Paper Stage: The 30-Second Art Project

hey friends!

Sun, 06 Mar 2011 15:22:40 -0500

some of you may have linked here through herewecollide.com today. if not, you should definitely follow—to write love on her arms posts something inspiring every day.

our summer road trip has ended, but we’ve still made it to a few more cities and have more stories to share with you. i have a book about it coming out this spring, and if you want any more information, just shoot an e-mail to paperstageart@gmail.com. i’ll keep you posted!

thanks again for all your support…we hope our project has encouraged you to share your stories, too!

- jess

home.

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:45:13 -0400

(currently listening)

home – explosions in the sky

how far we’ve come – matchbox twenty

welcome home – we shot the moon

The first time I drove my car, I was alone and crying hysterically. Having a car meant that college was mere months away, and college looked like an absolute dead end. It didn’t look like a new home or a world of opportunity—it just made me wonder where all the effort I’d put into my town, my friends, and my school had gone. Everything was set to evaporate over one summer, and my car was a concrete realization of this fact, a cage around me.

Two years later, and I’m packing up my car with two of my oldest friends, with music as loud as the speakers will go, with an atlas and no idea of what to expect. I’m leaving my town willingly this time, with the hopes of seeing what my home looks like on a wider scale. We can no longer stand for textbook definitions of the Painted Desert, or southern hospitality, or the snowy mountains of Vail, or the breathtaking Pacific Coast. It’s something we’ll have to find for ourselves. Leaving my driveway sets a nervousness in all of our stomachs, but it’s a little bit like a high bounce on a trampoline. If you’re careless, you’ll bound over the edge and break yourself. If you’re believing, you’ll land safely, but with your stomach in flips. And you’ll know that this is what it must feel like, if you were able to fly right off. And you’ll hope you’ll have those dreams, again, tonight—the carefree ones you had as a child.

The same car that I thought had trapped me, the ages that we thought would mean growing up, the mechanical troubles we’d been told to expect … all of this dissolves. In almost three weeks of the road rolling endlessly beneath us, we find ourselves to be so much freer, safer, and amazed than we ever could have expected. Across 7,489 miles, we make our homes on rooftops, in swimming pools, on sand and gravel and sea. We find friends and family in every corner of our country. It forces us to realize how vast everything is, but elevator ride connections reduce the world to a much smaller place. There is no place where we feel we don’t belong.

Take your wildest expectations. Go test them. Try to remember people from twenty years ago. Call them. Think of the scariest thing that you can. Go do it. Take down the walls that you’ve been told are there.

You were meant to be free.

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north carolina.

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:40:26 -0400

carolina – ben gibbard

the space between – valencia

couches in alleys – styrofoam (feat. ben gibbard)

The rain follows us to North Carolina, but it’s soothing as it hammers on the roof of the big, beautiful log cabin in which we’re staying. Kristin’s friend, Brianna, greets us eagerly as we step through the door. We’re again surrounded by the slow southern accent that we’ve come to love, but the conversation at the family dinner table is one of the most fast-paced and hilarious ones I’ve ever witnessed.

“It’s really something,” Brianna’s father says later, as we’re all gathered in the living room, watching the Flyers and feeling closer to home. “You turn on the news everyday, and you see all of this damage and destruction and murder everywhere,” he continues. “We think the world is falling apart. And then the three of you girls drive across the country, and you get all the way here, completely safe. Not a scratch on you, no car troubles, just an experience that you’ll never forget.” We all nod in agreement.

It’s something that we still can’t understand. It’s just starting to mean an incredible amount to us, the safety and hospitality and wonder that we’ve experienced. And even more, that so many people are learning along with us.

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Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:32:26 -0400

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five points if you get this reference. five more points if you...

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:30:45 -0400

five points if you get this reference.

five more points if you get that this is misinterpreted…haha.

tennessee.

