away on food prep and house straightening and blogs and emails. Either way, the wake-up cry sounds from below sooner than I expect, and I’m down to the baby’s room for diapering, lunch, errands, more play if we can squeeze it in, and then another nap, the afternoon one.

            Here is where the hours begin to stretch out. I allow myself a couch sit and a drink: coffee if it’s an early nap, wine if it’s later. I read, I doze, I watch something on the BBC and stitch on an embroidery piece that’s been lying around for several months. And I start to feel antsy. Nap time is me time, and yes, I savor it. But now I grow a little lonely, especially in the waning afternoon light. I wander the upstairs indecisively. I go down to the kitchen and heat up milk. I make sure the sippy cup is washed and ready. I check the stovetop clock. I actually stalk the nursery door. And then I hear it! The first peep of waking.

            I sweep up the baby and we sit, together, snuggled in the armchair by the dining room window. She is warm and soft, still halfway between sleep and waking. She drinks her afternoon milk and leans into me. I give her a squeeze and look out the window, lit by white lights from the inside and sunset glow from the outside.

            “Never wake a sleeping baby,” everyone says. But for this, I would. This is our tradition. This is my favorite part of the day. The time may fly, but this is the moment I want to keep for eternity.

(The painting "Mother" is by Mary Cassatt)