letter from: stockholm, sweden

Stockholm was built on a smattering of peninsulas, on the archipelago of the Baltic Sea. It is surrounded by open water, which, like a heartbeat, rushes constantly, flooding in and out of the city’s waterways. The clothing style at the moment is loose linen that tapers softly at the ankle, the waist — shades of oatmeal, flaxseed, deer-brown. Oversized beige button ups. Quality denim. Our Airbnb has an Bauhaus pendant lamp, forest green countertops.

I like that the Scandinavian style is noticeable. Distinct. You recognize it easily in clothes, furniture. Clean lines, a muted palette. I think having taste is like that too: An internal recognition. You know what you like when you see it.

One thing I’ve been working on these past 2 years is developing my own sense of style, which is embedded within the larger journey toward developing taste: in clothes, people, places. Do I like bright colors? Muted ones? Which fabrics hang and drape well? What looks elegant, tasteful to me? Who do I find myself drawn to? Why?

Susan Sontag: There is taste in people, visual taste, taste in emotion — and there is taste in acts, taste in morality. Intelligence, as well, is really a kind of taste: taste in ideas. One of the facts to be reckoned with is that taste tends to develop very unevenly. It's rare that the same person has good visual taste and good taste in people and taste in ideas.

The development of taste requires experimental consumption and a commitment to intentionality. That takes you from randomness to discernment. From liking things just because everyone else likes them, to knowing exactly why you find something intriguing, why it feels immersive. It is appreciating particularity. Picking up little signals of what you like: a little +/- imbued in everything.

Taste isn’t permanent though. I still slough off the things I used to admire for what I do now. I was wrong. I was… kind of right? I loved this one thing intensely, obsessively for a while. I don’t anymore. I was conflicted. But here I am. Getting closer with each iteration. My taste molts every season, mothlike, emerging victorious in its new form.

Refining your taste is vital. Intimate. Granular. You wade through the murk of constant information and lift goodness, beauty, out.

Here’s my advice on cultivating personal taste: Lean into spikiness. Learn all you can about a particular domain of your life. Experiment frequently. Dig deeper in what you like. Whether it be books, people, art, cuisine, fashion, interior decoration, ideas. Qualify it internally. You don’t need to explain it to others. Track what draws you in, captivates, catches in the crevices of your mind long after consumption. The colors, the heat, the longing, the taste, the tension, the feeling. Sooner or later, it’ll be clear, it’ll be instinctive: why you keep choosing the things you do. How to improve those choices.

More things I’m thinking about, some related to taste, some not:

• Feeling really unmoored from reality recently having been on the go traveling across Europe (and, perhaps in a foolish decision, using up almost all of my paid time off at work). I had the realization that on a regular day at work I stare at a laptop screen for a good 10 hours at least. That is a staggering amount of time. Unplugging expands my perception of time remarkably.

• At some point it is vital to really make your own decisions. You can take input and opinions from other people, but really, maturity is owning your choices and not diverting responsibility. The challenge for me is choosing well, and not questioning myself so relentlessly.

• The poetry in everything is kept fed by our dreaming and dies by our overanalysis and cynicism.

• San Francisco right now: the quality of daylight, the soft warmth, the fog relenting. I cooked bolognese last night. I craved the smell of tomato paste and basil, garlic, sausage, sage, heady and rich. On the trail, the bluffs swallow the land. The edges drop away into the sea. The veil between us feels thinner than before.

• Creation requires belief, revision, faith, and trust. Fidelity to your perspective. Don’t doubt the process. The magic emerges in its own time. When it does, it spills out of everything.

• Ultimately, it’s perfectly okay to change your mind. Yet there is so much unspoken grief in letting go of past selves.

• Milan Kundera:

  We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners... Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love... And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers.

• A small poem:

  

Some other pieces on taste to read: I share Brie Wolfson’s Notes on Taste literally every other week and I adored Kristin’s essay, The Little Fires of Taste.

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PS: one or two more mini-essays slash thought posts as part of this travel series (I think?) and then back to regular essays. Though I think I’ll weave in more short thoughts as I really like writing the small vignettes.

PPS: Thank you for the kind comments on my previous post. I read all of my comments (even if it takes some time for me to respond!)

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