Twenty four years ago, I remember being in his study, standing in front of his desk. Nervous. In the evening, during a moment we call sobremesa, or the chatter after lunch. It is also the time for siesta. Could be in spring, maybe the summer, it’s hard to tell the season of this memory. The room is full of natural light, mostly coming from the big window to my left, where a subtle mediterranean breeze is coming through. There is a rich smell of ink, wood and paper everywhere I turn, mixed in with the distant scent of coffee being made in the kitchen next door. I’m alone in his study, but there is political chatter in the background, I can hear kids playing outside.

Paco, who I never called abuelo, is in the living room with my mom, and the rest of my family, waiting for the coffee and almond pastries I’m supposed to be helping my grandmother with. But I decided to walk into his study instead. A study I’ve meticulously observed over the years. From scattered tools, shelfs full of art books, well archived magazine proofs, and folders of drawings from each of his grandkids. The sound of coffee being poured over las tacitas para el cafe from the kitchen reminds me I should not be here.

I looked down at his ageless wooden desk that belonged to my great grandfather, a print maker. It has markings and dents from decades of cutting and pressing paper on it. A big mirror of a golden shade tone in front of it, with no frame but a marble-like pattern on it. A orange lamp from the 60s, always on. And an aged brown leather Togo, surrounded by photos of the family above it.

There is big old key at his desk. A key I turn to open a drawer holding calligraphy pens, papers, rulers, Letraset sheets, and all sorts of tools I imagine he used throughout his career. There is a small box that looks ancient, with torn edges and a hand drawn label dating 1945. “Cervantinas, cada vez más perfeccionadas. Primera marca Nacional“. My fingers went around each corner of this box, with delicacy. It contains a handful of dip pen nibs, some with ink stains still on them.

My twelve year old self took the box that day, without hesitation.

It has been with me, ever since.

Paco is my abuelo but everyone always called him Paco. Paco to me, Paco to my mother (his daughter), Paco to the hundreds of people that will always remember him.

Today he would have been 100 years old. Contrary to most people, this was something he hoped for. His funeral was at Las Ermitas de San Antonio in Madrid, where he was baptized in 1926 and where Velazquez famously painted one of his very few religious pieces. I only know this because I’ve walked by it hundreds of times, and hundreds of times Paco would tell me this story and a million other stories he had in every rincon de Madrid. Because he knew my city better than anybody, often telling taxistas how to get to places; Paco talked a lot; biked with us en la sierra every summer; always brought churros on Sundays a little too early in the morning; had red wine with every meal (including, sometimes, at breakfast) and continuously asked if I was getting married any time soon, so we could dance together.

Paco spent his early days playing on the streets of Madrid during the Spanish Civil war. Paco hid underground in el metro in between bombings and continued playing futbol (soccer for the Americans) immediately after; he got a red rose for my grandmother every week of her life. Even after she passed away, there’s always been a fresh red rose by her bedside. Because, as he would always say, he married la mujer más guapa de Leon.

Paco started his career at 14, working at my great-grandfathers printer as a typist; later designing his first magazine in the army during la mili, the mandatory military service training of the time; eventually becoming what was then called, a graphic artist. Making typefaces at Richard Gans, one of the very few Spanish type foundries; designing the layouts of today’s Spain’s biggest names in print: ABC, El Pais, Marca. Eventually moving on to television and even doing hand lettering commissions for Francisco Franco. Yes, that Franco.

Paco transitioned into digital. Learning Quark before InDesign; had an Apple computer as early as I can remember and continued designing books about us, his five grandchildren, until the very last day; He didn’t go to college but mentored most of the design, typography and editorial industry in Madrid, including most professors currently teaching design at Uni; his son, my uncle, followed the same steps as Creative Director of many magazines in the Spain of the 90s: Elle, Ragazza, Colors, GQ; even when I interned at Vogue Spain one summer, several men asked if Guijarro (my last name) was related to Paco and proceeded to tell me their batallitas, what an impact he made in their lives and all the things they had learned from him back in the day.

Paco also never taught, mentored or showed me anything related to typography, art or design. If he had grown up in New York, he would have been equal to the great Milton Glaser. I’ve spent my life admiring him only from a far, through other people’s experiences. In his own words, a three generation family tradition was now over because “design is just not for women”.

Writing this piece in 2021 helped me grief a grief I didn’t realize I had. When my mom called the night he passed away after months of slow decay, I initially felt nothing.

I loved him, his mannerisms, his way of knowing and being known by everyone, everywhere. No joke. At the cafe, the butcher, the newsstand, the bus … or anywhere we ever went with him. Even without him, people still ask me today “tu eres nieta de Paco, a que si?“ with a smile; a question I dreaded as a teenager but I now miss deeply.

