- See more at: http://blogtimenow.com/blogging/automatically-redirect-blogger-blog-another-blog-website/#sthash.ZOSg03mN.dpuf Katie Nugent Photography: 2010



These are the Sundmyhrs. Fredrik, Leslie and Cameron. I love them like disco queens love glitter, which means I love them so much it trails behind me as I go.

Poor little Cameron toughed through his teething and performed like an old pro, putting any model who complains about cramping legs, to shame.

After months (no seriously months) of having to reschedule because of everything that could possibly come up between two parties (like impromptu vacations, broken cameras, teething babies...) we finally settled on an early november day, right before the snow came. The sun came out and the snow stayed away and this is some of what we captured:

All photos by Katie Nugent photography


The little quirks

I have a problem with the letters V and Z. If ever I see the two letters in a word where the Z comes before the V, I get confused on which sound makes Vvvvvvv and which one makes Zzzzzz. Luckily in our language there are not many words with this pattern. However there is a particular name that is outside the video store where we go and it's something like Zveigt or something or other and try as I might to avoid looking at the word when I walk past I get sucked in every time.

It makes me feel inadequate this little brain-wire crossing. A complete fool I tell you. But I appreciate the things that make me a fool, because I sense that being perfect would be terribly boring and the last thing in the world I want to be is boring. So I'll take Z and V confusion as a quirk that adds to my delightfulness, unless you think I should get this issue looked at?????

hello there.



I am a closet romantic. In real life I pretend to be all tough and tumbles, but really I'm a total fiend for romantic comedies and all things ruffles and pretty. I like the idea of a world with hollywood love and men who hold open doors and driving through Italy on a vespa with a scarf floating behind you. Cheezy? Maybe, but lovely still.

Add to hollywood love a stick figure animation and you've got my attention. I'm a sucker for stick figure animation. It's so whimsical in its simplicity. Whimsy is a little something I like to hit up once in a while. Perhaps that's why I work in a daycare, I'm trying to get the kids to rub off on me.


bugle boy

When we were young, there was a brass bugle sitting atop a most precious side table in the "living room". This room was only used during holidays and get-togethers with family and friends. It was the room where the furniture was nice and no sticky fingers were allowed. No screaming children or hide and seek or space shuttle missions or jumping the steps three at a time. Absolutely no farting noises, please. {I know this because these were some of the things I was scolded for doing in this room} My mom often hid here and ignored our cries when we were certain her silence meant she'd been abducted by aliens. Anyways back to the bugle...

The bugle was a fascination of mine. I couldn't understand why we had a perfectly good horn and yet no one played it. So I tried. Taking my chances on whether or not this was allowed {I was assuming it wasn't but lived by the beg forgiveness motto} I brought the bugle to my lips assuming a most beautiful sound would pierce the air, but nothing happened. My face turned red, my cheeks ached and not a peep.

And then my dad swooped in... I was certain I was destined for a spanking {my mother is currently thinking "we never spanked you kids,"} but instead he lifted the bugle to his face and sounded the alarm. A most awful alarming sound that shook the very essence of my soul erupted through the airwaves ... in a very bad way.

It was hideous sounding, perhaps because he really didn't know how to play only had better lung capacity than I. And so for the remainder of my time in that house, the bugle was used to "summon" us when we refused to get out of bed, come for dinner or spent too long on the phone. This became a particularly painful event during our teenage to early adulthood years when a hang over was certainly the cause of the slow moving selves.

Today I stumbled across a photo of an EXACT. REPLICA. OF. THE. BUGLE.

I am still recovering.


Everyday Magic

Did you ever look at a shaft of light and see fairy dust lingering in the air? Now I know your adult mind sees dog hair and skin cells and another reason to clean instead of playing, but don't you remember when magic was an everyday occurrence?

Perhaps, my grown-up friends, we need a little magic infusion in our days. Taxes and housework and chores can wait, but if we don't look for the magic in the everyday it will simply disappear like Tinkerbell, when we stop believing in fairies. So here's a little list to remind you that magic is present, even when you're not looking:

The world is spinning regardless of the hour minute or second. It never takes a sick day or threatens to quit. It's very self-less.

Forests are perfect little systems, each mini cell plays a vital role, everything lives and dies and nothing is wasted. The original GREEN movement.

