8.03.2020

City Girl, Country Mouse

City Girl, Country Mouse | oonaballoona by marcy harriell

New photo backdrop WHO DIS?! Your city girl has gone country mouse for the summer. I've never been a fan of taking garment photos in front of greenery....but after a 6 month long, heady cocktail of New York winter, pause, isolation, and quarantine, GIVE ME ALL THE GREEN.

So. I meant to get right on keeping my promise of showing up here more often, but the last several weeks have been, sing it with me, a rollercoaster ride. Is anyone *not* on a rollercoaster ride at the moment? Be sure to scream inside your hearts, please.

City Girl, Country Mouse | oonaballoona by marcy harriell

I’m screaming with happiness, but keeping it in my heart and head, as I’m typing this at 6am. Apparently, I’m an early morning riser when there’s a front porch to look forward to. The only signs of life at the moment are butterflies, bees and squirrels. And hummingbirds!  Our first morning on the porch, Rob whispered, MARCY, and I looked up to see a tiny winged blur hovering about 6 inches from my face. Little guy thought my hair was some new species of treat. As I moved slowly from side to side, he followed my fro. 

I’m gonna stick some flowers in it one morning and see if I can get him to land. 




TWIRL POWER.

City Girl, Country Mouse | oonaballoona by marcy harriell

Our new Arkansas oasis is in the familiar surroundings of Rob’s hometown. I fell in love with Fayetteville the first time I visited, it's a beautiful college town with an open-minded outlook. We ran a gauntlet of rental car, hotel, two airports and two airplanes to get here, and after a self-imposed quarantine, I'm happy to say we're a-ok. As much as anyone is a-ok these days. Hey side note! LaGuardia's new Terminal B is gorgeous. But if you're connecting through American Airlines Charlotte, NC, and have a little time before your flight? STOP AT THE TRANQUIL ROCKING CHAIRS. GODSAKES, STOP AT THE TRANQUIL ROCKING CHAIRS. American had the brilliant idea to throw all of their flights into one tiny corner of a concourse, and it was a sea of humanity in various levels of masks. Most of which could only be called chin guards. Good times.


Happily, not the case here! Here, we’ve met our neighbors from 40 feet away! Here, every store has a "no mask no service" sign! Here, even the outdoor farmers' market complied without complaint! Fayetteville was one of the first (if not the first) cities in AR to adopt a mask ordinance, and now the state has followed suit. Our beloved home away from home really seems to be doing it right. And although it's easy to take a walk outside without seeing a soul, we've got our masks at hand. At neck? In pocket? Do you think we might need a conjugation of the verb to mask?


Oh yeah the dress! I made the dress. In fact, this might be the last dress I made before escaping New York. Since then, I haven't made a single wearable thing. Almost three weeks without a finished garment, that has GOT to be a record for me. Someone left the bobbins for her machine back in NY. Smooth move. The issue has been rectified, and I do believe sewing is happening today, right after I film a mini fabric haul for Ye Olde YouTube. Though I'm on the fence about YouTube vs Patreon. But really I just need to get off my ass and upload something. Because now that we have space and time, the year-old promise of a channel is another thing I mean to make good on.


Speaking of space and time, I was intending on writing about why we took a break from NY, but honestly, I don't want to spend the energy right now. I'll probably wax poetic on it at some point, but suffice it to say: it had been 6 months of watching the world turn upside down from behind barred windows, and it was enough.

DANGIT THE DRESS. (I say things like dangit now.) This dress is a modification of a self-drafted pattern, and the fabric hails from one of my favorite NY wax print joints, which now sells online!  This print is gone-zo at the moment, but they have a boatload of beautiful things. The fabric is perfect; the dress, she is not. Her downfall: sitting. She's fine below the waist, but sitting in any other mode than posture-perfect-high-tea-with-the-Queen is a peep show of tatas. I'm no stranger to standing-room-only dresses, but I like to treat my summer maxi dresses rough! I'm thinking of adding a crisscross pattern of rouleau ties up the front, or maybe thin horizontal bands permanently stitched down, sort of like latticework on a pie crust. HOW SOUTHERN IS THAT ANALOGY.