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 14:52:48 -0400

(currently listening)

southern weather – the almost

the everglow – mae

stay away from me – the honorary title

It pours in Nashville, and we’re so sick of rain. We end up staying in the hotel for several hours, running around and looking for entertainment like little kids whose parents have left them for the bar. We go swimming for short bursts at a time, carry around entire pints of ice cream, and take the elevator to the top floor.

We end up back at the room, standing in front of the wide windows and looking out at the city below. Memorial Day has left the streets empty of traffic, save for a few unhurried cars. Slate clouds hang over everything, but a small hole shows us the sun, glowing red and absolutely huge as it sinks into the skyline.

Points of light break the darkness, in forms of stars and lit windows. We want so badly to be out in the city, taking in everything and letting ourselves be a part of its pulse. None of us have ever been here, and we may never be back. It seems such a shame to drive six thousand miles to get to a place that’s immediately wrecked with rain.

But looking out at the city, I start to see how big it is and how there is still so much more than this. It’s easy to get caught up in seizing everything at once, at trying to make the most of this trip because we know it may never happen again. But then you think about all of the other things you’ve yet to do, the people you’ve met to meet, and the moments of your life that are going to matter even more than this. A warm hotel room and a simple skyline look like enough for now, especially with the horizon that big before us.

little rock.

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:19:09 -0400

(currently listening)

stolen – dashboard confessional

shelter – ray lamontagne

love wasteland – johnny rocket

There are a lot of buzzwords that you learn when you get older, and one of them is “networking.” It’s a word that I’ve never really appreciated, largely because it sounds like you’re sucking people into a web in order to get farther in life. And let’s face it—that’s how a lot of people look at it.

When we arrive in Little Rock, we are welcomed warmly by a man named Jerry, whom my father worked with over twenty years ago. His wife and seven-year-old grandson eagerly invite us to cool off in their backyard pool, and it’s an offer that we’re happy to accept. Jerry tells me about how he and my father survived a tyrannical boss two years ago, but the one thing he keeps bringing up is the way that my parents let him use one of our cars whenever he was in the area. It was a fairly small gesture from a very long time ago, but it’s something he’s remembered as a source of freedom and compassion. He seems more than happy to return the favor by opening his home to us.

We explore Arkansas food (catfish, hush puppies, and fried okra) with these strangers, but throughout the course of a meal, it feels more like we’re visiting relatives that we don’t get to see very often. My definition of family has continually expanded throughout this trip.

We’re lucky enough to be on the streets of Little Rock for Riverfest, which draws huge crowds each Memorial Day weekend. We talk to dozens of people, none of whom turn down the opportunity to help us with our project. Everyone asks us about our own hometowns and reminds us to be safe and to look out for each other. The best surprise comes when we enter Green Grass, a small grocery store with environmentally-friendly products and two talented musicians. We move towards the back of the room to listen to their set, which grabs our ears immediately. We stay until their last song, and they are more than willing to help us with our project. In return, they ask that we tell our friends about their own project (so if you want to hear what Arkansas sounds like, I’d recommend myspace.com/johnnyrocketmusic). We give them the link to our blog, and they take our addresses and promise to send us some demos. On the way out, one of the people we’ve just met tells me that he knows someone who has worked with To Write Love On Her Arms. I immediately dig through my purse for my copy of their full-page ad in USA Today and hand it to him. “It’s beautiful,” he says, reading over the encouraging words. The ink reminds us that we’re not alone, that we have each other to lean on, and it’s looking especially true today.

When we get back to the house, it’s after ten-thirty. We immediately jump into the pool again, cooling off from the humid night. Cricket and frog songs reverberate around us, and it sounds a lot like the summer noises I’ve grown up with. Something about Arkansas feels very much ours. Something about everything feels very much shared, and we’re very much eager to continue finding it.

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Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:17:39 -0400

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Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:16:39 -0400

it absolutely POURED on the way to riverfest…but then it...

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:16:00 -0400

it absolutely POURED on the way to riverfest…but then it cleared up and was beautiful!

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