You can throw a ball against a wall and it will come back to you. Brains are magnificent.

Regardless of all our faults, humans continue to believe in Love and Life and Good.

Swinging in a hammock will cure even the darkest moment.

Have a magical day, mes amis.


talking to strangers

I love when people say little shocking things, or admit to tiny secrets, or blurt out something completely inappropriate. It always makes me feel a little more human. A little more connected. Especially when those people are a little bit foreign to you, like the grocery lady or the guy and his dog, or the mom who brings her kid to daycare.

I've been finding myself in this situation many times in short period of time. One mom revealed how she had fantasies about meeting some guy like the main heartthrob in a romantic comedy and he whisks her away and showers her with love. And then she said she knew it wasn't real life and real life was her son and her husband, but it's a nice thought when the boys are being F*** heads. But the best part was she didn't say anything like: oh I'm such a terrible mother/wife, how could I feel that way. She just said her piece and then laughed and went about her day.

A man walked past me and my dog and we said hello. He took this as an opportunity to tell me how he'd just moved back to town after years of living in Korea. He was lonely and had no job prospects. I nodded my head and he grinned. He eventually said he best move along and thanked me for listening.

I think I like these little revelations because they often reflect some piece of our humanness that we all feel. I think it's brave and curious to talk openly to someone you don't know, but I suppose in some ways it's easier to be honest with someone you're not invested in, than someone whose life is entwined with you own.

Have you ever opened your mouth and unintentionally your heart, to someone you barely knew? Do tell.

{don't forget to turn the tunes off on the sidebar}


You know the sludge at the bottom of the sink after you've washed a big load of greasy, food-baked-on, nasty pots and pans? You know. The stuff. The Sludge. That you would never. ever. touch. when you were a kid. And your mom would just swoop in bare handed, grab a fist full and dump it into the garbage. At that point you were certain she was going to go into toxic shock. And then you could probably get away with eating the entire carton of ice cream even though you didn't finish your (insert your most detested childhood meal here). Except she didn't and then you were horrified and a little afraid. It only proved your mom was indestructible. Remember when you thought your parents were indestructible. And you were sure you would never. ever. become an adult as indestructible as them.

I swore I would never. ever. touch. the. sludge. But that promise has died. Along with all the other promises I made about never getting married. or owning a house. or kissing boys (that one went out a LONG time ago). or doing anything to do with chores or bills or work or the boring stuff.

And today at work I realized I was the indestructible one among the babes in daycare. I swept a handful of ants into my palm and threw them outside. The kids avoided any bad behaviour after that maneuver.



Wouldn't it be nice if we all had a superpower that was just ours and made us unique and whole and purposeful. Everyone would have to appreciate everyone else because they had something no one else had. I sense this would bring an abrupt halt to all wars and suffering and heartache. Our awe of each other would stop us from ever hurting anyone else. And even if we did someone would have a power that would heal it instantly. 

As much as I think flying or super duper strength or the ability to see the future (this one would be far too stressful for little old me), I think my superpower would be the power to put everyone at ease, even in times of crisis.

Wouldn't that be nice? To be that person who could silence a room and make everyone feel like a baby being rocked, like all the troubles in the world can't possibly be that bad. To ease suffering and the soothe the heart when faced with the unanswerable questions of the universe. It would be nice to have powers like that. 

But then I suppose there are a few people like that in our world:


I hope your day is filled with ease my friends. 


Diana says hello.

Diana photos are rarely what you expect. They are individual and have personality and don't play by the rules. Sometimes you get two images on one photo and other times you are surprised by how perfectly this camera can capture the moment.

Anyways, the developer decided to cooperate. Now we can see what this camera does with black and white.

Also. The little asian man says hello. He hopes you all enjoy the photos.

Well technically he didn't actually say that, but I'm sure he meant to. He was busy taking photos of babies for their passports. Which brings me to the next question: Why didn't I have a passport when I was 6 months old?

Whenever I saw a woman dressed in traditional bolivian attire it reminded me of something. I don't know what. Like when you know the answer but you can't quite word it. They had a quietness that was fierce. Their faces were creased with wisdom and when they laughed in their little gaggles, well I nearly asked if I could join their lives, but I didn't.

