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Eraser.
Posted by Caitlin Cortez
on
2:19 PM
The streets were wet this morning- perhaps symbolizing the cleansing of yesterday's transgressions. After rain I always feel unashamedly hopeful.
As I sat atop a cosy studio wedged between fabric stores putting style numbers on the Resort Collection for the showroom, I saw light shine down in the foot and a half alley. It was at that moment that I felt the pulse of the city. The city had come alive again. The rain had spilled into the streets only to forgive what was unforgivable, to heal was was broken, and to rekindle what may have blown out.
As many people say, only two things in life are certain. Death and taxes. Does this mean we all hold the eraser? I know we write our own stories, but can we edit them as well?
Making patterns on the work table newly lit by the narrow alley, I drew the lines so deliberately. But I always knew I had the power to erase the unwanted line if it strayed. I always had the option to make a curve deeper, a hemline shorter, a grainline cut on the straight of grain rather than bias. Though all those decision had been made by someone else already, I ultimately held the power.
In the end, we can choose to write our story, our legacy, our history in a language only someone with that immense amount of passion can read. Or we can choose to let someone else have the byline. We can crumple it. Edit it. Doodle till it is nearly illegible. Or we can erase and start all over.
The sad part is that people forget the beauty, the opportunity, the genius that lies in a mistake, a rainy morning, or an uneven hem.
Upon pondering the brilliance found in mistakes whilst I sat on a cold metal stool at a wooden work table, I turned the pencil to erase a line only to find the eraser was no more.
The line screamed at me. Scorned me. Reminded me of the imperfections that simmer within humans. An eraser had become my protector instead of my nemisis.
At the end of it all. Accidents turn into art. Imperfections turn into an unexplained beauty. And a rainy days escort sunshine into alleys and gutters where brokendown men with no hope can find the strength to write their own story without erasing their past. Just as rainy days come and go, patterns are worked and re-worked- our past is, and will always, be a part of us, but it does not have to define our future. It is human struggle that makes you real. It is the imperfections that keep you out of Madame Tousseau's wax museum.
To be unashamed is to be beautiful. In understanding the shortcomings you can appreciate talent, the drive, the ambition, and the heart.
Not every story is beautiful from start to finish. The fashion industry is tediuous, strenuous, exhausting, and unglamourous. The process is not beautiful- it is only the final product, in it's entirety, that is beautiful.
Today. I write in pen.
As I sat atop a cosy studio wedged between fabric stores putting style numbers on the Resort Collection for the showroom, I saw light shine down in the foot and a half alley. It was at that moment that I felt the pulse of the city. The city had come alive again. The rain had spilled into the streets only to forgive what was unforgivable, to heal was was broken, and to rekindle what may have blown out.
As many people say, only two things in life are certain. Death and taxes. Does this mean we all hold the eraser? I know we write our own stories, but can we edit them as well?
Making patterns on the work table newly lit by the narrow alley, I drew the lines so deliberately. But I always knew I had the power to erase the unwanted line if it strayed. I always had the option to make a curve deeper, a hemline shorter, a grainline cut on the straight of grain rather than bias. Though all those decision had been made by someone else already, I ultimately held the power.
In the end, we can choose to write our story, our legacy, our history in a language only someone with that immense amount of passion can read. Or we can choose to let someone else have the byline. We can crumple it. Edit it. Doodle till it is nearly illegible. Or we can erase and start all over.
The sad part is that people forget the beauty, the opportunity, the genius that lies in a mistake, a rainy morning, or an uneven hem.
Upon pondering the brilliance found in mistakes whilst I sat on a cold metal stool at a wooden work table, I turned the pencil to erase a line only to find the eraser was no more.
The line screamed at me. Scorned me. Reminded me of the imperfections that simmer within humans. An eraser had become my protector instead of my nemisis.
At the end of it all. Accidents turn into art. Imperfections turn into an unexplained beauty. And a rainy days escort sunshine into alleys and gutters where brokendown men with no hope can find the strength to write their own story without erasing their past. Just as rainy days come and go, patterns are worked and re-worked- our past is, and will always, be a part of us, but it does not have to define our future. It is human struggle that makes you real. It is the imperfections that keep you out of Madame Tousseau's wax museum.
To be unashamed is to be beautiful. In understanding the shortcomings you can appreciate talent, the drive, the ambition, and the heart.
Not every story is beautiful from start to finish. The fashion industry is tediuous, strenuous, exhausting, and unglamourous. The process is not beautiful- it is only the final product, in it's entirety, that is beautiful.
Today. I write in pen.
