By Pablo Neruda
I love you without knowing
how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly,
without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know
no other way than this:
where I does not exist nor you,
so close that your hand
on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close
as I fall asleep.
Our good pals at Gigantic Squid have done it again. And by it, we mean make us smile via seafaring creatures.
This time, Ian and company went after our own hearts with a print of a cycloptic squid, staring into our souls, wishing us a Merry Christmas. This one is taking the cake as the finest Christmas poster we've gotten.
Lest we forget to properly plug these guys, Gigantic Squid are a creative production studio out in Seattle. But above that, they are really good folks. Ian was a groomsman in our wedding and his wife was a bridesmaid. They are wonderful people and we miss the tar our out them.
Tar is a pun, too (like fresh ink, in case you missed it...), as Ian is from NC but in exile in Washington. One day we'll all live on a cul de sac together. Where we'll break out the Nog and the posters and have ourselves a merry little squidmas.
The only really crucial thing to note here about the music is that the whole thing is about the bass. People who know a lot about electronic music will disagree with me, but knowing a lot about electronic music is, these days, entirely beside the point.
The progression of a house track, and one plausible reason for house's ascendancy, goes like this: There's some twinkly pirouetting melody in the higher registers, then some bass for a while, and then the introduction of a soaring, optimistic vocal track about saving the world or, for the slightly less ambitious, having a feeling re tonight's bestness, then the simultaneous near-crescendo of the twinkles and the all-out vocal redemption, and then, right at the moment of presumed climax, the bass goes away for a few beats, everybody misses the bass so much and can't wait for it to come back, maybe the snare reintroduces itself after a few seconds to remind you to get excited for the prodigal bass's triumphal homecoming, a good DJ takes just longer than expected to bring the bass back, 20,000 or 50,000 hearts stop as one, lever arms hanging anxiously in midair, and then, when the bass kicks back in, the crowd goes out of their motherf****** minds, just like they did the time the bass disappeared and came back four minutes ago, pumping their right arms in genuinely exhilarated unison, survivors all of the briefly yet catastrophically lost bass.
The above is an excerpt from a Gideon Lewis-Kraus article on electronic music from this month's GQ. I thought it was a fine, fine paragraph. The entire thing, should you be into reading about EDM, can be found here.
Well, technically not a home, but Pebble + Pine of Dallas has a couple of prints hanging around that I saw thanks to a really great writeup on Red Clay Soul. Looks like an amazing space with a good slant: American-made golf and lifestyle boutique.
And I tell you, after seeing the shots, I kinda want to take a trip to Dallas and also take up golf.
Maybe we should start a section called Prints Going Commercial. Maybe not, though.
Can't let today pass without a something: So here's the thing.
The 12th order we get today, 12/12/12, after 12:12 EST will get their order for free. But I don't want to be out $1200 dollars, so we're gonna cap the booty at $250.
There you have it. Time it well and you, my friend, will be up at least two turtle doves and some amount of maidens milking...
Days like today make me so dang excited. Is it because it's the weekend? Partially. Because I'm working from home, thus still in worn blue jeans and an old flannel? Partially. Because I'm cranking a Mogwai remix so loud because my upstairs neighbors are at work? Prolly.
But mainly cause several months of work have culminated in the release of a collaboration with Starboard Clothing Co. out of Annapolis. They are great folks and at this point pretty good friends and so we teamed up with them to make a bow tie. But not just any bow.
The Bow Try. No. 1.
Bow try, of course, cause it is word play, and I love a good word play. No. 1 for I have a feeling there will be a No. 2. Cause when you make an American Made tie, in a small batch, with a handsome fabric and a diamond point, well, she's gonna go fast.
We only made 30, and a third are already gone this morning. Tie up the week nicely, yeah?
From one G.L. in Wisconsin:
Couldn't have said it better myself.Happy Saturday, and with a good Oktoberfest beer in hand, "ein prosen" from Wisconsin! Cheers!Just passing along a picture of my new living room in Milwaukee adorned with The Line; the perfect daily reminder that my heart belongs in the south.