It was sweltering on this day. We had to pass across the border by foot and wait in line for 2 hours to have our passports stamped. It felt like controlled chaos. Donkeys and foreigners and potatoes farmers. Bikes with sacks of onions and mangoes to sell. Chaos. In the loveliest form.

Mountains. Snow. Home.

Canoeing. You can see the canoe imposed over that man of mine. It was quiet. Calm. No one but us out there.



It's good to have projects. Here's something I'm working on. A little look-- do you like the few prototypes?

{Photos and words by me... for you}


drawing the curtain

When I was a kid I had a desk in my room that consisted of a piece of painted MDF attached just below my windowsill. Below this desk was my cave-- featuring a most inviting eyelet curtain door, which generally hid my dolly bed and other very important things. 

Now this may come as a shock to you, but I got sent up to my room. Often. And every time I was doomed to a sentence of hard time in my bedroom- after I had thrown myself across the bed in wild protest, kicking, screaming, creating chaos in my chamber- I would slip behind the curtain. Surrounded by my most cherished possessions (mostly dolls and stuffed animals), I would invent my own world of make believe and fairy tales and no punishing mommies and daddies-- which helped me forget all about my punishment. Until I heard the stairs creak. At that point I would rip back the curtain, fling myself across the bed and splay my arms over my eyes so they could see I was deep in penance. 

To this day I have places to go when the world spanks me with a wooden spoon. I think it's the most important thing to have. So here are a few places I would like to have as my curtained make believe spots. 


Keep floating

I know someone. She is a most interesting being. Just about one of the sweetest creatures in the world, save for the few times she is a space cadet, floating somewhere between earth and sky. It isn't her fault. She was born that way. I know. I remember her that far back. She really has always believed that life would support her, and so it has. She believes in the magic of life and all things associated. She laughs with her entire body, and isn't afraid of the ugly face you make when you're laughing that hard. She'll tell you the truth even when it's not very nice, but she'll put it in the nicest sentence you've ever heard. 

Still. With all that belief and magic and floating-- she's had her heart smushed. 

It doesn't matter that they weren't together for all that long-- she was smitten from the start. That's how she is. Doesn't hold back. Believes the world will catch her, even if she falls with a thud. Not a mean muscle in her body, but she's sure got a lot of love in the little heart. 

What do you say to someone, who's heart is obviously hurting, especially as THE DAY of all things LOVE is so very close by. 

You say: 

Please don't stop believing in a world that catches you. Don't stop believing in that GREAT BIG LOVE you know is out there. Don't stop floating around. Don't get jaded-- or you might just become like everyone else, and that would be a real tragedy. Because if you become like everyone else, it might ruin you forever. And if you stop believing, that boy who comes along, and is careful with your heart, well, he might not see just how enormous that heart is, if you tuck it away out of sight. So please keep floating, even if that means you're an hour late for our coffee date. Maybe just get a watch. 



I wasn't going to write a post today... perhaps because it was late and I had no words for you. But then I read
this, at the sartorialist, and I thought I should give you a glimpse at the kind graceful things my man does for me. After all, I write a good chunk of my posts about his antics, that are less heart fluttering from adoration and more heart palpitating from anxiety. Here is a nod toward the heart flutters. 

• He sends me little emails on days when he is far away and knows I need a hug 
• He phones every morning he's away for a chat (coffee dates)
• He rubs my yoga-induced aching legs every time I ask him to
• He cleans up the kitchen even after I've made an enormous mess making dinner
• He believes in every little dream I have ever voiced and stands behind me regardless of my indecisions in life's pursuits. 

There are more. Many more, but secrets are good in relationships. Best when shared between two people.


because I am not a goddess...

"Life has to be discovered from moment to moment, from day to day. It has to be discovered. It cannot be taken for granted. If you take it for granted that you know life, than you are not living. Three meals a day, clothing, shelter, sex, your job, your amusements and your thinking process-- that dull repetitive process is not life.  Life is something to be discovered. And you cannot discover it if you have not lost, if you have not put aside what you have found. Put aside your philosophies, religions, racial taboos, customs, and all the rest of it. For they are not life." "A man who says he knows is already dead. But the man who says "I don't know" who is discovering, finding out, who is not seeking an end, not thinking in terms of arriving or becoming-- such a man is living, and that living is truth." 
words by Krishnamurti-- whether he knew about life, the heart, the mind, the spirit, well now that's opinion. Regardless, in my opinion, these words are beautiful. And I hope you enjoy them the way I do. They make me feel not quite so weird when I sit, holding my breath, thinking about what I would be if I were a goddess. Not so alone in my searching I suppose. Discovering is a much nicer picture than someone holding her breath thinking about Life. Much nicer indeed. 


