Facetune, for life.

When the past looks better than it actually is and the heartache of holes in your cashmere. Plus, my favorite things for rest, recovery and reality.

The trouble with nostalgia is that it’s typically stunning, void of the reality that lies in waiting for us. Sucked into the fantasy of what was or could have been, we long for an idealized version of the past, a part of ourselves that left long ago. Like Facetune for life, falling in love with what no longer exist.

My obsession with photography stems from my desire to capture and preserve moments in time as proof that they actually happened. However, my strong inclination towards nostalgia often leads to feelings of grief. Like an old friend I've tried to forget, it keeps resurfacing on my Explorer Page, persistently reminding me of its existence. My relationship with grief may seem disproportionate to the events in my life, but that's not really for me to judge. When I come across beautiful images, I’m flooded with feelings— loss, sadness, longing— and yet, they also provide a familiar comfort. Each photograph captures a perfect moment in time that will never happen again, and this realization fills me with a strange sadness that lingers in the background of my life. When I hold a picture of my mother, or Christy Turlington, or myself from a decade ago, I'm struck by a sense of nostalgia that acknowledges the fleeting nature of these moments. Let me give you an example. The portrait of my mother on her wedding day captures a moment that can never be replicated. I'm nostalgic for a time I never experienced, but I know that my mother will never be as young or as radiant as she was on that day. Even though she's still breathtakingly beautiful in the way a camera would pick up on, this exact moment in time can’t ever exist again. She’s aging. I'm aging. Sometimes I simply can’t bear the heartbreak of loss inevitable. What is she thinking? I imagine the dialogue and the chaos that lead to this precise moment when the camera lens shut. A photographer fiddled with C-stands and camera lenses before she stepped in and smiled. There were probably many with her eyes closed or a hair out of place. Nevermind. This one is forever.

My Mother and Father on their wedding day.

Same with Rosemary Clooney. I think I watch White Christmas every single year because I can’t believe this moment exists and it never will ever again! Can you imagine? This dress. I think of the costumer making these gloves and sketching this neckline. All of the schedules that had to come together to make this moment possible— hair, make up, these dancers, the set designer. Each one playing a crucial role in the creation of a fantasy that I genuinely can’t believe I’ll never experience in person. It’s a time mostly forgotten… forgotten until December of each year when I revisit the beauty.

Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas, 1954.

Philosopher and author Alain de Botton writes often about one’s sensitivity to the decay of beauty and the crumbling of architecture. In his book The Architecture of Happiness, he describes the ache we feel when our home is being gutted for renovation, when we find a hole in our cashmere or when a perfect paint job becomes tired and worn in. Society does not favorite those who are highly sensitive and tends to judge harshly, writing them off as high maintenance and difficult. However, the background hum of grief and the sense of loss that is felt is real to those of us who experience this phenomenon.

There’s always an inherent loss in beauty— built in—waiting to reveal itself. The eye cream in our medicine cabinet confirms this hypothesis and aids in our anxious pushing off of the inevitable. I am in love with pictures because they contain promise and perfection that can be held and savored, forever.

Youth and beauty. 2008.

I have a strong dislike for the digital world we find ourselves stuck in. Instagram has capitalized on our longing for permanence. It feeds our human desire to have and hold in the same way that Splenda replaces sugar—superficially. The truth is that they both trick us into thinking our needs are being met when in reality they’re recalibrating our tastebuds from the ground up. They meets our needs in only the moment we indulge but ultimately leave us unsatiated, wanting more. When we indulge in the real thing, our needs are met and we are freed from craving.

Digital content yells at you for attention, tugging on your shirt until you stop what you’re doing to attend to it. It’s fleeting, too fast. Stop long enough for me to fall in love, will ya? Hold your neck in a way that allows me to understanding your suffering. Place your hand on his shoulder softly so I can rest in your gentle stillness.

Please verify that this is really happening.

My memories are always warmly lit, like checking in to The Bowery Hotel on a rainy Sunday afternoon for a weekend away. My hair comes to my mind as perfectly done, three-days-out, and my skin, supple and radiant and young. I have laugh lines but they’re not set in yet. Combing through my memories, I’m convinced there were specific times in my past where I was my best— peak beauty, my most-happy and most-successful. I’m always surrounded by friends who care more about me than themselves and there’s zero consequences to my actions. If my memory serves me, which it most certainly does not, these were the best moments of my life and from here on out, it’ll never be as good as it was in the recesses of my mind.

In my mind, there’s always a fireplace and seating for four, arranged for good conversation and food the house comps because they’re just so glad you’re here.

Nostalgia is finding yourself in a moment you’ve yearned for previously, not realizing you’re there now. I’m the guy at the beach saying things like “I wish I was one of those people who went to the beach.” Often stuck in the beauty of what could be, life has a tendency to pass me by without introducing itself. It’s minutes or hours or months sometimes, before I notice the song on loop.

Moments fade, fantasy succumb to reality and my mind plays tricks.

Be here now.

Like a sick joke, the “here and now” involves bills, branding myself, thinking before I speak, going to bed before 11:00pm, hiking, yoga and writing each day. Oh, and limiting coffee, calling a friend, clearing my inbox and limiting my screen time. It’s a delicate balance to keep the mind clear of nostalgia.

