Field Notes Archive - September 2024
Adventure Across the Atlantic
at long last
In the nearly 15 years we’ve known each other, Dan and I have never been on a plane together.
A colossal fear of flying has kept him bound to the ground for a long, long time, but when an opportunity arose last September to buy tickets to England’s most aspirational weaving festival, we took a leap of faith and made the investment.
If it was meant to be, we thought, it’ll happen.
When the time came to actually get on a plane and make our way across the pond, his fears had been slightly edged out by excitement, and after a pleasantly direct flight from Pittsburgh to Heathrow, we enjoyed our first ever arrival together in a continent far from home.
Dan with London Bridge behind him, me atop St. Paul’s Cathedral
We decided to bookend our weaving time in the country with a few days in London, which greeted us with enchantingly lovely weather.
During the day it was mild enough to enjoy dozens of miles of walking through neighborhoods, museums, cafes, shops, and the 528 steps to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, all without breaking much of a sweat.
Strolls at sunset felt straight out of a movie, with the late summer light beaming enough warmth to wander alongside the illuminated River Thames in total comfort.
Those first few nights in the city included my 39th birthday, which we indulgently celebrated with Michelin starred fanfare. For a trip that felt like it would never happen, we had to go all out.
After a few days of touristing, we made the journey by train to the festival location a few hours north of the city. Conditions there were quite different, and by the time we arrived at Tear Up we’d traded sunshine for squalls, adrenaline fueled joy for foggy jet lag… but it was exactly where we wanted to be.
Across the sprawling farm that hosted the festival was a collection of tents, which held an array of 3-day workshops led by 10 experts.
We’d each selected our choices last September: a Willow Laundry Basket with Jenny Crisp for Dan, and Wild Fibres with Alice Fox for me. Both women have published books that are well loved in our home, so we were eager to learn from them.
Our tents were on opposite ends of the site, and within each we worked alongside passionate makers from all over the world, many of whom we’d only ever expected to know via Instagram. Weaving has a way of bringing people together, and it was fun to debrief our unique experiences to one another at the end of each day.
In my workshop, we enjoyed foraging excursions through hedgerows unlike any I’d ever seen. Endless walls of green held tangles of blackberries, elderberries, hazelnuts, vines, flowers, and much more. We gathered nettle, brambles, willowherb, and others to process into weavable fibers, and also trekked to a nearby reservoir to gather rush.
Nettle cordage
It was exactly the relaxing and satisfying type of work I was after, but all around me folks were tackling notoriously challenging and ambitious materials, like willow, which was also inspiring to watch.
Dan was in his element, and was thrilled to get his hands on English-grown willow for the first time, which has famously enviable qualities compared to what we can grow.
By the time our workshops ended I had a handful of small sample swatches and cordages, but Dan had woven a massive basket, which we toted back down south on the trains amidst the rest of our luggage. It was a sight to see.
We ultimately shipped the basket via FedEx, which arrived home before our checked suitcase!
Before returning to the the heart of London, we decided spontaneously to spend a night just west in Richmond.
If you’ve watched Ted Lasso, it’s the filming location of many iconic scenes (which were a thrill to visit), but beyond that it’s an incredibly picturesque spot that stretches across a quieter part of the River Thames.
We completely fell in love, and it was the perfect place to decompress after our time in the country. There was a bit of rain upon our arrival, but it cleared just in time for another sunset walk to completely swoon over.
We were sad to leave this unexpected gem, but headed to back into the city to finish the final days of our trip. That time included experiences like a performance at Shakespeare’s Globe, overdue fish & chips, and three more museums - all of which seemed to have baskets hiding in plain sight, all throughout the galleries.
Now that we’re home and have endured two transatlantic flights together, we’re dreaming of other adventures that may lie ahead. With this trip, and all of our teaching commitments, we’ve spent over a month away from home so far in 2024, which is more than nearly every other year we’ve spent together, combined.
It seems like the dawn of a new age in our relationship, and business, which is all thanks to willow - the modest plant that has completely opened up the world to us.
Sometimes you just need a gateway to get you going… up, up, and away.