The anger is gone, healed, but for a little while there, I hated the misogyny, the deep rooted machismo of men in his generation, and just how much I missed out on of his knowledge, because of it.

Going back home to Madrid has been different since. I still look for his 1978 light blue Audi 100 at the airport; remember his stories paseando por Princesa; think of him every time el Atleti is playing, gane o pierda; and hear his voice in my head with la pregunta de siempre de a ver cuando vuelvo a Madrid.

This story was written by me for SVA Creative Writing for Artists with professor Sussane Reece.

Had a non-original thought recently that you might share as well: we are constantly being pushed to consume, consume, consume and it’s getting out of control.

Already described by The NYT as “the bottleneck era”, we are constantly rushed to consume a new show, a new podcast, a new book; to be informed of the news, keep up with pop culture, know that new brand of that new fit someone wore; hear the new album by whoever is the new Brat, go to the new bar, have that one drink, that new restaurant everyone is talking about, go see that new art show… while also keeping up with family, friends, partner (or enter the eternal loop of dating if you aren’t coupled yet); don’t forget to work on yourself, go to the gym, have a beauty routine, stretch, eat healthy, drink water… oh and obviously, work. Work. Work. Work. Work. Work until you die. Work so you can justify taking that one day off that one weekend a year. Work so you can afford life and keep up with everyone else. Work so you can say to yourself that you have value, that you do something with your life, that college is paying off, that something (or someone) needs you. And I won’t even get into the Politics, the War, the Trump.

Just, stop. What is this race?

I can barely even remember any of it. I don’t remember that Podcast conversation, that beautifully directed movie, that one story of that one book, how I felt looking at that one artwork…

I’m overflowing with information that doesn’t actually matter much. I save things on Instagram, moods on Pinterest, songs on Spotify, bookmarks on browser and never look back. What is this insatiable need for more more more? is it digital hoarding?

This. That. And also being rushed.

Rushed to finish something; to be somewhere; to be get a word in; to meet the deadline; to maximize everything; to grow, be efficiency, to scale, to be productive, faster. Optimize!

More. More. More.

Rushed to take up space; rushed to not take up too much space; to be heard; to be seen. Rushed because life is far too short and there is an immense sense of urgency to get it all done right now. While at the same time, isolate: headphones on at all at times, avoiding the world, avoiding to live. Watch from the distance. Disengaged.

The noise is taking over. Distracting us from real life and never actually have time (or energy) to prioritize what we want, crave, need. But what do I want? What do I truly want for me, by me, without all the external influence? I want to write, to paint, to walk, to experience. I want to pause, look around, take it all in.

It’s the original red pill / blue pill from The Matrix, before conservatives took this analogy (apparently).

The thing is, I consider myself a pretty awake, grounded person. I protect my time, regulate my energy, slow down. Read books that remind me that to travel is more important than to arrive. I don’t have TikTok, limit Instagram use and have no screens at home.

So… if i feel this overwhelmed by life, how are YOU doing?

p.s.: I did not forget about AI (hat other layer, that new character, that just showed up in our lives). I’m just leaving the AI of it all for a different time.

*Bonus*

Shout out to this man, The Knicks, and the positive cultural exchange that is happening with the World Cup. I’m obviously supporting Spain but it’s been amazing to witness the Koreans in Mexico, the world rooting for Cape Verde, the vikings, and everyone’s sense of curiosity for one another despite speaking different languages.

I’ve decided, as if I needed this grand gesture, that this stage of my life is about stillness.

In this new era, new phase, new whatever…

I sit by the river and watch the sunset with my dog.

I take myself for a night at the opera.

I smoke cigarettes during a blackout in Ciudad de Mexico.

I watch La Dolce Vita in a small one-night cinema in Italy, yearning for intellectual conversations.

I cry in front of the Venus by Botticelli, overwhelmed by emotion.

I have crushes and fully developed stories of our love affairs.

I drive to my favorite beach on Sunday morning, for the memories.

I laugh out loud until my stomach hurts with friends.

I dance to house music in some basement in Bushwick.

I spend summer in Portugal.

I cycle all over the city.

I try to catch the sunset every time I’m in Los Angeles.

Anyway, who knew being single, healing, and getting to know myself, was so amazing. 