Akin to melancholia, I’ve come to believe that nostalgia is really just a socially acceptable form of depression. Start your morning with her and you’re surely in trouble.

Unfortunately for the creatively-inclined, nostalgia is often lifeblood, the catalyst for our next creation. If it weren’t for that glittering filter added to everyday encounters, I’m not sure I’d have a reference for my work. Let me explain. I see a woman in my mind, walking down Prince Street. She carries herself in this purse-first, confident way that lets me know, that she knows, she’s stunning. She breaks hearts in Halston and there’s nothing you can do about it. The hair is effortlessly blown out, accentuating her perfect rack and she’s talking on her cellphone to what is likely an Italian stud waiting naked for her return to her Tribeca loft. This woman may have crossed Prince Street twelve years ago but she crosses my mind at least once a month. Was she really as glamorous as I remember her? Maybe she makes it impossible to love her by gulping her water and talking with her mouth full of food. Perhaps she lost her job and those were borrowed clothes, an attempt to save face, while pretending to talk into a disconnected phone with a bill three months past due. Nostalgia keeps me from needing answers to such questions because it keeps me from having to process the reality before me. It allows me live in a world I’ve created for myself. I’ll never know what it’s like to be in relationship with the Prince Street babe and while that seems appropriate in this scenario, it makes relationships with you rather difficult. Intoxicating, nostalgia often highlights the beauty while hiding the bloodshed.

While we’re at it, Lana del Rey has really fucked us. The Queen of Nostalgia, she paints perfect pictures of American life in a nude lip and strong brow. How can you not drive down Pacific Coast Highway without her? How can you not roadtrip through the heartland, tears rolling down your cheeks, ignoring the Hills Have Eyes neighbors that want you dead?

It’s a concoction. A coping mechanism, an exaggeration of a truth we want so badly to believe in.

The Queen of Nostalgia herself.

It is my experience that being creative can be intermittently overwhelming. I don’t know many creatives who don’t try and quiet the impulse at times. The urge to numb makes sense— one’s ability to seek new heights is in direct proportion to their ability to feel the depths of their lows. Most of my 20s were spent working extremely hard. They were also spent coping hard with endless amounts of alcohol, cocaine and Adderall. I’ve since put these things down as a way of checking out but other tools come into play when I’m not looking: screen time, pornography, certain people, nostalgia. The middle ground we’re all encouraged to seek, while “adult” and “recovered” and societally encouraged, isn’t often where the best art is made.

Months will go by without playing Lana, Mazzy Star, Bon Iver or Beach House. An hour and a half in the car, on my way home from work, I find my shoulders rock solid and my temples throbbing from held attention.

I park the car, turn the volume up and feel:

I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take the breath that's true
I look to you, and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth

You live your life, you go in shadows
You'll come apart, and you'll go black
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what's not there

Fade into you

These days I fade with intention.

I’ve become careful about the music I expose myself to. We have choices when it comes to the kinds of content we consume and can bring awareness to the roles they play in our daily lives. While I love Lana, do I really want to ride shotgun to nostalgia, yearning for a past no longer? Philip Glass is everything— or is he? Do I want to be present to what’s possible or feel chained to the past?

Just something to notice. No prescriptions here.

The truth is, we need both the fantasy and the reality. Nostalgia provides us with a wealth of inspiration— looking to the past to create the future we want to see in the world is important. As are removing our rose-colored glasses from time-to-time and embracing reality.

Since I was seventeen, I’ve sought out growth and evolution through books, conversations, retreats. I’d rope off a few weeks for reality with a guru and write in my journal about my hope for a more integrated life where stillness and stilettos could coincide. The beauty of turning thirty-eight this week is the understanding that growth is about seeing more clearly and finding balance. We can’t possibly be mindful and present 365. That’s an addiction in and of itself. It’s important we each get relief from ourselves on a regular basis. Yoga, mindfulness, writing, eating wholesome foods at similar, scheduled times each day, sleep, connection with another person, spirituality… there are many paths to a reality that we actually want to participate in.

When I miss getting lost I’ll Microdosing psyllicibin. It’s been a saving grace for me over the years— a way of breaking up the rigid parts of my mind that limit my creativity.

When feeling stuck, seeing only from a single vantage point, I pause.

I look around my room and start to notice my surroundings. What can I hear? The whirl of the heater. The birds chirping outside my window. My heartbeat. What do I see? I name them, out loud. White linen couch. Brown wooden desk. Jute woven rug. Can I smell or taste anything? I begin to become aware of my five senses and drop into the present moment. I highly recommend you try this for just five minutes next time you’re feeling anxious, numb or lost in thought.

My best creative thinking is done in the present moment. Here are a few life hacks that have helped me tap in along the way:

The first book of its kind that changed my life. A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle.

Never underestimate the power of good lighting. Soft. Perfect. The only lightbulb you need.

Three nights with a weighted blanket and I’m back in the game. Put on some weight.

Favorite book for processing grief as it relates to beauty and the loss of beauty.

The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton

When all else fails, treat yourself to a week at Esalen. A wellness workshop retreat located in Big Sur, you’ll come back more in love with reality than ever. Esalen Institute