Gracie Abrams: Music Hall of Williamsburg /  by Liz Brown

Transparently, the day of this show was awful. I won’t go into specifics here (I promise you’re not missing out on any juicy details), but I got home around 4pm, exhausted and sad, and immediately started crying. 

To top it all off, I was mad at myself. I had been looking forward to this show since it was announced and now here I was—so exhausted that my bed sounded equally exciting. Lame, right? More like burnt out.

After prepping my gear, changing my clothes, eating dinner, and dropping off a Depop sale at the post office, all I had time for was a half-hour nap. Then I chugged 16 ounces of cold brew (not a decision I’m proud of, but we’re doing our best here), pulled on my Taylor Swift hoodie over my cargo pants, and literally ran to the train station. 

Side note: I may never shoot a show without wearing cargo pants again. How did it take me over a decade to discover this?!

So I arrived at the venue, burnt out and barely present, but determined to do my best. I had a venue contact to get in a little early, but he wasn’t picking up his phone. I explained the situation to security, ready to argue my reasons to do my job. But I didn’t have to. They were so kind, cheerful even, and made sure I had my credentials and access early. Not only did they not give me any issues, they gave me help. Part of my guard slid down into relief.

After the meet-and-greet ended, I snagged a spot on the right side, second row, behind a couple gals who were decked out in Y2K-style outfits and accessorized with seltzers. 

The doors opened at 7, but the show didn’t start until 8. You might not know this, but I have a likely-permanent nerve condition that makes standing for any length of time painful. So sometimes between doors and the show or between bands I’ll sit down, if that’s feasible. In that moment, it was, so I did. I sat cross-legged on the floor in my cargo pants, playing sudoku. 

When the girls in front of me turned to restock their drinks, one almost tripped over me and mentioned offhand—not in a rude way—that maybe I shouldn’t sit there. I replied my usual reply that my nerve damaged leg required it sometimes and it is what is is! Immediately, their expressions became concern: “Do you need to keep sitting? Would you like to sit on the stairs? If you would, we can save your spot!” Somehow my pain and the vulnerability it caused broke the seal and from then on, they became my concert buddies for the evening. We held each other’s spots for bathroom breaks and chatted between sets. 

And here’s the most amazing part of it. The girl to my right told me: “Whenever you want a better view, you can stand in front of me. Like we can trade spots.” And she meant it. Literally every other song during Gracie’s set, she’d turn back to me, offering her closer spot. 

Between sets I looked behind me and in that moment another girl caught a glimpse of my Taylor Swift hoodie and this launched a conversation about who in our general proximity was a Swiftie and which album would be re-released next. In that moment, I realized that these are my people. These are the kind of places I belong.

When Gracie began, we danced and cried (and I photographed) for over an hour and at the end of it all, I asked the girls in front of me for a portrait and they asked me out to drinks. I had plans and couldn’t go, but I took their number and took their photo (see below) and I’m going to send this to them. 

I guess what I’m saying is I’m grateful. It’s okay to rest, but it’s also okay to show up as you are, even if it’s messy and imperfect. There’s space for you here. There’s joy for you to find. There’s belonging for you, even as you are. I promise.

I can promise that because I found it. I found it in the security guards who went out of their way to help me out. I found out in the girls in front of me who invited me to be their friend for the night. I found it in the little Swifties behind me. And I find it weekly in the words of Gracie’s songs (right now it’s “Unlearn”). I promise these places exist for you, too, if you show up open and ready.

Suburban Angst /  by Liz Brown

“Darling, I’m a daydream, dressed like a nightmare.”
- Blank Space (Liz Returns to the Suburbs Edition)

I wore this look on December 21, 2021.

Outfit details:
Jacket: vintage The Limited, from Salvation Army in Clive, Iowa
Sunglasses: The Bearded Beagle (my favorite LA vintage store)
Sweater: H&M
Pants: random thrifted vintage pants, from Salvation Army in Clive, Iowa
Shoes: Red Back Boots

Messed Up Plans and a Missed Connection: /  by Liz Brown

Story:

When my plans for this afternoon abruptly fell through, I found myself in Manhattan in a cute outfit with nothing to do. I quickly pivoted: I’d wander the enticing Moma Design Store, but beforehand I’d take a few photos to document my outfit since no one else was going to see it anyhow.

Propping my phone against a light pole, I set up the self-timer and began. Whenever anyone walked by, I’d move out of the way, but suddenly one of those strangers approached me. Wearing a light mauve hoodie and a black peacoat, he offered to take a photo for me. I hesitated for ten seconds, weighing the likelihood of anything creepy happening, but he didn’t give off that vibe so I said yes.

After a minute of my usual “I’ll walk back and forth pretending to be candid” thing, he paused me and posed me, mentioning he was a photographer. “Me, too!” I chimed in—and immediately clarified that it wasn’t usually just of myself. “That’s the problem isn’t it?” he laughed, “we never have any good photos of us!”

He handed me back my phone and I paused again for ten seconds, debating if I should ask for his handle, if for no other reason than to credit him. And in the length of that pause, he walked away. There was a sweetness in that, in knowing that he didn’t want anything in return. But I should’ve asked his name.

I’ve been really hard on my body lately, though I know she’s been doing her best and I’m doing my best to offer her grace for however she carries me right now. But photos have felt less fun lately. However, when I began scrolling through the photos the stranger took of me, I couldn’t believe it. So this is how someone saw me, all glowing and golden. She looks alive and beautiful and so many good things. They’re some of my favorite photos of myself, maybe ever. And if my plans hadn’t fallen through, none of this would’ve happened.