*Bonus*

1. Lady Parts on Peacock it’s a great show.

2. Little Joe, a book of Queer Cinema

3. Gatorade bottle, customer service, and letter Q from Fantasmas

4. 33-second long song: Hable Con Ella

5. The Soul by Robert Wun in four layers of the human body

We walked out of the theatre as if we were a couple. A couple who’s been together a long time, and don’t exchange words as often. We stood up at the same time. He followed my lead, walked slowly behind me, observing the people around us, appreciating the light and the colors of such a unique and wonderful bookstore turn cinema that is Giunti Odeon.

As we walked together, out of the theater I turned right on Anselmi, he turned left towards Piazza deli Strozzi. I turned around to look at him through the rest of the crowd, as he walked slowly towards his bike, with his hands inside the pockets of his really short shorts, Paul Mescal style. As he unlocked the bike he turned and looked at me. 

Our eyes locked for a full minute. 

Was he Italian? Because of his bike, I thought he might have been a local Florentino, but he looked like all the wanna be intellectuals I stumble upon in Williamsburg. With their whiteness, their round glasses, their early salt and pepper hair, carefully trimmed messy bear and parents who have a house by a lake somewhere. Men who like Fellini, have an opinion on the best Sake for some reason and think they have “taste”.

I wondered what I looked like to him. 

As I walked home alone through the mostly empty streets of Florence, I questioned myself for judging him. Why do I have such a hard time finding men interesting? We laughed subtly during the same scenes and got horrified at the same moments when men were violent towards women for no real reason. I was yearning for conversation. If we shared a late wine in the closest piazza, would he have noticed the same queer undertones as I did? Marcello, in my mind, is bi. Perhaps never sexually, but definitely in love and admiration for his friend who killed himself as he found himself trapped in a life that wasn’t his. Who clearly performed heteronormative ideals, even though he knew there was a lot more to him than that. Controversial, I know. But it would have been a great conversation, lighting up a cigarette right before our second wine.

What could have been, but never was. 

This is not what I imagined life to be

When I imagined myself in the future, I didn’t imagine my life working, I imagined myself living.

I imagined charismatic apartment, with a red sofa, exchanging looks with a gorgeous woman in front of me, over a glass of wine and Nina Simone in the background

I imagined myself watching the sunset every night from the side of my bed, by the ocean and a lover lighting a cigarette for me

I didn’t imagine myself working late every night, waking up every morning with anxiety, going to bed every night in full stress mode. Dressing poorly, barely taking care of myself. Just … surviving.

What. Is. This. Apocalypse. 

New apartment, new rituals, new intentions, new cold showers morning routine, new daily earthy vitamins (aka microdosing), new this, new that and not so new of most things tbh.

But, for right now, life just sounds like a break up*

1. Flowers by Miley Cyrus

2. Cellophane by FKA Twigs

3. SOS by SZA

4. We Fell In Love In October by Girl In Red

5. Dona Nobis Pacem 2 by Max Richter

* It’s more accurate to say its less of a break up and more of a loving, respectful and intentional uncoupling 🖤

✷ Bonus ✷

Oprah’s Super Soul Episode on Forgiveness is transformative. Listen to it, carefully. At your own pace. Let it sink in. Take notes. Do whatever you need to do, but just listen.

“High, higher, baby. Are you livin'? Are you doin' fine?”

I’m entering a new phase of chill in my life. Trying to slow by learning new things. Slow down with me.

1. Doing ceramics on Saturdays, which is weirdly calming, wildly fulfilling and extraordinarily physical.

2. Also taking two classes at SVA this fall (Writing for Artists and Philosophy for Creatives), which is bringing up all kinds of emotions.

3. Thinking a lot about purpose lately.

4. This excerpt from Yung Pueblo really got me:
   
   “Make your well-being and healing top priority. Have the courage to create boundaries that will support your flourishing. Listen closely to your intuition, respect your need for rest and connect with people who are emotionally mature. Be intentional with your life”

5. And I’m starting microdosing soon. . .

✷ Bonus ✷

Seen on Moon Collective

Occasionally, that does happen. But most of the times, it never does. Because we are bombarded with information every single day. 

The Daily recently had an episode about the current state of mental health in teens, which can start as early as age 12. Why? Because we are being fed too much information. So often, that a teen’s brain is not able to digest any of it, so the overload of information is causing them to have all kinds of emotions without being able able to process it.

Over and over again. More, faster, longer — It’s asphyxiating.

🫠 Back to instagram… Once Saves where introduced, I eventually started sharing then ti Stories. Until one day, I catched myself curating what I was sharing — Will they like this one? Or perhaps that one? Let’s add in a quote, for balance — I felt disgusting. Embarrassed. Trapped. 