Well y’all, I hope this finds you at the start of a good and safe week. Let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see filmed or blogged or whathaveyou, as I aim to bring some happy, and hopeful, diversions for you while we’re here. Yes, there will be some serious talk too, but I think in the midst of...all this...bringing some happiness is what I’m good at 💗

6.22.2020

Off the ‘Gram


It’s been 133 days since New York went on pause, and this space has been dormant for most of that time. At first, I thought I would have loads of time to wake this blog back up: I’ll get to take shots outside, undisturbed! Then: Scratch that! I’ll find new ways to get creative in our apartment! Then: I HAVE NO TIME FOR THAT I HAVE TO MAKE TWO THOUSAND MASKS THEN I HAVE NO TIME FOR A WORLD THAT IS WAKING UP TO A VIRUS THAT HAS BEEN HERE SINCE FOREVER

Although my plans didn’t pan out, most of this has actually been documented in wee blurbs on the ‘gram, evolving into full-on micro blogging—something I’d rather do here. But people have been asking to listen and learn there, and social media is an undeniable tool for affecting the world. These past few weeks, I’ve eagerly—for lack of a better word— read the multiple paragraphs posted by so many of my friends, old and new. Sewists that already had me enamored of their clothing had me floored by their words relating their experiences and actions, much of which was very familiar, but kept private up until now.

I’ve been thinking about why we keep the things that hurt us private. Rob said to a friend of ours, who was surprised by my personal experiences with racism: she doesn’t tell you, because she doesn’t want to be defined by them.

He’s right. After sharing one story, I wanted to delete everything in my feed. I laid awake that night thinking it’s self centered, it’s old, there are so many present day stories that I should tell but how am I supposed to share those when that 25 year old story makes me want to crawl under a rock from having put it out there. Rob made me promise to sleep on it, and when I couldn’t sleep, this post appeared in my feed. And I was glad my words were up so that my new friend could put her words up. And I’m glad for every person out there sharing their words. And I know it’s an awful, naked thing to do. 

When you hear the experiences of a friend, a family member, or even a technicolor blogger, who can offer you a glimpse into the world through a different lens, I believe it can change your world view. Not THE worldview, a worldview. And if enough of us share that lens, well, it’s chipping away at the virus of racism.

While my own experiences with racism are deeply felt, while color plays a HUGE and every day part in my line of work, I feel that my problems are insignificant in comparison. But, they’re also important. Systemic racism is a huge part of the problem. Representation is a huge part of the problem. Sitting at a high end bar and being called a black b*tch is a huge part of the problem. Allowing it to go untold contributes to the virus, and to the unimaginable.

So hi. I’ll be coming back to this space more often. I may share some of the stories I’ve posted on Instagram these past weeks. I may share recent stories. We may have different opinions, I hope you’re open to hearing them, because I can’t navigate the world without sharing them anymore.

I know I can’t get through these days without joy, it’s why I taught myself to sew, so I will definitely, and defiantly, share the technicolor armor.

Wishing you the work that needs to be done, however and wherever you can do it, and the joy that you need to keep it up.


3.15.2020

The Weekend That Was


We’d brought a minute of warm temperatures with us to St Paul, and at the end of a long and happy night of singing, I saw no need to change my favorite pair of show heels out for sneakers. Stepping out of the cab at the hotel, a melted pool of snow was the final straw for these little leopard kicks. As I slipped them off in the room, the wet leather simply...exhaled apart.

These babies, scored for seven bucks in one of my favorite Arkansas thrift shops, were with me for four years. They instantly became my favorite pair of dress heels. They went with everything, in my book. There wasn’t a fabric I could throw at them that didn’t work! Florals! Quilts! Kid’s artwork! I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stood onstage in these shoes. Or on red carpets. Hell, they were immortalized in the pages of Vogue.com and the foot pedal on The Today Show.

But their swan song topped them all: a celebratory concert on the main floor of The Lexington, a gorgeous supper club filled with folks there in the name of good food, good music, and good life.

