Lany Fans in Columbia

Oh, Lany fans, you're gems. What can I say that I haven't said before?

But maybe it's not about saying anything new. Maybe it's just saying something true. Something honest. Something I mean.

Because Lany is like that. Love isn't new, just these songs are. Pink skies have been ending days for decades--centuries--but only now do we have that melody. And summer isn't new, just this one is.

And life isn't new, but I feel like who I'm becoming is.

Maybe it's the same with you. With these songs. With these days. With these young summer years.

More even than I love the music of Lany, I love the feeling of Lany. It's like this: 

Keep dancing, young friends. Don't ever stop being enthusiastic about the things you like. Don't let anyone tell you growing up is boring. Yes, growing up means insurance and bills and a lot of that is scary right now (to me, too), but it's also staying up all night with your friends and ice cream for breakfast and 30 glow sticks in your car and dancing in the streets in new cities to new songs and it's a lot of fresh air in your lungs and it's learning what joy is and it's feeling it, too. Sometimes the scariest things are also the best things; don't live a safe life because just like these songs and these days, life is short. Take risks. Don't be afraid of failure. Sing loud and often. Maybe these things are cliche and maybe I've said them before, but I'm not above a good cliche.

I think maybe that's the point though, isn't it? We're all just feeling the same things in different cities waiting for someone to give words to these emotions--or give us a chance to dance. Because don't we all need some roses in our hands, in the air, on the floor?

This spring I read the book Wonder and the main character Auggie says that he thinks everyone should have a standing ovation at least once in his or her life. I hope you get your standing ovation. I hope you all get an encore. You are brave and beautiful. Keep dancing.

Love is awesome. These days are awesome. Savor them. ILYSB.

Earlier in the day, Steve (my friend/Lany's merch fella) tweeted that he wanted a basketball to, well, play basketball (he probably said it better than that, but that's the gist of it), so these cute humans brought him one.

Machineheart in Columbia

I met the fellows in Machineheart around 2012 in Chicago and met Stevie a bit after. While we don't see each other regularly, every time they're in town, I make a point to be there, usually with my camera. These humans are kind and creative, and it was difficult to choose my favourite photos, but I think I succeed. Thank you, Jake, Carman, Harry, and Stevie! Lovely seeing y'all again.

Lany in Columbia

25

I’m turning 26 tomorrow.

I’m past the age of people writing cool songs about how old I am (what’s my age again?), but in the past week two people have guessed I’m 20 (thank you, Sierra), so I’m not feeling terribly old honestly. I have boxes from Horizon Line in the basement to make into a fort and I’ve bought a piñata that we are going to fill with lollipops on Tuesday. Parking lots make me want to dance like nobody’s business and so does the band COIN. I still don’t sleep enough, but I’m learning I function better if I do (maybe that’s wisdom or maybe I am just getting older).

Birthdays awaken nostalgia in me and they make me hope I’ve changed enough to qualify for graduation into another year of existence. Did 25 leave a mark on me? Am I changed? Has anything changed around me or in me?

Last year on April 30th, Brittany and Kassie and I were driving to New Mexico to wake up in a tipi on a snowy May 1st and I held a tumbleweed (that I named Terry) in the middle of nowhere. Best birthday to date and definitely difficult to top. In a small town with an old faded Wrangler’s store, I took a photo of a tattoo shop and captioned my post of it: this might be my year. And it was (I got 3).

Yet it’s easy to look back and wonder why I’m still here locationally. Why my feet haven’t moved more and to miss the fact that my heart has moved even as my feet have lingered.

But if we are talking physical miles, besides New Mexico, I’ve been to Kansas City, LA, San Francisco, Chicago, Indianapolis, and Minneapolis, not to mention smaller towns. But the worth of my year isn’t in the miles I’ve traveled. I’ve moved houses and switched jobs and yet the worth of my year isn’t in the places I’ve lived or the desks I’ve occupied. The worth of a year is in the living and the growing and the changing. And sometimes that is inside your tumbleweed soul.

My word for last year was fearless. I learned that sometimes looks like staying. My word for this year is love and I’m learning that sometimes looks like staying, too.

I’ve lost relationships and forged new ones (falling apart and falling into and sometimes falling hurts and sometimes things fall together) and I’ve learned that much of live is learning how to grieve with graciousness and joy and to keep hoping in deeper things. I’ve felt more pain and more joy than in any other year. I’ve sobbed in a bathroom alone until I lost track of time and I’ve laughed and ran with friends until I lost track of time, too.

I’ve learned trust isn’t the same as belief and that stopping isn’t the same as taking root and I still have much more to learn and bigger dreams to run for even as my roots grow deeper. I’m learning to ask better questions and I’m learning to listen. Ilana often asks me what I’m learning and I like that. I’m still not good at silence, but I’m growing better at it—it scares me less than it used to. I’m reading more, and that’s good for my soul, too.