Since then, I’ve started marking all ads as irrelevant, removing recommended posts, and unfollowing accounts I don’t care about. I’m not interested in Instagram as much anymore.

I’ve been trying to enter an era of self healing for years. But I’ve ignored, postponed and deprioritized it for too long. After years of hustling, I think I’m ready to breath.

And with that, here are 5 things I’ve saved lately: 

01 → RISK IS PART A OF AUTHENTICITY by Erika Alexander on James Baldwin.

02 → GO BACK INTO YOUR PAST TO DISCOVER WHAT YOU WANT TO BE by Oprah on David Brooks quoting Nietzsche.

03 → WHAT WE PERCEIVE TO BE THE TRUTH, IS ONLY A FRACTION OF THE WHOLE TRUTH by Robert Edward Grant on Conscious Expansion.

04 → I’M NOT TELLING YOU TO MAKE THE WORLD BETTER. “I'm just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment” by Joan Didion

05 → THE CREATIVES ARE NOT ALRIGHT by Nicoletta Motta on Cafecito.

The world is a lot right now. I’m having a hard time finding the right words, the right tone, the right thing to talk about, the right thing to complain about. So, in absence of words, here are some sounds:

1 Closer To You by Amo Amo — Close your eyes. Let the tunes take over your body. Start to slowly feel your arms, that tingle at the tip of your fingers, the subtle move of your spine as u feel the music taking over you. Will there be a future? who cares. be here. be this moment.

2 Where You Gonna Go? by Jitwam — is this Ibiza? London? Paris? It’s whatever you want your fantasy to be.

3 Crepuscolo Sul Mare by Piero Umiliani — no words. just listen. feel. dream. replay.

4 Green Eyes by Arlo Parks — a love story. a cigarette through a cracked window on a hot summer day. a kiss in the rain. laughing after sex.

5 Is That All There Is? by Peggy Lee — And that’s that.

✷ Bonus ✷

What have you been worrying about lately? AND What’s a song that makes you feel all the feelings? Whatever that feeling might be.

☺︎ Reply back and let me know ☺︎

And it just feels like a lot. Consumed by work, reminiscent of anything I thought I needed to be successful while much less qualified individuals get ahead, the politics of politics and blah blah blah.

Plus, you know, worrying about the future, a possible global war, inflation, the right to own our own bodies taken away, the denial to access for trans people, basically every single right is gone and the imminent collapse of everything is very real.

Honestly, are YOU okay?

I do find occasional joy in really simple things like the ocean in winter, Sunday afternoons at home listening to music, walking through galleries alone, when Laura makes me laugh at really stupid stuff, bothering Mona, and having great food with friends.

But I’m most excited to embark in a journey of self discovery, once I figure out how to work less. Can you believe I’ve been working an average of 10 hours / day for the past two years? 🫠

These 5 things are (potentially) helping:

↑ Breathwork has opened an entire world for me. Currently Testing things out with Open.

↑ Microdosing. Haven’t’ started yet but, I’m invested and once I start, I’m excited to document my journey using Houston.

↑ Reading occasional essays on Mortal has been putting things into perspective in a very interesting way.

↑ Art is currently missing in my life but I’m taking a day off next week just to go see art. In addition to the Whitney Biennial I’ll use See Saw and Artsy to find shows for that day.

↑ Everything Everywhere All At Once had a lot of inspiring moments and layers that felts incredibly unique. But, for right now, maybe I just need to be a rock. 

✷ Bonus ✷

I’m turning thirty something next week* and the vibe is a deep appetite to escape the uncertainty of our time.

Drinking, laughing, dancing to the hits of better days when everything seemed possible. Remember the parties on Skins? Euphoria? We Are Who We Are? To Quote Harry Styles “You know it's not the same as it was” and I can only feel like the world is ending and I need to enjoy every second of it because we’ll never be this young again anyway.

* if you are in New York, ask me for the date, time and location. 

Sometimes “I feel an intense loneliness, the type that makes me feel reckless and thirsty” (1). An intense need to spend time alone, drive away to the beach and feel grounded with the ocean. With the endless flow of the sound of the waves as my soundtrack.

Forever the new kid. Eternally nihilist, vulnerable without fear because the world is burning anyway.“Shifting between contradictory feelings that blur into unnamed emotions” (2A) The urgency, yet uncertainty of the pandemic, the climate crisis, racialized capitalism, rampant overconsumption, and the imminent collapse of everything.

While I find myself thinking: I just want to dance tonight. To the hits of my early twenties (remember MGMT?). When nothing was impossible and everything felt real. “Acknowledging the appetite for escapist distrastrations” (2B). Longing for better days, not the way in which our lives are currently unfolding.

