Swimming Studies

I'm taking Leanne Shapton's Swimming Studies home with me, to read by the sea. I think you all know what it means to me to be in salt water. I already love her first chapter:

Water is elemental, it's what we're made of, what we can't live within our without. Trying to define what swimming means to me is like looking at a shell sitting in a few feet of clear, still water. There it is, in sharp focus, but once I reach for it, breaking the surface, the ripples refract the shell. It becomes five shells, twenty-five shells, some larger, and I blindly feel for what I saw perfectly before trying to grasp it.

I also read a piece by Ms. Shapton in the July Allure, while at the hairdressers on the weekend. I'm always in a sort of slowed down reality there, one of the few such environments I do relax and luxuriate in. Her feature was lovely to read there and it resonated with me in ways that cross boundaries of acquaintance. If you can hunt it down, I recommend reading it.

Paintings by Vicki Smith, from Bau-Xi


Sleepless nights, drowsy days - a strange veil over the week, dreams out of nowhere with people dredged up from past lives. I'm looking forward to a weekend of simple chores and meals at familiar places with easy company.

I've been enjoying Read. Look. Think. and find myself trawling through archives.

I've been thinking about putting everything on the table, weighing up its merits and downsizing some things. We (or at least I) can sometimes coast for a long time, doing things out of habit and unquestioning. I think my holiday will be good for this. It's good to go somewhere and table everything.

BFF is coming home next week and will be staying at my place while I'm away. I miss him when he's gone so am looking forward to him laughing at me, which tends to happen a lot.

I'll spend a lot of the weekend thinking about what cameras to take with me. Tripod and lenses too. I always imagine myself capturing it all, but I get there and mostly want to put down my camera.

Happy weekend.

Delphine Manivet

 I love this tone-on-tone lookbook, not to mention the stunning gowns, from Delphine Manivet.


I'm over on Hila's blog today helping to celebrate her book release. Come over for a glass of bubbly!!

Annabel Mehran

I've been such a long-time fan of Annabel Mehran's photography. I think I've probably also blogged a lot about my love of faceless portraits. Her "Louisa" series, with its wild and waterlogged feeling calls to me especially. (Ten days until I go home!)

Sunday best: Reality break

I'm in a pre-holiday hustle to get everything wrapped before I go away. Yesterday, I took care of all my writing deadlines (writing the word "FINAL" in a subject line brings me untold joy). And I rewarded myself at the end of it with roses from the flower market.

If I was a millionaire with a sky-writer, I would have spelled out the words, perfect day, yesterday. Even with deadlines, I couldn't help but revel in the sunlight, that kind of weather that necessitates the scenic walking route to get to everything. Today, my day is a little looser and I'll probably enjoy an epic reading session.

Second reads of favourite books always make me nervous... I dread discovering that the book, with the story and structure no longer a mystery, becomes a dried up version of my memory. But Cloud Atlas is transporting me a second time. David Mitchell has a brilliant mind... I think he must have a different sort of brain altogether. I know I keep saying it, but reading him is head-wrecking in the best possible way.

But, let's talk about clothes! I love this outfit even if it's something that would look terrible on me. It's one of the things I like about these Sunday best posts... that I get to fantasize an outfit that I couldn't wear. Most of the time I'm more interested in relating something to what I might actually wear, but once in awhile you see something that simply necessitates a break from reality!

Happy Sunday!

Products: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell | Tsumori Chisato Lamé Docking Top from La Garconne | Illesteva Murdoch sunglasses from Net-a-Porter | Shoe 05 from ABK-NYC | La Laque Couture No.5 from YSL | Velvet Gloss Lip Pencil from NARS | Yoko Pleated Trousers from Toast


It's cooler now. And got there without the big storm we were all looking up for. I keep feeling that something's missing, only to realize that I'm only not constantly working around the heat, gauging appetite, thirstiness, need for yet another cold shower.

I hope it stays this way. I've felt hemmed-in by these heavy days and I need to pin down fragments that have been too hot to come to rest. I want to walk far in green places and eat ice lollies without urgent feelings.