The good omen that greeted us the night of our departure.
Originally published on September 1, 2024
3 Steps to Publish 50 Field Notes
sharing my Substack origin story
It starts with a walk.
Nearly every morning, I head out the door with nothing but my camera for a ritual that blends documentation and meditation. I stick to a singular area within our 12 acres in order to give it my full attention, spending anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour immersing myself in capturing the opening of the day.
This previously private hobby has anchored me, on and off, for years, and is the reason I decided to start publishing here in the first place.
Substack offered an accountable shape to hold my experiences within, cementing a creative routine in desperate need of consistency.
Not every post has been rooted in my morning walks, but they are the touchstone I always aim to return to, and the true genesis for Field Notes.
In honor of this milestone 50th post, here’s the 3 steps I (ideally) take to publish.
1. Take a Thousand Pictures
I capture over 1,000 photos every month with my camera, and another hundred or so with my iPhone. This abundance only results in what I consider to be 20 to 30 really good shots (around .02%!), but my Dad taught me long ago that snapping aplenty is the secret to getting great photos, and I agree.
Part of the reason I accumulate so many images is because I take multiple angles of the same subject. Here’s my mental checklist of shots, which I execute in both horizontal and vertical orientations:
Get Close
Go Wide
Take a High Perspective
Take a Low Perspective
Try a Unique/Experimental Angle
Beyond the range of perspectives, my focus is always on two main elements:
Finding the light
Framing (composition)
If I can nail those two, I know I’m on my way to a great photo. I may have a degree in photography, but it’s the basics that really matter, and even after 20 years, I feel as if I’m still developing a personal style and understanding of this craft, one shot at a time.
When it comes to what I capture, there are certain things I’m really drawn to like creatures, flowers, and anything illuminated by water or fog. I also make a point, however, to capture the nuances of the quieter/slower parts of the property, knowing that the seemingly imperceptible changes in the landscape will emerge more dramatically as the seasons pass and I accumulate a record.
Whatever ends up in my lens always feels more flow state than forced, as I see it as a treasure hunt rather than a task.
By the end of the week, I’ll have gone through everything I’ve shot and edited a selection that really sings. My final collection, usually 5 to 15 images, gets uploaded into an empty Substack draft where they start to tell a story.
2. Find and Follow the Arc
In the negative space around my photos, a theme/thread tends to reveal itself, which I follow through free writing. I try to remain open to whatever words want to land that week, and sometimes it’s not the images at all, but rather a personal anecdote, or something from a book I’m reading, or a movie we’ve watched, or a nugget of inspiration from Dan that launches me into typing.
When that’s the case I know I’ll find a tether to the images later on, trusting the process. An arc always emerges.
I start writing on Thursday or Friday, finishing the post by early Saturday morning. I share it with Dan at that time, but usually we’ve been in collaborative discussions about my ideas for days.
When we’re both satisfied with the final draft, I’ll move ahead with recording the voiceover,* and schedule the post to publish at 8:00 am on Sunday morning - a totally arbitrary day and time I chose, and now try to stick with.
*I use the Voice Memos app on my iPhone to record my voice, as well as the ambient sounds that bookend my narration. I stitch both together in GarageBand to create the final file.
3. Commit to Continuing
There have been weeks throughout the past year where I felt a distinct lack of worthy images and/or words to share, trashed entire drafts that didn’t work out, or felt too overwhelmed by life to face the blank page, but I haven’t missed a Sunday.
My only strategy with Substack has been to make sure I don’t stop.
When I started Field Notes, I merely wanted an outlet to share what I was already capturing, but now almost a year into it, I see how important this process has been for not only our business, but for my own creativity.
Continuing to carry on each week, no matter what, has forced me to be okay with imperfection. This weekly accountability has also elevated my craft, my attunement to the world around me, and my relationship with this land.
I’m finishing this post as another sunrise, another story, lifts outside my window. I’m thinking about the questions I receive about how I make all this happen (Substack, Instagram, etc), and I struggle to articulate what has become such an integrated part of my day. Those inquiries inspired this post, which I’m not sure actually provides an answer.