We all know there's something about getting a good magazine in the mail. Seeing it in a pile of junk mail on the floor by the mail slot. A masthead, popping out from the bills, that is smiling at you, winking, whispering “You and me, sir, are going to spend some time together over coffee come Saturday. Just you wait and see.”
And when you get to tearing through that good magazine, one of your favorites, and you see your name and work work on one of their pages (even though you knew it was coming) that sure is something special. You pour a little more from the French press and thank the Good Lord for good fortune.
The piece you see, of course, is in the section of exclusives made just for Garden & Gun's store. Cause a few months back you'd had a call and came up with an idea with them, a song floating in on the wind that reminds you of Oxford in the fall. And reminds a lot of others of family and home. A few notes wrapped in a complex package of past and present. A song named for home, written by a man from Ohio, printed up in Massachusetts more than 150 years after it was first put on paper.
You tarry there only briefly, on your picture, and then you move on. Cause there's so much more in the magazine you need to get to, and the sun is already burning up this crisp late-autumn day.
Let the Band Play, $45, available here.
'Tis the season.
Looks like we've made an impression on folks in Fort Worth, TX, this Christmas season. 360 West Magazine was sweet enough to pop General Manners No. 1 in their 2012 Gift Guide.
But you should get em while the gifting is good, as I think we've got just a few of the blue ones left this year. And those Texans might just snag them all up.
From “Clearances,” In Memoriam M.K.H.
By Seamus HeaneyWhen all the others were away at MassI was all hers as we peeled potatoes.They broke the silence, let fall one by oneLike solder weeping off the soldering iron:Cold comforts set between us, things to shareGleaming in a bucket of clean water.And again let fall. Little pleasant splashesFrom each other’s work would bring us to our senses.So while the parish priest at her bedsideWent hammer and tongs at the prayer for the dyingAnd some were responding and some cryingI remember her head bent towards my head,Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives—Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Christmas seems like it's coming soon this year. As I type this post, we haven't even played the Egg Bowl, and we've got our Christmas tree up. But since Thanksgiving came so blame early, well, can't get onto us. We waited until we got to the turkey before we put up our tree. And this year, we went out and hunted one down.
Oh, hey Thanksgiving, what you got going on this year? Oh yeah? Spices, Pumpkin, Bourbon? That's cool. Say, why you so early?
Found and tried this recipe thanks to Garden and Gun. It was pretty good, but I think it would've been even better if I'd gotten the right kind of pumpkin, and not just (honest to goodness) taken the pumkin off the neighbor's porch. They offered it up, sure, and they are getting a mason jar of this sweet, syrupy nectar, but I still think I could've manned up and driven someplace (a farm? Vermont?) rather than liberating a little guy who've been sitting there since well before Halloween.
To be fair, I only had 35 minuted until LSU / Ole Miss kickoff, so I wasn't able to drive all over tarnations looking for a pumpkin (though thanks to Penzey's I got all the right spices). Get you the real Cinderella deal and lemme know how it is. Meanwhile, I've got about a half gallon of this stuff to mix with. Which won't be a problem come Thanksgiving. I also found that it was a little sweet (dangerous) for my taste when mixing it in the ratio they call out. Proceed as cautioned.
from William Hamrick, Hot and Hot Fish Club, Birmingham, Alabama
1 ½ oz. Bulleit Bourbon
1 oz. pumpkin reduction (see recipe below)
1 dash of celery bitters (Hamrick recommends Bitter Truth or you can also substitute Angostura)
Pour bourbon, pumpkin reduction, and bitters into a mixing glass and fill with ice. Stir generously. Strain into an old-fashioned glass with one large ice cube.
1 ½ quarts chopped Cinderella pumpkin
2 quarts water
3 cups sugar
7 whole allspice
1 cinnamon stick
2 whole star anise
Scoop out the pumpkin seeds and pulp, then peel and chop the pumpkin flesh into small one-inch cubes. Add all ingredients in a non-reactive pot and bring to a boil. Simmer for 40 minutes until reduced. Strain the mixture into a clean bowl and place in an ice bath to cool.