I don't have a lot of links for you this week. Right now, I love the calm beauty of Nadia's blog. I often wish I could be on her hill and in her gentle company.

And, my friend, Hila's book has been published! Such a wonderful thing and I'm so looking forward to reading her work.

Early in the week, I read this piece by Colm Tóibín in the New York Times. He writes with such soft alacrity that I always immediately respond to him. There's such familiarity in Tóibín's voice too; a certain cadence and turn of phrase, I suppose, though he's never wasteful with those easy Irish ways of saying things.

Thank you for your comments and e-mails this week. I hope you have a lovely weekend!

An emotional tale

By the time I turned eight or nine, I had already experienced enough death. All four grandparents were gone. My brother. My godfather. I remember the day my brother died. We had recently got a new typewriter for Mum to type Dad's academic papers on. And it became a play thing for me and my sister. We would sit there and jam on the keys until they all got stuck in the upright position together. We would type our names. Jane Flanagan. Jane Esther Flanagan. Line after line, in red and black.

When Paul died, the house was a swarm of adults and grief and I got lost in it as a four-year old would. I remember that state of knowing but not knowing what was happening, of watching my Mum and perceiving limitless grief, of watching Dad and fearing his grief, fearing for him. But not feeling it myself. My older sister understood better and clung and sobbed as one with them. But I stood apart, trying to figure it all out, trying to summon the reactions I was witnessing, not being able to.

Instead, I sat at the table and in front of the typewriter and found that place in my child's mind where I could play by myself. I quietly typed, whispering and cajoling. And then I felt a gaze and looked up at one of Dad's coworkers looking down at me and smiling. And the man he was talking to followed his gaze and also smiled the same peculiar sad smile. And one said to the other "it's good she's not old enough to understand."

It was unlikely that moment alone. But it's from that moment that I trace this idea I've carried that it's better not to be emotional. That emotion was all caterwauling and carrying-on. And I continued to back away from emotion for decades. I loved my first real boyfriend more deeply than I had ever felt, but I never betrayed it. I shed countless tears over him, but never in front of him. I always withdrew and played with the typewriter in my head instead of giving expression to my feelings, even when there was no longer a problem of comprehension.

One day we had a fight and he pushed me. Hard. My head hit a dresser and split open. And when I felt the warm blood fall onto my eyelid, I started screaming. And I couldn't stop. I cried until my body started seizing, gulping for air between sobs. I stayed like that all night, knowing I should leave him and his room forever. But for the first time I wanted somebody to witness all my soggy, bruised emotion.

That unleashing didn't last. Instead of seeing that I had experienced the kind of pain I thought I had built immunity to, I focused on the end of our relationship and resolved never to be hurt like that again. For a brief moment I had embodied that state that I had conditioned myself to reject and, now, I needed to put distance between it and me. If that's what emotion was for, I wanted nothing to do with it.

I've long fantasized about a version of myself as cool as Estella in Great Expectations but the truth is I'm no more successful at it than she was. And my own inability to express has ruined other, better relationships. And I still hold back with my family, entrenched as we are in the dynamic created the day Paul died. The them and the me.

I can't say I feel entirely discouraged either; being emotionless is something with real currency in our world. Our understanding of professionalism has a lot to do with restraint around emotions (and we could especially talk about this with respect to being working women). It's easy to prize and pursue an emotionless existence. Being cold, calculated and handling situations impersonally is not only respected, it's required of us.

The problem is, of course, that we are emotional beings. And as more and more of us relate our jobs to our very identity, the idea of not taking work personally, of not reacting emotionally, becomes more difficult. The truth is that though I romanticize being unfeeling, I'm just lying to myself. I'm as heart-on-sleeve as they come. And I chase art and literature because it gives me a way to stretch into emotional spaces I find difficult to occupy in my own life. Perhaps it's even why I write.

In much the same way that I've wrestled feminist ideals, gradually allowing my definition to become broader and gentler than the definition I was raised with, I've worked on reorganizing my early understanding of what emotions are about. On having a relationship with my emotional self that's as strong and respectful as the relationship I have with my cerebral self. And on no longer seeing those parts as being disjointed from each other.

