We had beginner’s luck at first, maybe. They hooked the strings to our kites at the festival setup booth. “What did you write on yours — what did you wish for?” they asked us. “I wished for more art,” Steve replied.

I smiled as she handed my kite back to me, and after taking too long to debate the answer in my head wound up saying nothing. It had a been a tough week. (Surrender, I had written, but I meant something more than that. Open acceptance, but I’m not even sure what that could mean; to be honest I was in a hurry and tired of feeling so vulnerable and easily-read lately, for now I just wanted to get something into the sky. And kittens, I had added, an attempt to take the whole thing less seriously.) We stepped into the grass, holding the bright blue paper over our heads, and just like that — the wind took them.

We stepped backward, started to run. The string quickly unwinding from its spindle, our bright papers getting smaller, farther away. Each shift, each current a gentle pull, a lift from above. We were euphoric, uncontrollably grinning now, running backwards and lifting our arms to go higher. Maybe it would be like floating, I thought. Maybe if I could just fill my chest with enough air, I would rise to the surface.

More: Steve’s wish, going up up up, some tangled strings, and joy in black and white.

For our latest “Finding Your Voice as a Photographer” class, we were instructed to bring in five portraits with a repeated setting. We looked at Richard Avedon’s pure white backdrops (this was on a friend’s wall growing up; experimenting with stolen alcohol from her parents’ cabinet, we’d smoosh a line of tape into her carpet leading straight to this man’s stoic gaze and I’d think “I wish that was mine, I wish I knew how to make that” — a thought I had again just Wednesday evening), Irving Penn’s tiny corner, and Rineke Djikstra’s awkward beaches. Then we were released into the world, bleary-eyed from eight hours in front of the projector screen. Go do something like this! See you Saturday!

The awesome thing about these sudden, intense assignments is that it forces you to get moving immediately. As our instructor described the assignment I was making a panicked list in my head of repeated backdrops I had easy access to; also, ideally, I wanted that access to be easy to whomever I was shooting, too, because I’d be contacting them tonight and asking if I could shoot them tomorrow and were they free for like fifteen minutes.

A field, I thought. A certain bridge. I’d go to a fabric store and buy a shitton of chiffon, I thought.

What the hell would you do with a shitton of chiffon?

Quit stifling me I’m just throwing ideas out there this is due in three days AAAGH!

What I wanted to do occurred to me as I was driving home, all dangerously distracted from the road. What room in everyone’s home makes me a little uncomfortable to enter? What room’s meaning transforms with age, from your parents’ vision of you to the very fiercely defended expression of your identity to the cluttered sterility of dormitories to a room that’s almost in disguise, meant to look like the rest of your home, but holding secrets — sexual preferences, arguments had, weapons in the closet, family planning in the drawer, sleep and its aggravated lacking, all those books you’re meaning to read if you weren’t so tired, all of those books you’re staying up reading? Where do you prefer to be unconscious?

I asked some friends (also, Grandma!) if they’d let me stop by and take their portrait — wearing their everyday clothes, on top of the covers — in their beds. I was pretty excited when they said yes.

“Are you okay with me standing on your bed? Awesome. Now maybe, show me a weird way you woke up one time.”

It’s been the most fun assignment so far. Can I take your bed portrait?

Slideshow of all bed portraits here.

Yesterday a few of us caravanned to The Art Shanty Projects on Medicine Lake. It was twelve degrees and nobody wore warm enough socks — only because after a certain point, warm enough simply doesn’t exist.

Enjoyed: hot dogs and coffee, the giant manipulable robot, Billy Joel and “Thriller” in the Dance Shanty, ice bikes on skates and skis, cold letterpressing with the MCBA, and watching all of the basketball players fall, at some point.

I have no idea who the girls, pictured above, are; but we had a pretty excellent time together in the twirling shanty until we all wanted to hurl. Earlier, Will was holding someone’s child on his shoulders so she could reach the robot’s arms. People passed out tweeted newspapers in the dance party, passed donuts to the artists in the letterpress house. “Would you like your naughty fortune read?” someone asked me. “Would you like to know how we built this?”

“Yes!” I replied, over and over.

What is it about the unbearable cold, that makes us all so eager to connect with one another, strangers?

Sarah had acquired a new pair of sparkly gold shoes, so she invited us all to join her at Mancini’s, an old steak restaurant in St. Paul dripping with heavy red curtains and watered down cocktails. Suits were involved, and a big band tapping their feet on a stage glittering with christmas lights and bows, trumpeting out “Little Sister.” I’d busted out some faux furs and a silk dress I’d found at a thrift store for ten bucks. I’ve only recently decided that I’m old enough to wear lipstick, so whenever the opportunity presents itself I get really excited.

“Can you taste any vodka in my vodka cranberry?” Joanna asked. “I’m pretty sure this is just Juicy Juice.”

“You should . . . send that back,” someone confirmed.

While we waited at the bar, an older man tapped me on the shoulder. “I’d really love it if you danced with me, just one dance,” he said.

“I dance with anyone!” I said, taking his hand.

He swirled me around, told me I’d put a spell on him. He said I had those angel devil eyes. At the end of the night, he patted my back. “I know you have a boyfriend, but I just put my business card in your dress,” he said. “And if that ever changes, call me.”

My spindly arms twisted and grasped my halterline in alarm. “That is a smooth move!” I cried.