If I was a goddess this is what I would be...

Lately, I've been trying to figure out Life on the macro scale and why and how and all the other questions that can never be answered. I do this sometimes. Get all shook up for no apparent reason, and then I have to spend some time mulling things over, looking at my feet as I walk the dog for hours. Hoping, wishing, searching for answers that ultimately can't and won't and maybe shouldn't even be answered. I generally turn to old texts, or texts on old theories, though I know the intellectual mind could never fully understand the Universe in all its complexities and simplicities. Sometimes when I think about the Universe, and how big it is and how light travels and how it's constantly expanding I get so overwhelmed I have to hold my breath just to remember I'm human and can't possibly know all the answers.

But if I were a goddess and did have all the answers here's what I would do with my all encompassing powers:

First I would dress like this:

I would do this for people who's faith is waning:

I would remind the world to do more of this:

And less of this:

I would probably still wonder this:

I would believe this with my whole heart:

And this would be my one go to for unanswerable questions:

maybe I don't need all the answers after all. 


my dog the shit disturber

I hadn't planned on telling you this story, as I felt this space draws a cultured crowd, who enjoy the finer details in life, but then I realized  I am not of elite blood so if you can't be bothered with toilet talk I recommend checking out
this website instead.

This tale begins a few days back when my beloved Dog, Kaz, and I went on a nice little stroll around the neighbourhood. As is often the case, we stopped and tossed his beloved kong. To say he adores his kong is an understatement. It is his admirable companion, aside from me and Chad, his raison d'etre, his lifeline. When the kong goes under the couch and out of his reach, he will lay heartbroken next to the place where his BFF fell victim to the underbelly of the couch, and wait for someone to rescue it. 

As we walked back to the house I lead the way, and Kaz took up the rear, with important sniffing to be done. As soon as I rounded the corner I realized he was not on my heels and so turned back to find him. There he was whining at the bushes, his kong no where in sight. SO I told him to find it and get moving. But he just sat there whining. When I took a few steps towards the him, I could see his kong lying in front of him. So I yelled at him to get it and come, but he didn't budge. Finally I made my way over to him and saw the problem: He had obviously had an unexpected gurgle and had had to evacuate pronto, except in his haste he managed to cover his poor kong. It was a dilemma indeed. Now I am not one to shy away from unpleasantries-- in fact I even clean the sink goo out with my bare hands, but I draw a line at picking up toys covered in warm turd.  So I told him he had to decide what to do: leave it be or suck it up and carry it home.

Kaz is a 'leave no mad behind' kind of dog. But he was mad at me, spitting and snarling once we'd made it home. And to add insult to injury I made him leave it outside in the rain to clean off. 

Yesterday, after hosing the thing off, we set out once again for our stroll. And while at the field he dropped the ball just a few meters ahead of me. This is one of his games, drop the ball a little bit further away to prove he's master. I was talking to him and telling him how pathetic I thought that was, and then as I reached down and picked up the kong I discovered the warm and mushy telltale sign of the masterplan behind his little game.  I am quite sure I heard him laughing and muttering how it served me right to force him to eat his own feces, but then it's hard to know as I don't speak Dog.

Touche, Kaz, touche. 


The final days...

For my last supper, Agustin, Morgan's charming other half, arranged for us to dine out in style at a local tango performance. The dining area was enormous and was, I'm told by Mr. Charming himself, one of the oldest restaurants in Buenos Aires. I think he said it used to be a coffee house and I'm pretty sure there was something about a christmas tree and his grandmother going there as a little girl, but I was so enraptured by the vintage romance of the building, with wrapping balcony, and ancient waiters in white dress shirts and slicked back hair, that I completely forgot to listen to the mini-history lesson. Forgive me Agu, you were by far the best tour guide of my trip!