Originally, I had a paragraph about the different creative things I’ve done this year, but I don’t want it to sound like I’m bragging. Please don’t take it as such. It’s just a landmark, but it can become a land mine if it becomes my identity. I am not my work. But I’m learning to work out of joy rather than identity. Magazine articles and a cover, CD covers, bigger shows, collaborations: it’s been a whirlwind. I’ve learned a lot about editing—that’s been my biggest change; I still like deep moody edits, but I’m ending the year with color because that’s how I feel on the inside: deep and colourful in a way that doesn’t quite make sense, but I feel my lungs filling up fuller and fuller these days and I’m wondering if this is joy and I’m wondering if I’ve never quite felt it before. I’m learning to use thankfulness as a weapon and I hope I’m learning to love, not just the feeling.

This is me, 25 for a few more hours. Messy and full and braver than I was last year. Less miles under my feet, more miles under my soul. I want my tumbleweed soul to keep taking root and to keep growing and maybe I’ll move this year and maybe I won’t but my soul surely will move—but not wander—and I will keep creating. I’m writing a list of 26 things to do before I’m 27. I’m learning how to rest, but I’m not slowing down. This year is good. I am good right now. I am alive and I am here and I am thankful. I've been laughing a lot these days and running just because I can and both of these feel good, inside and out. I feel alive, inside and out. More alive than I have in a long time. Thank you for reading this. Thank you for adding joy to my existence. Thank you for teaching me kindness and bravery through your words. Thank you for rooting for this little tumbleweed soul. 

Love always,

Liz

KC with the Boys

Blake and I have come a long way since our first roadtrip last summer. I mean, literally. We've driven lots of miles in my little car. So far, we've successfully roadtripped every season, but this was our first adventure in Kansas City. We drove up early for the Japanese House show at Riot Room and spent the day eating food and drinking coffee and taking photos with Charlie. There are a ton of photos: this is your warning. But they're all of coffee or donuts or Charlie or Blake, so you really can't complain about that.

This first photo is of Joe's, where we had stellar BBQ. From there, we ventured to West Bottoms to get coffee at Blip.

You know you've got good friends when they humour you for a photo like this. I hope I never grow up and always take silly photos and always dance in parking lots and always adventure and always laugh.

No trip to KC is complete without a stop at Doughnut Lounge.

Nearly the entire day was cloudy, but the sun ventured out for just long enough for a few photos with harsh shadows.

When you hold your camera above your head to take photos, sometimes you get some happy accidents.

Charlie took us to a part of town with cute little antique stores and it far too closely resembled the 1975's newest album art for us to pass by without a photo or two.

I'm grateful for these two human. One of the best Tuesdays of the year so far.

The Japanese House : Portraits

Last night, I photographed Amber Bain--more commonly known by her band name The Japanese House--at Bottom Lounge for Interscope. In addition to shooting her performance, I was able to get some portraits of her in the empty venue before the show. Floored. Grateful beyond belief. The first show I ever shot was in April 2010 and it was because a kind human named Josh gave me a chance Last night was another instance of a kind human giving me a shot. Man. Undeserved of this life. Thank you, Carl, for rooting for me. Thank you, Caroline, for being so kind and helpful. Thank you, Amber, for being such a sweet human. 

About two years ago, I started shooting stranger portraits. I'd approach strangers, usually in big cities, usually outside, and ask for their portraits. I'd have perhaps a minute or two with each human; that meant that in a minute or two, I'd have to determine where to shoot, how the light was falling, and how best to angle the person's face so that light fell in a flattering way. Last night felt like the cumulation of all those stranger portraits. I was ushered into the empty venue--that I hadn't stepped inside in over a year--and had seconds to scan the venue and search for light and a little bit longer to pose Amber. Practice your craft, guys. Practice so hard. Because you never know when an opportunity will be set before you and you'll want to be ready.

A Day Without Immigrants

"He saw the need and he did something about it. He didn't just say he was for me or with me. He was actually with me...
Faith isn't about knowing all the right stuff or obey all the rules... it involves being present and making a sacrifice."
- Bob Goff

"I want to use my camera as a microphone." Jeremy Cowart said that and I haven't been able to forget it.
My camera is a gift. My sight is a gift. My words are a gift. The fact that anyone listens to me is a gift. Another word you could use is privilege.

So this morning I went and sat and stood on the capital steps. I sat on the curb next to a girl in a hijab. I was surrounded by the chant: "Si se puede!" And I cried. I feel selfish writing that. This day isn't about me. And I wasn't crying for me. I was crying because 3000 people (and counting) feel unsafe and unwanted in their workplaces and homes.

It's a privilege that I can work part time and spend my morning outside with a camera. These men and women didn't go to work so that they could be here. These teens skipped school. They risked a lot more than I did to show up this morning. The least I can do is bring my camera: my microphone.