But I still feel emotionally inchoate, too vulnerable to being hurt, mistrustful of myself and unsure of what I really think and feel in certain moments. And it sometimes makes me feel very lonely, this feeling that I'll never reconcile it all, that I'll never just learn to be.

Meric Canatan

I feel like these iPad-made and sketches by Turkish artist Meric Canatan must have done the rounds already. But if they did, I missed them. The images were shot using Instagram and sketched over using the Sketch app. I can't help but think of cubism when I look at these, or those images of Picasso drawing around his own reflection. So inspiring!

A poem for Tuesday

An old favourite from Billy Collins, from The Apple that Astonished Paris.

You know the parlor trick
Wrap your arms around your own body
and from the back it looks like
someone is embracing you,
her hands grasping your shirt,
her fingernails teasing your neck.

From the front it is another story.
You never looked so alone,
your crossed elbows and screwy grin.
You could be waiting for a tailor
to fit you for a straitjacket,
one that would hold you really tight.


I always come back to a shroud of blues and soft neutrals; those wispy seaside hues. These are some things I've been collecting on my desktop lately...

I hope to get my hands on the Loneliness issue of Here and There. Loneliness is something that intrigues me, but it's often written about defensively. Like introversion and being single, people tend to register as being over-emphatic when they defend being alone.

But I feel being happy/unhappy, alone/lonely, single/coupled and extroverted/introverted are all separate things and to see necessary crossovers between those sets of things is to oversimplify more complex feelings and ways-of-being. I'd like to find ways of talking about all of it without defensiveness or idealization, but including mixed feelings and doubt, the sublime and the sad.

But, now, back to those wispy blues...

Image credits: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Sunday best: True blue babe

It's been too hot for gallivanting. So, I've been at home, working on a short story that I've been writing all week in my head. I do that when I'm on the subway, or in the ravine with my camera, when I'm at the coffee shop, smiling out the window at some dog, when my phone buzzes another work e-mail that I ignore because, goddammit it, it's my time too.

Most of what I write in my head never makes it onto any page. Those sentences, seemingly perfect, are shed on the walk home, or during the check-out girl conversation. Words just swirl and eddy in front of us like dust motes, anyway, so my wordshedding doesn't mean much at all. It just floats away with the rest.

Yesterday, I pulled Cloud Atlas off my shelf to reread in anticipation of the movie. I'm terrified it will ruin the book entirely and the cast doesn't inspire confidence. But I want to see it... the endeavour alone intrigues me. Right from the first page I was lost in it again.

David Mitchell is the kind of writer who just seems built of entirely different stuff. There are many writers who inspire me to write. But Mitchell makes the whole thing seem pointless; he's in such another world. It's mad to think of him living in Cork. My godmother lives there too. Just David Mitchell in Cork, writing books like Cloud Atlas. No biggie.

But I wish I was outside today and neither writing nor reading, but sitting on a rock somewhere with my feet in water, sandals on wet sand. My camera on my lap bunched in a summer skirt and salt on my lips. In three weeks I'll see the sea. And last night I had a swimming dream.

Products: Hermes camera from Leica | Splendid T-shirt from Net-a-Porter | Envelope Bag Geometrical Illusion from Coriumi | "True blue babe" silk twill skirt from Rittenhouse | Garrett Leight California Optical from Mr Porter | St. Clement's from James Heeley Parfums | Malta sandals from J.Crew


Friday at last! My week has been busy and blurry. I spent most of it thinking my holiday is in two weeks, only to realize last night that it's three weeks away. Ugh... I hate clocks and calendars and measuring devices of most kinds.

And I've got all these half-formed, but exciting, ideas brewing. But they're ideas I need time to spread out in front of me and I can't do that until I go away. So, I feel like I'm living in the threshold and being stuck there for another few weeks makes me hoppy. But I know it's frustrating when people blog about half-formed ideas they're not ready to share so I'll stop doing that right now.

Instead, I'll tell you about something I finished this week; rereading Lucy Gault. That evening was basically a write-off because all I could do was cry afterwards. Lucy is one of my favourite characters written, Trevor that perfect balance of emotive storyteller and master wordsmith. It's all deceptively easy, sublime and crisp... ah, just read it. I never tell, I always recommend, but I'm telling you this time.

