Dustin Giallanza

I love, love, love, love, love this guy.

(And he's a fantastic photographer, too.)

The Very Best

Ran across this gem today. Graphic design + a former DJ + inventive playlists + great music. All the good things in life. CLICK if you know what's good for you.

Cinnamon + Kevin, 8.27.11

With friends like these, who needs clients? 

I met Cinnamon when we both worked for AA a few years ago. And let me tell you - that work environment acts as a super-strength adhesive when it comes to worklationships. It's a shared trauma; a knowing world-weariness. We're all vets of hawking t-shirts to hipsters. But Cinn and I also bonded over our shared talkativeness and our affinity for tiki drinks, managing to keep in touch over the years. So when she shared her ideas for her intimate sunset nuptials in the middle of the redwoods, I leapt at the chance to shoot it. I mean, who could blame me?

Cinnamon and Kevin are absolute mavericks when it comes to music - you can count on either of them to curate any given jukebox so keenly that it sets the emotional meter in whatever room they're in. And with the perfect song as a soundtrack, they'll likely have an arsenal of wildly entertaining stories from their lives (both separately and together) to unfurl until the last keg has been tapped. In other words, these two know how to throw a party. 

Here are a few teaser images from their wedding this past weekend. With cocktails in hand, we waited until the sun's rays were the perfect shade of honey and Cinnamon declared, "This is it. Let's get married!" 

That's my kinda couple. 

Ryan & Jocelyn, part II

I've been finalizing post on the images from Ryan & Jocelyn's wedding (remember?), and I kept running into images I loved that didn't make it into the first series. Here are a few of my (new) favorites. 

Rocket To The Moon

Question: What kind of wedding ends with the bride, groom, and family traipsing through a foggy cemetery at midnight to check out what photo opportunities might exist there? Answer: A totally bitchin' one, that's what kind. I'll certainly have more to share from Cinnamon & Kevin's nuptials, but for now here are a couple of shots I got at the very end of the night. 

Heaven Can Wait

SUMMER//SUNBURN

I've been listening to The War On Drugs' Slave Ambient quite a bit recently, and aside from any apt Springsteen comparisons that would come to mind, the album has primarily reminded me of 2007. More specifically, it reminds me of what I listened to in 2007, itself more of an imprinted memory of time and place than an actual aural connection. As with most of the music I've listened to in my twenties as a card-carrying Los Angeles import, these memories mostly revolve around driving* somewhere (the aforementioned card is, of course, a driver license). As such, what Slave Ambient conjures in me is a flickering screen of vague, hazy memories. Memories of the way the air feels after the day's waning charred heat is replaced with a relieving twilight. Memories of damp hair on sweaty skin, of air rushing in open car windows, of a nighttime illuminated by vacated offices in skyscrapers. Of the ocean and of the city and of the desert, California's greatest assets arrayed neatly and backlit by the setting sun. 

Anyway, I also remember specific songs from that Summer of 2007, and I began to wonder if the songs I've listened to at the burnt end of summer bear any resemblance to one another as the years have collected? It turns out, they do. August, like all the other Augusts before it, tends to be populated with music that is lushly and unapologetically pretty. It tends to swoon against a certain amount of nostalgia, conspicuously lacking the scurf of July's typically scuzzed-up adrenaline rush. 

So here's a mix for the last days of August and for the first few of September. You can grab it here for a limited time.

*Here's an aside: Whenever I travel to a city whose primary method of moving bodies from A to B is through public transportation, I feel a deep and cavernous longing for my car. I realized it's one of the reasons I may never live (at least not full time) in a place like New York City, because I wouldn't be bidding adieu merely to my friends and loved ones in California, I'd also be parting ways with my car. And if, once all is said done in my life, my relationships were to be qualified based on loyalty, dependability, steadfastness, and time spent together, it might come to pass that my car is, in fact, the best friend I've ever had. So, there's that. 