The dancing, the music, the singing was sultry and soulful. And I wanted desperately to know how to dance like that. Apparently, the tango began as a form of presenting prostitutes, a little classier than forcing the poor girls to hang out in dark street alleys. The pimp and his harlot would begin a slow, seductive choreography, he moving her this way and that, revealing her curves and ability to move.
Emotion and lust and all things provocative were reflected in each step the dancers took, each melody played by the four-piece band, and each heart wrenching tune sang by the duo. There was one dance in particular, with a chair and one couple, that had me wondering whether the older women in the crowd might have heart attacks from the explicit moves, but then it's Buenos Aires and people don't seem fazed by sex like we northern bumpkins. 

When the show ended, it was past midnight, and I was amazed how quickly time seemed to pass in BA. Perhaps that's what happens when you're enraptured and not worried about bills and deadlines. We ended the night with a quick stroll through THIS amazing hotel, where I shall go stay if I ever win the lottery. Although I don't play so it might just remain a little fantasy. 

In the morning Morgie and I crawled out of bed and ventured to the neighbourhood of Palermo, home of the Palermo Market, which I did not experience, but am told is enormous and filled with beautiful art, designs and tinkery. 

Palermo via flickr
Palermo is to BA what Gastown is to Vancouver. It's all hip and happening, with so many wonderful stores you wonder how on earth you'll ever leave this place. But you will, and you do. Braced with a few more bags, and a few less Argentinean Pesos. We ate our enormous salads on a rooftop with all the other pretty people, and I was trapped somewhere between feeling spoiled to have such a lovely day, with a lovely friend, in a lovely city and feeling sad that this was my last lovely day, with my lovely friend in this very lovely city. As was always the case, the time crept up and soon it was time to say goodbye. I left BA the same way I arrived-- in a cab where neither I nor the cab driver spoke the other's language. 

It wasn't until I cleared customs and was sitting enjoying a final glass of bubbles-- to celebrate-- that I realized how much I missed my Mr. and how urgently I wanted to see him. The next time I visit South America I insist he must be with me, because the loveliest cities are lovelier when shared with your lover. 

{On Friday night, a few friends and  I went and saw Jill Barber, who's songs are currently playing. She was amazing and funny and all kinds of cute so if you have a chance go see her.  She is touring Canada as we speak and comes highly recommended by moi}

PS I wasn't allowed to take photos at the tango so here's a few I picked out from the many out there in the abyss. 


La Recoleta Cemetery

A cemetery seems like a sparkle dampener, and yet the Cementario de la Recoleta, was beautiful in the sad way a faded and cracked photo seems timeless. When I arrived it seemed appropriate that the skies were snarling and threatening, but that only meant most people avoided the outdoors, giving me space and solitude to walk the alleyways of the tiny city of the dead, right in the centre of the very lively BA.

If I thought too hard about the remains inside the tombs, a nervous vibration would flood the back of my neck and I would have to scurry onwards. Apparently one poor young woman was buried alive in her tomb, but I avoided that area for fear of being attacked by a poltergeist. It would have been a shame to return to Canada after such an amazing trip, only to have to call the ghostbusters to remove the poltergeist pest from my soul. Precautions are often necessary when traveling.


BA stands for Being Amoured

Have you ever noticed what a better version of yourself you are when on holidays? I most certainly am my most shiny sparkly self when there is nothing to do but explore and watch, and look and listen. I feel more mysterious when walking down a road I don't know, scoping out shops I haven't seen, sipping espresso in cafes I've never frequented. I feel especially shiny when people stare, because I have light hair and eyes and they do not. I stare right back, gaping at their lovely olive skin, dark hair and eyes and wonder if they know just how lovely they look. I would like to be one of them, cruising their streets with purpose instead of just cruising. But then the magic would be lost and I wouldn't look up at the buildings or down the alleys, meander through parks, down paths where I have no idea where they go.

Which is exactly what I did for my first full day in BA. Poor Morgan was strapped to her office desk, begrudgingly working under the watchful eye of her too-thin, at times fierce, german boss, who eats only yogurt and fruit, which explains the occasional ferociousness. Why do we do this to ourselves ladies?