What I know for sure is that following anything that brings you joy, first and foremost, is a sure-fire way to finding a sustainable commitment to it. With or without Field Notes, I’d be out there walking with my camera. My day depends on it, and I’m grateful that you’re here to share it with.
Originally published on September 8, 2024
Passing Through
oddities, memories & more
I considered writing about oddities around the acreage for this post.
The idea was inspired by the strangely shaped fruit of the chocolate vine (above), which we plucked from the top of the tall deer fencing around our perennial nursery. Never seeing one before, we’d been entranced by its peculiarity nearly all summer.
Its appearance reminded me that a few years ago, on a cold September morning, we were shocked to find that a small snake had climbed to the top of that very same fence, and had, confoundingly, coiled itself around it.
Why? We wondered.
Dan for scale.
I also thought maybe I’d write about more ubiquitous happenings.
A week from now it’ll officially become autumn, so my mind swirled around changes in the air, the receding of summer, and other themes that feel comfortably cliché, and easy to wrap my words around.
Then another low hanging fruit, time, kept coming up in thoughts and conversation.
We’re both old enough to truly feel how 20 years can go by in a blink, and somehow both of our dogs are 14 years old. They’re how we met in the first place, at puppy class.
June Bug & Baron - 2010 | 2024
And the literal fruits that took half a decade to arrive in our field are finally glowing with banal regularity, absent of the excited anticipation we’d become accustomed to.
Every now is built on the scaffolding of the past, and you can only go up, not back.
American Persimmon, nearly ripe at long last.
This week I took a picture of the red chair in the woods, an infamous fixture on our property.
I put it there four years ago after buying it off Craigslist, and realizing on the aromatic drive home that it was, sadly, likely saturated in cat urine. Unfit for the house, I placed the chair in an empty section of our woods that I’m particularly fond of.
I liked the way it looked, as well as the opportunity to document its deterioration.
2020 | 2024
In the beginning, the deeply vibrant crimson radiated amongst the bare trees, but today its vibrancy has largely been bleached away, all but dissolving it into the morning fog. Somewhere along the way a rotted leg caused it to topple, displacing its cushion and expediting the invitation of moss.
The interior is inhabited by spiders, but when I looked at it this week I only saw time.
The year I got the chair, 2020, was also the year we did our first in-person market. In addition to Dan’s baskets, we added a few tablecloths from Target, and a big bucket of our Dahlias, to set the scene on the sidewalk. We spent a few frigid hours there, mostly taking a leap of faith, and an opportunity to get out of the house.
Why willow basketry? We didn’t know yet.
2020 | 2024
Last weekend we attended our biggest market of the year, a 3-day event in Pittsburgh where we built our 10’ x 10’ tent, hung our new Foggy Blossom banner, and curated Dan’s latest collection of woven wares with a more experienced eye.
This year we also added photographs from the farm in an attempt to more fully paint the picture of a story that’s been unfolding for years, but seemingly, forever.
Where we are in the arc, however, is unclear.
Some of our tallest willow at the moment.
The peculiar nature of the passage of time, and our place within its rhythm, binds these themes together in my mind.
When odd things appear around the acreage, I’m reminded of the unseen dimensions of this land. When I look in the proverbial rear view mirror, compounded memories create a clarity that was obscured during their formation. And when autumn comes into focus, yet again, its familiarity is still tinged with a refreshing fuzziness.
One can know their landscapes, both inside and out, but also be surprised by them.
A view of the shed from within the woods.
Originally published on September 15, 2024
Equinox in Esperance 🍂
an upstate NY adventure with willow to welcome autumn
We spent the last 5 days at World’s End School in Esperance, New York.
The purpose of our time there was to learn from Studio Amos, a husband and wife team of weavers from the UK. We spent luxuriously long days in a stunning 160+ year old barn, absolutely immersed in willow basketry with an incredible group of people.
In the evenings the barn transformed into our dining space, complete with the most gorgeous arrangements of flowers, grown and harvested right here on the 100+ acres.
World’s End is primarily a flower farm, with soap and sheep operations as well.
The full harvest moon glowed above us all week long!
