Dear reader,
My home is unlike any other. When I compare it to other places I’ve known and lived, nothing comes close. Today, I watched a herd of cows tread slowly across the ridgeline while the morning fog rolled in. In the distance, my landmate rode his bicycle across the field, heading to dip in the creek after a sauna. He was naked, except for a sweatshirt and a backpack. Another landmate once told me that this look is called “shirt-cocking” — T. calls it “porky-pigging it.” Something about being dressed up on top but free-balling below makes me laugh. As I watched bare ass cheeks fade into the forest canopy, I thought to myself, “I love you, brother.”
It rained all night again. We got nearly 4” yesterday. It’s still coming down now, and I awoke grateful for the excuse to stay put, to accept the invitation towards slowness that this weather offers.
Lately I’ve been thinking about my dirty little not so secret, which is that my studio, ROCK SHOP, is still not open to the public. On the one hand, this unhurried crawl feels on brand and is a testament to my rejection of grind culture. After all, the first print that I ever featured, the print that launched Lordcowboy, is titled “Dear Diary, today I did not have to rush.”
Five years of New York City living juxtaposed with the biggest slowdown of our lives in 2020 affirmed my conviction that the psychological toll of rushing is greater than any benefit being in a rush might offer. With a loaded backpack on one shoulder and an overflowing tote on the other, I sprinted for the subway to be on time for class, the ice in my cold brew jiggling maniacally in my thermos. Headed for Bushwick on my bicycle, I pushed through red lights that I shouldn’t have just to clock in for a night shift at the pizza place. I rushed even when I didn’t have to rush because the pace of life in New York City is set for you. But I’m not in the city anymore. I don’t want to rush my way through anything ever again.
The less I rush, the more I trust. I trust in the okayness of things, and that I don’t need to stress myself out or compete with others in order to get what I need. In a way, not rushing feels like the ultimate fuck you to scarcity. I trust the process of being a full-time creative in an ever inflating economy, but more than that, I commit to experiencing the process itself. When I’m in a rush, I’m fixated on an outcome, and I miss everything in between. The little moments of life have nowhere to land.
Alas, there’s a duality in everything. There’s a fine line between forging an intentional stroll in the direction of my plans, and using the “apprentice to slowness” identity as an excuse to stay comfortable.
Dear reader, the idea of opening my space up to the public makes me unbearably uncomfortable. I’m paying the rent and utility bills on a space that has yet to earn its keep. I’m stalling. When friends ask me how the shop is coming along, I sheepishly tell them it’s not ready yet, even though we all know that a project like this will never feel “ready.”
I know that I’m delaying the inevitable and not just “taking my time” because my heart starts racing when I imagine questions from walk-ins about who I am and what I do. I didn’t always have such a low tolerance for discomfort, but there used to be far fewer eyes on me. The decisions I made, the risks I took, and my personal disappointments, were mine alone, subject to the scrutiny of a close friend, or my mother, but not an entire county made up of small, interconnected towns.
The exciting thing about a commercial retail space is that it’s highly visible, and will hopefully offer my business a new leg to stand on, one that has nothing to do with the digital realm I’ve relied on so far. See ya later Mark Zuckerberg!
The downside of a commercial retail space is also that it’s highly visible, and as much as I love them, I’m afraid of people. Or rather, I’m afraid of being misunderstood by people. ROCK SHOP isn’t just any commercial space. I’m not selling candles, jars of honey, and vintage t-shirts. ROCK SHOP is a physical, tangible manifestation of my inner world and of my practice. My practice will never be done, and that’s maybe why the space will never feel done either. According to my financial advisor, I need to let people in now anyway.
Being human is an art. Letting myself be seen by others without crawling out of my skin requires constant finessing. I have to keep an open heart — but it can’t be too open because there’s still plenty of desperate energy in this world. I have to have thick skin, but it can’t be armor that keeps everybody out, because then what’s the whole point of anything?
I’m uncomfortable with the idea of going public, but only because I haven’t been practicing. I guess I have to suck it up and accept that my practice now entails growing my capacity to deal with the unknown variables of other people even more than I already have.
I’m surprised by my own naiveté because it’s obvious to me now. Of course taking on a new physical space would push me past my psychological comfort zone, too. I wonder if my temporary dissociation between making and sharing this project was a protective measure. If I had thought about how cringe-inducing this part would be, I maybe wouldn’t have started ROCK SHOP at all.
When I imagine opening the doors to a hypothetical lookie-loo who just doesn’t get it, my go-to answer is an assertive and unapologetic “This is me. Take it or leave it.” Something tells me I can afford to soften. I’ll keep practicing my soundbites, even if I have to pretend for a while. After all, there’s nothing wrong with being dressed up on top but bare-assed below the counter, if that’s what it takes.
Love,
Anna
Not for nothing but....what if people do get it? What if you don't have to say this is me take it or leave it but people say omg this is what I was looking for. We get so hung up focusing on the fears and discomfort we forget there can be healing expansion as well from being received.
Lovely. On a side note, we call this shirt clad bottomless look "Pooh bear-ing" 🐻