Soory Aboot That

Despite growing up a stone's throw from Canada (relative, of course, to my latter-life location which is a stone's throw from Mexico), the only Vancouver I'd set foot in prior to this summer was Vancouver, Washington. As fate would have it, I've yet to set foot in Vancouver, B.C. (despite all the words Douglas Coupland has devoted to the subject), but I'm Canuck-shy no more. Armed to the teeth with satellite radio, iPads, and snack food, the Dailey family set the compass due north for a good old fashioned Summer road trip. Destination: Lake Louise, Banff, and Jasper--but along the way, I saw some of the most spectacular natural scenery I've ever encountered. This, too, from a girl born in the bosom of the Cascades; it's not a pithy observation I'm lobbing your way, friends. But I won't belabor the point further. Straight from the horses' mouth:

(Oh, and a quick aside about the water: That WATER. I can't describe the color, the lit-from-within, chlorinated, California-pool-from-the-window-of-an-airplane, David Hockney, tropical island, glacial runoff, milky, neon WATER. There you have it. All the words I can think of, arranged in no particular--or graceful--order. I'll let the images speak for themselves, even though my camera failed most times to accurately capture that water.) 

The Canadian Rockies

Well, I won't pretend this image doesn't arrive on the utter conceit of bragging rights. It does. It's the view from our hotel room. Shrug. 

At dawn we went canoeing on this lake to watch the sun rise. Absolutely stunning. The Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise.

The lake at dusk, from the hotel room window.

The Fairmont in Banff

Lake Louise by day

Louise + Andrew

Couldn't resist posting an image from the wedding I shot last week in Oxford. Here goes nuthin'...

A Night At The Rough Luxe Hotel

While the events of last week's trip to London are still fresh in my memory, I thought I'd take a moment to share one of the standout experiences I hauled home (and did not, I might add, declare on my customs form). My gracious hostess, traveling companion, and new friend Jen (of the blog Style Crusader) happened to be staying in London with her husband Fred at a hotel called Rough Luxe. Situated a stone's throw from the stately (and centrally convenient) St. Pancras Station, the hotel masterfully combines the contradicting ideals of roughness and luxury in one not-too-big, not-too-small space. Occupying a building whose age is imprinted in the texture of the walls and worn into its sinewy wooden staircase, Rough Luxe is a testament to the beauty of London's own conflicting culture of New versus Old. With thoroughly modern amenities deftly buoying its historic patina, the hotel provides a welcome sense of rootedness while still keeping an eye on the ever-shifting cultural current its guests are no doubt emerged in. 

But let's cut to the chase: You could infer all that from the introductory paragraph on Rough Luxe's website. The experience I had staying there is the real reason for this post. Because while it might parade around as a hotel, Rough Luxe is really more of a B&B. With only eight rooms in the building, guests are known and greeted by name--a luxury usually reserved for elite guests at larger hotels whose credit card invoices precede them. At Rough Luxe, you will be treated not as a hotel guest but as a friend. When I met hotel manager Leo Rabelo, we immediately launched into a lively conversation about social media, Twitter,* and (naturally enough) the London Riots. I returned to the hotel the next day on the promise that I'd get to sample some of Leo's homemade baba ghanoush. Though Jen and Fred were the key-carrying guests of the hotel, I was treated like a friend and personal guest of Leo's, immediately included in the wining, dining, and conversation that followed. 

In a culture that tends to prize exclusivity over inclusivity, competition over vulnerability, and adhering to a strict social who's-who code of conduct, it was an absolute pleasure to spend a few hours in the Rough Luxe courtyard with fellow travelers whose backgrounds were as diverse as our respective countries of origin. We shared wine, food, and discourse--and at the end of it all, greeted the dawn not as strangers passing through London, but as friends. There's no culture quite so ephemeral or transient as Hotel Culture, but Rough Luxe has emerged as a rare antithesis. Here, you will be greeted warmly, welcomed unquestioningly, and cared for graciously. The fact that the rooms are gorgeous is just the icing on the cake. 

*And speaking of Twitter, at Jen's and my suggestion, Leo acquiesced to a Twitter account for the hotel. So head on over and follow Rough Luxe!

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Do I seem thrilled? Because believe it: I was thrilled. Ecstatic, even

A view from the stairwell into the courtyard

Hotel manager Leo: delightful host, masterful concierge, erudite linguist, first-rate cook and all-around Renaissance Man

A prophetic inscription on the wall near my bed

Don't let the roll of TP fool you; this bathroom was top-notch

Clever touches abound. In this case, Gorey's sinister wit resides on the desk

Gilded and luxurious: Chinois at its finest

Leo relaxes in the Hotel's lobby

A view from the top

Couldn't resist another excuse to promote on of my favorite artists: Javier Piñon

Isn't she lovely?

A brief repose