I don't have much news this morning other than we got three (!) new prints good to go for all the folks shopping for the holidays.
A new one for Louisiana.
One for the District of Columbia.
And another one for Mississippi.
They're all good print, of course, but the last one is particularly exciting for me. We're going to donate 10% of the proceeds of that print to schools in Mississippi. Yup. Doing our best to do some good.
We go to an amazing church. With amazing people.
Our church is called Reunion and for the last several years, we've participated in Advent Conspiracy.
Very simply, Advent Conspiracy is all about taking back Christmas from unbridled consumerism and loving folks, giving relationally, worshiping Jesus, and spending less on cheap plastic gifts and giving more away to those who need it.
A couple of prints making it up on the walls of one of the nicest houses we've seen. This lady has sent in a few pics in the past, and her taste level is sky high. Making Arkansas look good, I'll say.
Sick mat job on that Yellowhammer.
This print can only be found at Garden & Gun.
Been meaning to write about our friends down in Chattanooga for a bit now. They have a food truck business. It's called Taco Sherpa. They make Korean Tacos in Tennessee. What? Something strange about that? Nope, not if you are Whit and Lindsay. International badasses. Family of mystery. Foodies and all around great people.
By Robert Wrigley
After the horse went down
the heat came up
and later that week
the smell of its fester yawed,
an open mouth of had-been air
our local world was licked
inside of, and I,
the boy who'd volunteered at twilight--
shunts of chawed cardboard
wadded up my nostrils
and a dampened bandana
over my nose and mouth--
I strode then
into the ever-purpler sink
of rankness and smut,
a sloshful five-gallon bucket of kerosene
in my right hand,
a smoking railroad fuse
in my left,
and it came over me like water then,
into my head-gaps and gum
rinds, into the tear ducts
and taste buds and even
into the last dark tendrils
of my howling, agonized hair
that through the windless half-light
hoped to fly from my very head,
and would have, I have no doubt, had not
the first splash of kerosene
launched a seething skin
of flies into the air
and onto me, the cloud of them
so dense and dark my mother in the distance
saw smoke and believed as she had feared
I would, that I had set my own
fool and staggering self aflame,
and therefore she fainted and did not see
how the fire kicked
the other billion flies airborne
exactly in the shape
of the horse itself,
which rose for a brief quivering
instant under me, and which for a pulse thump
at least, I rode--in a livery of iridescence,
in a mail of exoskeletal facets,
wielding a lance of swimming lace--
just as night rode the light, and the bones,
and a sweet, cleansing smoke to ground.
Hey! Wanna see me turn everything into something that looks like it is from the 70s? Or the 50s? Or blur the heck outta my sandwich?
No? Me neither.
I promise to try to take pictures of good things.
A rare bottle of the 2011 George T. Stagg, the winner of the finest spirit in the world, is slightly upstaged by a Kentucky print in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston.
As most of y'all know, my day job is in advertising. As about 1% of you know, advertising has a complete language and award structure and bragging rights that are so far from the actual point of advertising that is just plain weird. In advertising, folks can win awards for work that looks beautiful, sure, but may not sell a thing. The concept can win even when a potential customer is left scratching their head not knowing which way is up. It isn't wrong, just a bit strange.
I find design, on the other hand, a lot more pure. Folks can look at something and say 'Does it look beautiful?' or 'Does it stand out?' or very simply 'Do I like it?' There's a simple honesty is asking a person if something moved them or inspired them.
Thing is, what I do with Old Try is a really good extension of what I do during the day. Should I get industry recognition for making things, so be it / awesome. So I was just about over the moon when I heard that we got into Print Magazine's 2012 Regional Design Annual. That's a magazine that I've really wanted to get into for a decade with my work, but nothing that I've done in advertising has warranted it.
I'd love to think the judge saw our piece and thought of his Momma and Daddy. That would be the biggest reward. Though a little bit of print in Print ain't bad, either.