So all I’d ask is that you’d share this story in hopes that I could find this person and at least thank him for helping me see myself. We met on W 57th, close to 10th on the west side of Manhattan. And if that’s you, if you’re reading this: thank you.

-written on 1.27.22

Outfit details:

Shirt: $8, vintage from Salvation Army in Manhattan
Pants: $6, vintage from Salvation Army in Des Moines
Initial necklace: $45, Leona Ruby
Ring: $163, Chad Barela
Boots: $8, vintage from Salvation Army

Finneas: New York, Night 1 /  by Liz Brown

Standing in the back of the venue, as it steadily filled with buzzing voices, I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. The atmosphere before Finneas’ first sold-out night at Irving Plaza was was fun, goofy, happy—quite different from his melancholy indie pop songs. I’m usually pretty good at describing emotions in my room or in myself, but this was stumping me.

Why did this room feel so exuberant?
It didn’t make sense to me. 

Still unable to shake the mystery, I made my way to the front, to the pit, where I’d be shooting the first three songs of each set. While I’m up there, I get a front row seat, yes, to the artist, but also the crowd. Draped over the barricade was a pride flag. On the corner to my left, a bouquet of white hydrangeas was perched in someone’s hand. Held over the metal wall and into the air were signs with stars and hearts—and Finneas’ face, depicted as a photo and as a cartoon (think Phinehas and Ferb). At one point, the folks towards the front each held up their signs so everyone in the balcony and in the back could see them. They were met with laughter, cheers, and cameras. There was this joyful affection, but not in the overtly sexual way you see at some shows.

This was something else. 

The crowd began singing the Phinehas and Ferb theme song and I could see two of the security dudes to my right—twice as big as I am and a little bit older—laughed at the commotion. 

Have you ever heard of anything so wholesome?

As I sat—with admittedly terrible posture—against the barricade, I realized what it was. Much of the crowd is under 30 and likely sees a lot of themselves in Finneas’ sister Billie (Eilish). They feel seen, understood; they’ve found camaraderie in her willingness to say what she thinks, to wear what she likes, to continue changing herself and the world, no matter what.  

And if you see Billie as your peer, if you see yourself reflected in her bright tees and tight corsets and blunt poetic lyricism, then it’s likely you also see Finneas as a sort of older brother to you, too. 

It’s true to his online persona, making dad jokes on Tik Tok and hanging out with his girlfriend and dog.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Everyone felt safe to show up as their happiest, goofiest, nerdiest selves, to sing some sad songs together and in that, to make them some of the happiest songs.

I looked around again, at the upturned faces.

There’s space to be here.

There’s space to be here, to breathe here (no really, the security has made sure of it). Because if there’s one thing a good big brother does, it’s create space for you be yourself. It’s to set an example of speaking the truth, even if you’re still figuring it out. It’s to not being afraid of the hard feelings or hard conversations or hard possibilities—and to choose to love anyways. A good brother is honest and kind and brave and admits he’s still figuring it out, too. And the funny and beautiful thing about someone admitting they’re still figuring it out is it creates space for you to figure it out, too.

You’re safe to be here. 

You can be yourself here: happy or sad, messy or best dressed, complicated and figuring it out. You can bring your art or your flag or your flowers and hold them above your head as you cry or as you dance. You can cry to a love song or dance to the hope of the end of it all but maybe, just maybe, tonight you’re okay in the in between.

And more than that,
tonight might just leave you feeling
more like an optimist.

6 months in New York /  by Liz Brown

Today marks 6 months in New York. Well, more like 6 months and 2 hours. Kassie and I arrived at Lindsay’s apartment in Brooklyn around 10pm on the night of July 9th.

I didn’t realize that until this moment—as I wrote that date—that it’s the same date Taylor Swift wrote about in “Last Kiss” (don’t worry—I’ll update this link to Taylor’s Version as soon as it debuts):

“That July 9th:
The beat of your heart—
It jumps through your shirt.
I can still feel your arms,
But now I’ll go sit on the floor,
Wearing your clothes.
All that I know is
I don’t know how to be something you miss.
I never thought we’d have a last kiss.
Never imagined we’d end like this;
Your name, forever the name on my lips”

My July 9th felt very different—an adventure, an arrival—but it also felt similarly because leaving and breaking up are both different sides of the same coin of grief. But sometimes endings look strangely like beginnings. It’s why I have a sunrise and sunset mirrored on my finger. Even in the beauty of a beginning is the necessary grief of the parallel ending. 

And the last 6 months have been this dance of loss and gain. Loss of sleep, gain of friends. Loss of one job, gain of another. Losses and gains of weight and stress and money. I’m learning to value the calm and the steady: the fresh air and a friendly face and a sunny day.

No choice or change is without loss or opportunity cost, but you have to decide what’s worth it, even if you don’t know the ending. Because you never really know the ending. All you can do is factor in everything you know and lean into the feeling of what you hope for, believing it exists. This is true for love, for adventures, for new cities and new dreams. 

So I think all I can truly ask myself after 6 months is: has it been worth it? And all I can reply is the cliche of a resounding YES.

*And I’m posting this a day late because I watched the new season of Search Party and had dinner with friends and forgot about posting this, which really speaks more to the goodness of life than any photo, don’t you think?

photo by my friend Michael on a good day