Emily

(archived photo)

Abby

(archived photo)

She's a Jar

I Was a Superman, But Looks Are Deceiving

Wordless Chorus

Unfortunately, tomorrow marks my last day interning at Time Out Chicago. Because I already graduated and therefore they cannot compensate me via college credit, they weren't allowed to keep me on any longer than the summer. I suppose I am pretty lucky in that they made an exception in the first place and let me intern for the summer despite my post-college status.

This internship, though it only lasted two months, was a really rewarding experience for me. Time after time, I was thrown into intimidating situations, and, nervous and scared and "ill-equipped" as I was, I pulled through. I often felt empowered and proud -- most of the time, I was the youngest photographer for the press, and nearly all of the time, I was the only female. I navigated my way around the third largest city in the country to produce images for a well-known weekly publication, and I did it with little prior photojournalistic experience.

So, in summation, I am not saying I deserve a medal for my progress. However, for the past four years, I have witnessed my confidence in this medium sink lower and lower, and, in my final year of college, I too often sought the approval and validation of others to keep me afloat -- to give me a sense of purpose. To make me feel credible. I have not overcome all of my self-doubt (and thankfully, because that means that growth is never ending), but moving to Chicago on a leap of faith (and only a few hundred dollars -- ahh!) was probably the most difficult yet bravest decision I have made in my young life. It feels wonderful to know that I can surprise myself.

Even more wonderful is discovering what you're really made of in the midst of so much darkness.

With all that said, here are some images from My Morning Jacket's performance at the Charter One Pavilion on August 17th. To see a much more generous edit, go here.

There's Always a Siren Singing You to Shipwreck

But the Stillness Is a Burn

I was dripping with sweat on the dance floor Saturday, two in the morning, packed like a sardine (you can finish the rest of the Radiohead reference), searching for pools of light, straining my eyes to focus my lens, averting my gaze from the fucked up and and lustful... but, you know, despite the awkwardness and difficulty of it all, there isn't much to complain about when you get free access to a Lollapalooza after party, DJed by Jamie from the xx.

Babe, I'm on Fire

My love is real, a hefty hand that smacks you in the face. My love is alive, a fragrant flower with a milky white stem. Falling like snow down the staircase, broken dishes under my feet. Steering off the road into a ditch, into a tree, into a mail box, up and onto your charmingly groomed front lawn, just in time to wreck the party. Screaming like playground children, running after each other with melting Popsicles, balloons set free from sticky little hands. And we're up and off and into the empty air. My love is descending, a dimly lit alley filled with strays and garbage. My love is lying low, a sick and cowering dog under the kitchen table. Burning like skin under mid-August sun, swollen blisters on my shoulders. Running out the door into the garden, into the shed, into the swimming pool, up and onto your sizzling red car hood, just in time to shatter the glass. My love is on fire.

McDonald's

Salonica

Province