So. I set off a handful of maps in hand, all sprinkled with hand-drawn circles. I was instructed to play connect the dots, walking from one point to the next until I arrived downtown to meet my lovely friend. I strolled for hours. Pretending I could open my mouth and an array of lovely spanish words would come forth, but when it came time to order my ensalada I panicked. The waiter urged me on and I eventually spat out my words, but the magic was broken. No lovely spanish words falling, only short, squat Spenglish. But sparkly self doesn't care about these things, she just takes it in stride. 

Eventually I found my way to Morgan's office, where she was perched outside, my arrival being somewhat late. It wasn't that I was lost, just a little inconvenienced by wrong streets being where I thought they shouldn't be. Sparkly self again doesn't mind these things either. 

We stitched our way through the shopping district of downtown, weaving through crowds of people, families, business men, women, grandmothers. All of Buenos Aires was out on the town and it was barely quitting time at the offices. Apparently, this is the lifestyle. People go out, enjoy themselves. They stay out until the wee hours of the morning, crawl into bed and then do it all over... which is what we did.

We ate dinner late, as is tradition, sipping bubbles while waiting for our table. The waitresses were nasty, rolling their eyes and barely tolerating our existence, but apparently this is tradition too. Onwards to a bar where the men were dark and forward, apparently they too picked up on my sparkly self, only to be disappointed when I pointed to my ring finger and shrugged. Body language is, after all, universal.

We danced and giggled and suddenly it was past two am. How could it be? I'm normally in bed far before then, but the sparkle self can't be stopped and as we tumbled out into the night, I noticed there was still a line to get into the bar. 

'I love it here' was the last thing I thought before turning off my sparkle self and slipping into sleep. 


Lima to Buenos Aires-- from four to solo

I've decided to skip a recap on Lima.

Lima was neither atrocious nor vivacious, just a big ol' city that was impossible to navigate. It could never emulate the sparkle of our other stops and hops and skips through Peru. It was a city for working, for coming and going but for us it was not a city to tour and appreciate.

Or maybe I don't want to mention it because someone stole my favourite neon pink panties in Lima. And who wants to gush about a city where a girl's favourite undies get nabbed at the cleaners??? Some lady is sporting my lovely pink boy cut undies, feeling all cute and sassy just like I used to feel while wearing those particular ginch. I like to think they have helped her succeed in some way. Not in a nasty kind of way but empowering her to change the world for the better. It's a nicer image than the very possibility of some pervy guy sporting my underwear, which would be a terrible waste of the pink panty power. The panty theft was a true violation and one which will forever contaminate my thoughts of Lima.

But never mind that, because after bidding farewell to my lovely ladies three, I jumped a plane to Buenos Aires. Not even the thievery of my sassy underthings could dampen my spirits, nor the torrential rains which pummeled the taxi's windshield.

An evening amidst downtown BA
On my own for the first time in three weeks, my heart pounded as I sputtered and spit out spanish-seeming words, watching the driver's face, trying to detect the faintest sign of understanding. Unfortunately it was clear we had no idea what the other was talking about. Still, we happily chatted away, pretending to giggle at the others' assumed joke, nodding our heads when a question or response was beyond our comprehension.

After whipping through alleyways and tiny side streets, he eventually dropped me in front of the apartment building I was looking for. I reached over and handed him what I assumed was a proper tip, but judging from the way he beamed and set about getting my luggage and making a general fuss over me, I had over tipped-- handsomely.

The Pink Palace, Evita's centre stage for addressing the masses

Before I had time to think about it, there she was, my lovely friend Morgan. The girl who picked up her things and moved to Buenos Aires just because she could, only to fall madly in love with a handsome Argentinean and the city itself. So she found work, an apartment, a dog and a life on the other side of the world from ME!

But at that moment I was eternally grateful she had done all those things, so that I could finally come visit her in a city as effervescent as carbonated water. It took my breath away and I naturally wanted to ignore every last responsibility and commitment I had in Canada and simply get lost in the heartbeat of Buenos Aires, forever. I really do mean for eternity. The architecture, the art, the clothes, the food, the wine, the nightlife- I was spoiled rotten by Morgan and her man Agu, who showed me around and dazzled me to the point I thought my heart might actually sigh with relief from all the indulgence. It was a little magnificent, or maybe alot magnificent. A gigantic magnificent few days indeed.

The details that make the city

And I've always said I wasn't a city girl. Perhaps I hadn't found my city. Stay tuned...

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