And some links: Anna Emilia's last two posts blew my mind with their beauty... especially the raindrops on the surface of water. Love the mood in these shots! Over on Anne's blog, this chalky pastel palette wooed me.

And back to bookish matters: Alice Munro is another favourite, of course, and I loved this post over on new-to-me blog, A Crack in Everything. Of course, I'm have a recurring interest in our inability to truly know each other, so this post, and thinking about that in a parental light, intrigued me.

Finally, I'm including a link to a post that I haven't yet read all the way through. But I've read half of it and Hila never disappoints. The images have stayed with me all week, so that I wanted to carve out real time to wallow and reflect on her words. Definitely a good one to read over coffee tomorrow morning!

Have a great weekend!

A poem for Thursday

I think every pensive teenager (is there any other kind?) will see themselves in this. But as I think about going home, these are the images that again surface in my consciousness, the only way I've ever spent time with my family really.

I go home every time thinking we'll find a new way together, but always I end up walking off alone, camera in hand, regressing to those well-furrowed paths that map out our relationship. And I know there's a day when I'll regret that. And I regret it already. But sometimes there's no fighting a natural state. This is by Margaret Atwood.

All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the greying
bristles on the black of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals send most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finder, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.

Summer in b&w

On the weekend, I went into the ravine for a stroll and as usual I captured a few Instagram pics along the way. I suddenly started favouring the black and white filter and wished I had brought my old k1000, loaded up with fresh a roll of neopan.

I was thinking of my trip home (fast approaching). When I picture sitting on the pier at Howth, I see the scene in black and white. When I think of the shapes of the trawlers and nets, the floats and shells, it's all black and white.

I'm looking forward to seeing my black and white home again.

Image credits: Toast summer catalogue | Toast summer catalogue | me | me | Toast summer catalogue

Three things

1. Bobbie Burgers: The title of this painting -  "I Am Unable to Distinguish Between You and My Love" - at Bau-Xi.

2. There's a mind game where you run your finger along your inner arm and try to clearly distinguish between what you're feeling with your finger and what you're feeling on your arm.

The trick that becomes more complicated when you bring in another person... how much of you touching another is about you projecting the feeling of yourself being touched? Where does the physical feeling of an embrace begin and end?

3. Harold Brodkey: I wrote this quote in my notebook when reading First Loves...
"we are so entangled with each other that it is impossible to tell whose wish precedes which act or whose applause rewards what performance." - Harold Brodkey, p. 301

Embracing contradictions

Lucky for me, my Dad is a feminist. He grew up with a series of strong female role models; his grandmother was a business owner, his mother the kind of formidable Mam who clearly ruled the roost, commanding the utmost respect and indulgence from her typically Irish-sized brood. So, I was one of those lucky people who grew up pretty insulated from present-day feminist issues (insulated, honestly, until I started working in media.)

I consider myself to have had a lucky upbringing in this respect, but it did make it difficult to reconcile all aspects of myself: My father's feminist paradigm was a narrow one. You see, for Dad feminism was about women doing serious and traditionally male jobs without question. It was not being a housewife (despite the fact my Mum was always one). It was about getting a university education. And it was not necessarily getting married and having children.

The truth is that these ideas of strong, highly intellectual, seriously-applied and softness-shunning women made me feel limited in many ways. My penchant for "fluff" has always been strong... I've always loved collections, art, beautiful objects... I seem to have always been fueled by a heightened aesthetic sense. And this didn't just mean art and literature; it meant stuff—fashion, decor, gardens, beautiful food, sublime vignettes...

All this stuff is given such constant and reinforcing iteration on the blogosophere that it's easy to forget how alone I felt loving all of it growing up. Nowadays, in the context of our blog-world, my aesthetic charge seems wholly average. But growing up, it felt like an extreme and singular distraction. And it was one I kept mostly secret. The fact that I spent as much time thinking about how I would decorate my first apartment as I did thinking about going to university was something that I secretly squirreled away in notebooks full of lists and magazine clippings.

