Quiet Openings
Funny seltzer affirms: less is more.
Dear reader,
The ranch hosted a proper barn-burner last Saturday, to welcome in the springtime. Grass was mowed, and weeds were whipped. Coolers were filled with La Croix as Marsha hand-crafted endless bánh mìs for the occasion, on sourdough baguettes freshly baked by our friends. We planted signposts in the ground to remind guests to pick up after themselves and opened the gates to the field across the road. Furniture was moved from the hearth and onto the patio, to make room for mic stands and amps and drums.
At sunset, headlights flickered through the sycamore trees adjacent to the creek that borders our fields. Camper rigs and old trucks from across California appeared in droves, as did the mosquitos. Folks set up their camps in the field, near where the honey bees sleep, before making their way up to the house. We solicited friendly donations for the bands while sipping pèt-nat. Everyone was more than happy to pitch in.
By nightfall, we were shaking our shoulders to Joe and Kelly as they performed under a disco ball suspended from the rafters by a couple rickety ratchet straps and a now-retired fence stretcher. Behind the drum kit our hearth glowed with candlelight, adorned in snapdragon bouquets picked by Lucia. We marveled in their sounds, embracing our first celebration of the year together, sharing quick moments around the firepit to smoke cigarettes and smell the burning bay laurel before returning to the dancefloor.
At the edge of the crowd, John and I passed a bottled Coors Light back and forth between us. After I marveled at its crisp perfection, he told me it was his mothers favorite. “Sometimes she would just take one big sip, put the cap back on, and save the rest for later,” he said. Earlier, I had dropped a gentle dose of liquid acid into a can of flat key-lime seltzer. I was alive within the waves coming from the pedal steel, feeling called to live inside of its tone. John understood, grinning through another sip.
My head hit my pillow at 4 AM, at the exact moment the faint sounds of improvised guitars, drums, and the siren song of some aspiring singer ceased to emanate from the hearth. A late night noodle done just right.
Dear reader, I love parties, even though I canceled the opening party for ROCK SHOP yesterday. I’d considered calling it off for over a week, but I responsibly waited — until I was through with the broil of my luteal phase and done bleeding — to address the notion. I don’t cut my hair on my period; I try not to make big decisions around it either. More often than not, I go back to feeling “normal” and these pressing desires return to being passing thoughts.
In this case, however, a few days of perspective handily affirmed my thought to cancel wasn’t just a fleeting menstrual desire to forgo another affair — it was my intuition.
As an artist, events are the main way I’ve been taught to celebrate and showcase my work and accomplishments. But the truth is, a blast of scattered micro-engagements condensed into a few hours one brief evening doesn’t feel like celebrating. Having gotten this far, and now being able to work quietly in this space, is celebration enough for me.
It’s an entrepreneurial trope, and a tired one, to believe that I should maximize every aspect of launching. Most everybody who's been in my shoes heralds events as the best way to get people in the door, which is another way of saying that events are the best way to make money. Money is important, sure, but I’ve generally found it to be a shitty compass. My compass is directing me towards something slower and more intimate, rather than something showy and immediate.
Some events are plainly better than others. Whether they were worth attending or not is a matter of opinion. If someone takes the time to visit ROCK SHOP because they appreciate my work and wish to see where it’s made, I want the opportunity to speak with them for longer than three minutes. That’s really the point, for my space to be worth the visit; for it to be true to my practice and who I am. To “launch” something that already exists in a context foreign to its daily reality isn’t my idea of a great event, as it turns out. But having a container where I can share my work intimately, spontaneously, and without expectation surely is.
Nobody besides myself can know what’s best for ROCK SHOP because there has never been a ROCK SHOP before. So I am happy to announce that I am opening something publicly, but with zero requirement that anyone else participate in it — unless, of course, they want to. The good news is: Less is more. It just took me a little bit to figure that out, thanks for bearing with me here.
So, starting May 24th I’ll welcome visitors on Fridays and Saturdays between noon and 4 PM. Make a pitstop off Highway 1 in Morro Bay, I’m just a few blocks from the roundabout. It’ll be our own little party. We can share a seltzer.
Love,
Anna
P.S. I am happy to share my recent interview with The Creative Independent here.
This echoes so much of how I felt when my last book came out 💜
Also, THIS: "Money is important, sure, but I’ve generally found it to be a shitty compass. My compass is directing me towards something slower and more intimate, rather than something showy and immediate."
"My compass is directing me towards something slower and more intimate, rather than something showy and immediate." I'm soaking up these words like a thirsty little plant. Yes, yes, yes.