That night, even the upstairs of The Lex was jumping: as I painted my lips, revelers on the other side of the dressing room wall hollered to a live accordion (yes, an accordion) for a 50th anniversary. I tapped my bare feet to “Hey Jude” and sewed up the last few stitches on my pink plaid gown, as the party downstairs enjoyed a menu that, to Rob’s surprise, featured Rude Red in a fantastic array of dishes from the mind of Chef Jack (the man of the hour). Dress finished, I donned my trusty heels and switched gears—from the sounds of a one man band to a three man jazz trio—and we dove once again into Back to Bacharach. After a set of a dozen songs, the band and our loved ones were treated to an elegant midnight supper, our swank 1960s vibe in stark contrast to the table opposite us: bronco riders, fabulously decked out from cowboy boot to hat. I sipped on a glass of ‘14 Camus, courtesy of my new favorite sommelier, and tore happily through a ribeye the size of the Twin Cities, while my shoes played footsie with Rob.

The morning after, I gave my wounded heels a brief wistful glance as I slammed out of the hotel in sneakers, in search of coffee. The temperature had dropped considerably, and I noticed the streets were oddly vacant. Immediately, I adopted the New Yorker vibe: that Don't Mess With Me feel you slip into in a new and desolate city area. The streets were closed, police cars sprinkled here and there. Then shouting began. A gaggle of people threatening to make it physical at a bus stop. Armor up, walk on by. Another block. More shouting. For real? I thought. How is St Paul this mad this early? As the yells grew closer, words began to take shape: YOU. THAT’S RIGHT. YOU.

THIS IS YOURS. YOU GOT THIS.  YOU ARE AWESOME.

I passed a bemused cop near one of the sprinkled cars, then spied a few plodding runners moving weakly uphill. This was a marathon, clearly on its last and slowest competitors, and my yelling guy was there in some very frigid temps, the only onlooker still encouraging runners on the last two blocks of the race. I know this because one of his favorite shouts was YOU’VE ONLY GOT TWO MORE BLOCKS.

On the way back, armed with coffee, we caught each other’s appreciative eye, and yelled at each other: YOU ARE AWESOME.

NO! YOU ARE AWESOME!

And we both meant it.

That was the mantra of the weekend. Good god, everyone was AWESOME. It was 48 hours of celebrating awesome people! Our quartet of friends all had a chance to shine. Sarah, author and Golden Gloves winner, who, in a beautiful brick and mortar bookstore, taught us the Q train combination in preparation for a reading from her new novel Gravity. Ethan, whom I’m continually astonished to now find myself singing with, whose score to MMDG’s Pepperland had our shocked jaws on the floor. Rob, who was equally shocked to find a bottle of his baby, Rude Red, on every elegant table, and all over the wildly creative menu at The Lexington, a menu from the mind of Chef Jack: the person who was the spark for this marathon weekend of non-stop celebration of EVERYONE—which made perfect sense, him being the kind of guy that you instantly love for his love of EVERYTHING.

Chef Jack, a guy who is fighting a very bad diagnosis, who was celebrated that weekend by a community full of love, Jack, who is lucky to have the person meant for him running right by his side: Kathyrne. Lucky like Ethan, like Sarah, like Rob, like me.

So if the shoes had to go, their last gig was the best sendoff I could imagine for them. They had an excellent and jam packed race. I left them behind at the hotel, like runners shoes that have finally given out, but shoes that won. Of course I knew, no one would do anything more than toss them, there was really no third life for these thrifted shoes—but I felt like some of their good luck might rub off on the person who sent them on their way.

I wrote this post at the beginning of February, when it was cold and dreary but, you know, still fine to get on a plane, or go to a live concert (or even the public library). Reading back, I feel even more fortunate that we had that whirlwind weekend of PEOPLE. Most of whom were very aware of how precious this whole shebang is. We’ve got more concert dates lined up in early April, but, who knows? We’ll take it as it comes. I hope you’re staying safe and smart wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing, I’m over here yelling for you. YOU ARE AWESOME. Turns out most people are.