Of course, I see the "ordinary arts" a lot differently these days. I think there's great beauty in thinking of your immediate surroundings, seeing your everyday gestures as aesthetic expressions, as something worth charging with beauty. I do think it can sometimes get too self-conscious, too styled, too convoluted and I, personally, shy away from that kind of approach. But I think that's an individual balance. I like my home, my art, my wardrobe, my entertaining to come together with some deliberation but also spontaneity and a distinct letting-go. But others love to fuss over the details. It all has its place.

Somebody left a comment on my blog over the weekend about the "diversity" of posts on my blog. I know it's true... I jump between poetry and fashion, deeply personal, reflective posts and lust for a leather chair with ease. But for me a blog is about exploring and expressing all parts of myself. I feel just as limited being serious all the time as I do being shallow. I love the fluff but I know that's not all there is to life. I'm crazy silly as well as deeply pensive. I often feel lonely and loved all at once.

For me, my blog is a feminist blog. Not in the sense that my Dad thought of feminism - it's not all swashbuckling intellect here. And not in the sense that I'm constantly reflecting on the world in the context of my gender. It's feminist for me because, contradictions and all, it's me moving through the world in a manner marked by autonomous thought, by individuality and a sincere attempt at honesty, by an expectation of respect and refusal to set any preset limitations on myself.

In general, I struggle with identifying myself with an "ism" of any kind. At times, I have complex and contradictory feelings about my own gender. I want feminism to be broader, gentler than my Dad's definition. But I still wince when I hear women implicitly describe themselves as wives- and baby-makers-in-waiting. And I sometimes wince too at the dominant, most popular "voice" of the blogosphere and what that implies about gender (Hila wrote about this and linked to this article too).

At the same time, I don't like when the feminist lens is applied to every nook and cranny of our world - I don't think of every tale or female representation as a whitewash gender statement. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a bad feminist for all these contradictory thoughts. And then I think about this post Jessica wrote about contradictions and I try to embrace that. Because, for me, feminism isn't just a single doctrine or outlook. It isn't a paradigm you're either in or out of. Or a lens that needs to be applied to every thought or action...

Rather, it's one part of the complex ethical life we each try to live and adjudicate for ourselves, to assert when necessary (which is still too often). And, ultimately, it's finding the freedom to express the unfettered individuality that lies far beyond generalizations of gender, race, sexual orientation or age.

Sunday best: Languor

Summer's languor is getting to me. I set out happy and buoyant and within blocks I'm chasing shade and thinking about iced drinks and air-conditioning.Yesterday, my whole body ached, drained and in some kind of summer stupor. The atmosphere in Toronto needs a good clearing out... much as they terrify me, a thunderstorm would be a good thing right now.

But there's an upside to that languor too... hours whiled away reading, nibbling on summer salads and local fruit, rests taken under the shade of trees. Dropping down into ravines and feeling the temperature cool with the descent. And the sudden, unquenchable joy of a cold, cold shower.

And though I'm physically drained, I feel energetic too. In the stillness of summer, I feel a sudden clarity and purpose, my creative energy is undampened by the heat. And maybe that's not an accident. Perhaps these slow days, languid make me feel more vital in other ways.

Coping with extremes is such a sharpening thing; that constant self-monitoring of how comfortable you are, how hydrated, if skin is starting to burn. I find myself making cold calculations... and that physical decisiveness makes me low on patience for anything that doesn't feel right, decisively ruling things out and moving on to what I really want to do.

So, between cold showers and spells lying down by the air conditioner, things are buzzing along. Happily.

Products: Acne Parker silk shirt from Net-a-Porter | Scout chino from J.Crew | RB2132 - 875 Wayfarer from Ray-Ban | Kinfolk magazine, Volume 4 | Skinny leather belt from J.Crew | Rose Noir from Byredo | Malta sandals from J.Crew


Short weeks are often an optical illusion. We think the four days will fly, but Friday remains an elusive dot on the horizon. But it's here at last and I'm happy for that.

There were some lovely and amazing things around the ole 'sphere this week. Couture collections always trickle into the most decadent posts, but none can beat this Game of Thrones / Givenchy post over on Miss Moss.