I escaped to the woods (3). Where I hiked, rested, listened. Without acknowledging the existence of people, time or the internet. Completely renewed. Learning new focused ways of breathing patterns. Aromas of wood. Grounded. With subtle notes of pressure that felt like I was present in body and mind for the first time, ever. (4)

And then, to realize that I’ll “never be this young again but this is the first time I’ve ever been this old.” (5)

✷ Not really a bonus ✷

(1)Loneliness Is A Guide from Write to Heal by Mimi Zhu

(2A) Mitski Is More Than Tik Tok and (2B) Dean Blunt And Nomame Give Us Hope from the NYT Music Issue: The Songs That Got Us Through It.

(3) Piaule was my solo escape for two nights. Where the trees, the spa, the pool, the food and the silence, helped me connect with myself.

(4) Breathwork was a life changing meditation experience. Luke Symon Mystique was incredible in person.

(5) High Wire Darlings by Kalyn Roseanne Livernois.

I didn’t. Louisa Cannell shared Denwell’s story last night and it kind of blew my mind.

My top 5:

↑ Lilly Reich (1885 - 1947) designed the Barcelona Chair, Brno Chair and Weißenhof Chair in addition to other largely uncredited collaborative work with architect and husband Ludwig Mies van Der Rohe.

↑ Charlotte perriand (1903 - 1999) designer of the Nuage Shelf and one of the first in her field to be inspired by and sensitive to human’s impact in nature. Foundation Louis Vuitton had this symposium on her legacy in 2019.

↑ Anna Castelli Ferrieri (1018 - 2006) introduced plastic as an acceptable material and designed the famous Componibili Unit. What I love (and I agree with) the most is, that to her “Beauty can improve people’s way of life and thinking”.

↑ Faye Toogood, designer of the highly sculptural Poly Poly Chair.

↑ Kusheda Mensch, founder of Modular and designer of The Hand and so many other beautiful pieces I hope to own one day.

WANT MORE???

Tosin Oshinowo’s Adunni chai; Marianne Brandt Coffee & Tea set; Ray Eames who actually designed the famous Eames Lounge Chair, not her husband Charles Eames; Florence Knoll Bassett (yes, that Knoll) who considered herself an “arbiter of good taste” not a designer, created the famous Knoll Sofa; Cini Boeri beautiful Ghost Chair; and Patricia Urquiola Tufty Time Sofa that you’ve seen literally everywhere.

✷ Bonus ✷

I turned 30 during the early days of the pandemic (May 2020) on a zoom party.

moodboard and a playlist included. The vibe was a decadent overlap of old time glam meets the dark twisted reality of 2020. Where champagne is flowing, disco balls are shining and we can only dream of better times. 

Two years later, I’m still listening to the exact same playlist. Maybe because I still feel 29, maybe because we’ve been stuck on time, maybe because I’m nostalgic of other times

Sometimes I think I’m on the cusp of genius but then again, who doesn’t think their ideas are incredible? Lucky for me, I’ve grown up in a world packed with delusional people, so how could I not feel inspired by their mediocrity, false sense of power and self entitlement? If they think they are great, of course I can (at times) think I’m great. 

Anyway, my point is… that I’m doing this. A newsletter.  Yes, I know. Another newsletter by yet another person that doesn’t matter. About anything and everything. If you know me, you know I’m always looking for and sharing new things — and if you don’t know me, well, I’m glad we are getting to know each other! 

My non-girlfriend-girlfriend, unofficial partner of four years (hot topic for another day) and author with an enviable writing career, successful newsletter and soon to be NYT Best Selling Author — will think I’m an amateur. But guess what, I do not care.

Why?  Because life is too short. I’ve worked too hard since I moved to New York almost 12 years ago. Long nights, short days and endless all nighters. With high times (hey Forbes), low times (sorry for all the times I never showed up) and so many unfinished projects. Perhaps this might be one of them, perhaps it won’t. 

So, without further ado… deeply inspired by the most creative person I’ve ever had the luck to work with, Piera Gelardi, let me introduce you to ✷ NOX ✷  a newsletter about 5 things that have been inspiring me lately. Truth be told, I miss those old R29 days, don’t you?

Stay tuned,
Isabel

✷ Bonus ✷

Exquisite Gucci

If you are not here for the fashion, stay for the music. Cannot stop listening to the runway’s music on repeat. The low build of the instrumental “To The Hills Variation One” by A. Balanescu, mixed with two 80s hits: “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat and “Fade to grey” by Visage, is everything you need today.