I shot digital until my camera died, then film until I ran out of it. Then I felt useless. But you know what? Sometimes it's just important to show up and sit with people. Sit with people who are different than you. Cry with them. Listen to them. Use your gifts and your privilege as a microphone.

To the men and women I stood beside today: I'm sorry. You are worthy. You are important. You belong.

This little gal was my step-sitting buddy.

I initially approached this area of the capital steps because of the lady with the green sign. She was enthusiastically leading cries and chants (I don't know what the word is for an impassioned but peaceful rallying cry). Then I saw the woman next to her. Those two women, standing, next to each other for the same reason. Unlikely comrades. In a pause, I asked them for a portrait. Beautiful. Strangers. Smiling. Side by side. Loving each other. Peacefully protesting together. love is present. Love does.

The man with the pink sign was so enthusiastic, grinning and leading cheers and chants.

Ledges

Latte Throwdown

To set the scene. Des Moines hosted its first latte throwdown, and I was honored to be the "professional customer" judge. Basically, it involved choosing between two cappuccinos at at time (like going to the eye doctor) while seated between two judges who knew a lot more than I do. The entire cafe was packed and it was quite fun.

Over the past 2 years in particular, I've been invited into rooms I don't deserve to be in. 
Sometimes that room looks like a stadium and I'm holding a camera. 

Sometimes that room looks like the bedroom floor of a new friend and I'm listening and eating something like pad Thai or pizza.

Sometimes that room looks like a car at night with the music way too loud or not at all and I'm alive, I'm alive. 

And sometimes that room looks like the bar of a coffee shop I've visited more times than I can count. Beside folks who know incalculably more about coffee than I do. Judging a latte art competition together. I have no business being here, really. But here I am. Invited.

What fun. What an honor. Undeserved. 

Every time I'm let into a room, into a stadium, or a home, or a business, or a life, or a soul: every time that is an honor. In a way, it feels like a sacred space. But only sometimes do I remember that and take the time to be blown away with gratefulness. 

I never want to take this life for granted. God, let me always be awestruck, wonderstruck at these opportunities. Big moments or small, I want to forever marvel over this life.

Enjoy the rest of these photos from the evening.

Becoming

As last winter—the 2016 one—melted into spring, I was fairly sure who I was. A little lonely, a little over five-foot tall (kudos if you caught that LANY reference), corporate-job-by-day, artist-by-night. I listened mostly to Taylor Swift and had recently downloaded Apple Music (Spotifty doesn’t have Taylor Swift) and discovered James Bay—fondly called “bae.” I’d begun listening to podcasts and often ate smoothies for lunch. My hair was shorter than it had been in 4 years and I tend to do that with changes—all at once. New job, new hair, new songs. I was like that with tattoos this year. None, for over 25 years, then 2 in 6 weeks. I don't do things halfway.

Last year, my identity and place here were clear. I felt like I knew how I belonged. Where I belonged. My context became my identity.

Then slowly, different areas of my life began to unravel. First, between traveling and my Bible study moving to a different suburb, I lost touch. But I think it had begun far before then: the loneliness. We never saw each other past Monday and no one really knew my fears or dreams—nor I theirs. That’s not to say they’re entirely to blame: I haven’t been a good listener. I haven’t asked good questions. I have been busy to a fault.

Then between our varying schedules and busyness—that word again—and some differences of opinion that shouldn’t have been great but were, I grew further from some old friends and the identity I so tied up within them. I was one of them. Collectively, I had been. My identity had been tied up in my community. But who was I alone?

And somewhere along this summer and that path, I met some newer friends and I am scared that I’ll become the same tagalong to a “them.” Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s beautiful to be part of something together. But I don’t want that something to be all of me. Whether that be a new friend group or a band or a dream. I become like those around me and I don’t know how to stop it.

I don’t know what I like anymore. I mean, I do. But I don’t know what is me and what is just shadows of those around me. Who am I alone? Who am I in the silence? All I can hear is the tapping of my fingers against the black keys. I want to be more okay with silence. I don’t want to be so busy.

To an extent we are all the last wave slapping the shore, the product of the oceans we’ve traveled behind us. None of us is entirely cut off from influences. We’re all shaped by our friends and the people who make our coffee and the people who bag our groceries and the color we paint our rooms and our breakfasts and whether we walk or bike or drive to work and how often we make eye contact and the books we read and the shoes we wear. And we are all collectively becoming something. Somebody. You don’t become an individual alone and I know that in my head. I know I’m not alone even when I feel like it and I know that even when I become more myself, it’s not without outside influences.

So what now? First, Liz, slow down. Become okay with silence. Learn who you are alone. Then look at how you are living. Surround yourself with food and words and books and films and humans who are making you into the person who you desire to become and people who you can encourage to become lovelier selves, too. Together. Together isn’t bad, Liz. You don’t have to do it alone. Remember that.