And Hila crafted this gorgeous post featuring Wuthering Heights' Catherine. I tend to fight with very concrete visualizations of favourite fiction as they often end up replacing something more vague and personal that I imagined as I read. But Hila's posts are more allusions than depictions and they inspire the same vague, meandering, somewhat ineffable ideas.

The Toronto heatwave broke last night and resumed again this morning. I'll be reaching for cold drinks all weekend. I might give rosemary lemonade with cherries a whirl... it's a while since I muddled something! Though this was a tasty muddle too - oh, I can't wait to get my hands on some Ontario peaches!

If you're on Instagram, you'll be familiar with the weekend brunch deluge. But nobody captures their meals more beautifully than Alice and she shared some of her recent brunches on her blog this week. I think I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning!

My other plans include a haircut, a gallivant and maybe a movie. Optical illusions or not, I wouldn't mind if it were another 3-day weekend! But I'll soldier on.

Have a great weekend!

Walnuts Farm

It's a hot night in the city - the air is heavy and still. I don't mind the heat as much as all the radiation, how it bounces off concrete and there's little shade to be found. And I dream of the same temperature in gentler surroundings, where most things slow to nothing and there's always the sound of moving water or rustling leaves in the nearground. These images (and many more besides them) from Walnuts Farm have captured my imagination.

Summer cocktail

A summer cocktail of images, inspired by a divine spread from the most recent Sweet Paul. The latest Llama's Valley came out yesterday and the interiors are from this beautiful edition - I love this e-zine. And now my mouth is watering!

Image credits: Madewell | Interior from Llama's Valley,photographed by Milda Bendoraityte | Interior from Llama's Valley, photographed by Augis Narmontas | All cocktail images from Sweet Paul (styled by Paul Lowe, photographed by Hector Sanchez)

Weekend flowers

I suspect these will be the last peonies for a while...

I mixed them with yellow roses, delphiniums and poppy pods. Beautiful as the flowers are, they could barely surpass the beauty of my new Picasso vase from Frances Palmer. It was a birthday treat (self-gifted) and is now my favourite vessel.

I think you can tell that I like pretty abundant arrangements and this vase beautifully holds them. I've included Frances' work in many blog posts, but do check out her site... it really is impossible to play favourites!

My months in pictures

Just popping in on this bank holiday to share the last two months of instagramming (I forgot to put May up here). I love looking back on my month and remembering little moments, special days, bunches of flowers and tasty treats galore!

I'm seenandsaid on Instagram if you want to follow me. If you're not an Instagrammer, you can also check out my shots on this set on Flickr.

Sunday best: Canada Day heatwave

Happy Canada Day!

It's a hot weekend in a cleared-out city, but I'm more at ease with the weather than previous years. Still, cold drinks and shady breaks are very much the order when these heatwaves hit.

Yesterday, I started rereading The Story of Lucy Gault and its vivid imagery of the sea also helps my mind stay cool too. If you haven't read this book, I recommend it or anything really by William Trevor. Gosh, he can use his words.

And while that book transports me to Ireland, front of mind this month is the fact I mark nine years since I first arrived in Canada. I've always felt Toronto greets newcomers with benign indifference. Maybe that was just me. Or maybe it's real and a function of the sheer number of people who land in this city every year. I struggled with it when I first arrived... I guess I really wanted a big welcome hug.

But there's an upside to this indifference  and now it's what I love most about Canada. When I go back to Ireland, I feel it pressing in on me from all sides. After years of being here, more than anything I hate feeling smothered by a place or by people. I also really believe that, in myself, I've been able to do things here that I could not have done elsewhere... precisely because of this open-concept sense of space I feel here. I can't imagine being anywhere else now.

So, Happy Canada Day, fellow Canadians! And happy July too!

Products: The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor | Edith A. Miller Nessa Dress from Steven Alan | Gucci Straw boat hat from Net-a-Porter | Elderflower Still from Belvoir Fruit Farms | Multi Lotus bracelet from Me&Ro | Endless Summer Tote from Fieldguided | Grey blue tennis shoes from Bensimon