We had the option to stay in a room in the main barn, but opted for the offer of a private cabin far from the action of shared lodging. What it lacked in water and electric it made up for in stunning sunrises and candlelit magic at night.
Across the field from our cabin was an irrigation pond that we plunged into twice each day. The water was so refreshing and restorative that we quickly became addicted to our new ritual, which we will greatly miss. Foggy Blossom needs a big pond!
The main basket we worked on crafting throughout the week featured scalloming and fitching techniques, both of which Dan has experimented with quite a bit, but were completely new to me.
Learning from experts is always an expansive experience, so we both felt our skills and understanding of the material growing greatly as we went along.
Tess, the farmer’s dog, was our constant companion.
We’ve never been basketry students side-by-side before, and after many months of teaching together it was such a treat to reverse roles and enjoy the relaxing space of receiving instruction, rather than giving it.
Dan fitching, and a basket featuring horns filled with grease to lubricate the tools.
We reached the border of the basket on the third day of making, which is always a tense moment as the material is at its most vulnerable, but everyone’s rods turned down perfectly.
The final, finishing step was a bit of leather-working to attach the handle.
Our baskets: Dan’s on the left, mine on the right.
On the last day, which was also the closing hours of summer, we played with a few other techniques including an underfoot base, and cordage-making from Iris.
Our entire time here was spent within sun-drenched, spectacular weather, which felt like the perfect and most special way to put a bow on a season that treated us so well.
Autumn has big shoes to fill.
Originally published on September 22, 2024
So Close/Far
the final quarter
There are 93 days left in 2024.
25% of the year is still on the table, which feels simultaneously small, and massively significant. Adding to this seesawing sensation, the final stretch of September is unfolding with days that do-si-do between the full expression of sunshine, and frosty frigidity, amidst which we’re trying to keep our heads above water.
It’s the time of year where this part of the world starts to slowly exhale towards a long winter’s nap… but not yet.
Autumn engulfs one in both relief and wistfulness.
This month tops the charts in terms of commitments, and by the end of September we’ll have spent half of it on the road, pursuing both business and pleasure, all in the name of basketry. In a craft that demands you meet its strength with your own, we’re feeling the wearying effects of working with willow more than ever.
And yet, I keep returning to the idea of Level II Fun, which is grueling in the moment, but a life highlight in retrospect. The closer we get to the finish line of 2024, the most difficult moments are shining the brightest.
However, pausing for purely pleasant moments has become a priority as well - Level I fun - and last weekend on our way home from World’s End School, we took an afternoon in and around Cooperstown, NY to fully celebrate the first day of fall.
Otsego Lake, Cooperstown’s fall flare, Marc Hom’s photos at the Fenimore Art Museum
A ride on the rails that was over-the-top picturesque!
When we finally arrived back home, we had to hit the ground running to prepare for teaching our own 3-day workshop that’s currently underway at Touchstone Center for Crafts. In the midst of our mad dash, subtle suggestions to slow down, and properly soak in the sights and the sounds, beckoned us from beyond our doors.
It’s hard to treat your own home like a hotel, especially when the amenities of the acreage are sweeter than anywhere else, so we listened as best we could.
Our calendar won’t fully clear until December, which is when we’ll start quietly punching the clock in our role as reverse farmers. Our 10,000+ willow plants will be dormant by then, so we’ll begin coppicing and harvesting them at a leisurely, yet focused pace, until we’re finished in March 2025.
But why fast forward to thoughts of the first 25% of 2025, when the final quarter of 2024 has only just begun?
I suppose it’s human nature to time travel in this way, when everything can feel so close, so far, so exhilarating, or so daunting, in any moment.
Our calendar won’t fully clear until December, which is when we’ll start quietly punching the clock in our role as reverse farmers. Our 10,000+ willow plants will be dormant by then, so we’ll begin coppicing and harvesting them at a leisurely, yet focused pace, until we’re finished in March 2025.
But why fast forward to thoughts of the first 25% of 2025, when the final quarter of 2024 has only just begun?
I suppose it’s human nature to time travel in this way, when everything can feel so close, so far, so exhilarating, or so daunting, in any moment.
