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  • Lynn Kim Do

    Lynn Kim Do

    there's nothing to hide and no one to hide from, especially yourself

    When it feels good to be in your own skin, show some. 

    Bar III Flyaway Trench - Macy's // AG The Ex-Boyfriend Slim Jeans in White - Bloomingdales // Gramercy Balconette - True & Co // New York Classic Brooklyn Watch - The Fifth Watches // Miss Moss Choker - Dirrty Glam // Brass Choker - Enteresant // Amelia Hobo Bag - Daniella Lehavi // Sandals - Senso (similar)

    . April 26, 2016 .

    Not Enough Neutrals

    . April 26, 2016 .

    When it feels good to be in your own skin, show some. 

    Bar III Flyaway Trench - Macy's // AG The Ex-Boyfriend Slim Jeans in White - Bloomingdales // Gramercy Balconette - True & Co // New York Classic Brooklyn Watch - The Fifth Watches // Miss Moss Choker - Dirrty Glam // Brass Choker - Enteresant // Amelia Hobo Bag - Daniella Lehavi // Sandals - Senso (similar)

    . April 24, 2016 .

    As the dust settles on the decades old ground walked upon by thousands of aspiring actors and actresses, our butts fidget left and right on cobalt blue plastic seats, and about 15 voices diminish to a whisper, the acting teacher places the attendance papers carefully on his desk, coughs, and then asks the same question he ask before every session during our 11 week program"Does anyone have any questions before we begin?"

    We sit there diligently like sitting is, perhaps, our only job. My eyes attempt to seek others’ curiosity and fails. I can't think of anything. I wish I had a question. I could come of smart, proactive, curious, passionate, maybe. I have nothing. A voice echoes from the back. All the way against the wall, a student breaks the silence with a question —"I meditate often. And I feel like my friends around me have reached some sort of enlightenment. But I haven't. I should just kill myself." Okay, so this is more like a statement.

    I feel the side of my lips curl up, thinking, hoping, praying that this is some sick and very-not-funny joke. I hear a couple chuckles. I am not the only one that thinks that, too. But then this, too, leaves the space as fast as it came. I do not know what to do. We do not know what to do. We look at our teacher, our leader, the wisest (in acting, by skill, and in life, perhaps by age) for the next appropriate action. To console him, maybe. To condemn him. To break him. To dismiss him, even. To make this awkward and painful pause go away. My face is getting hot in the cheeks. My stomach queasy. This is hitting too close to home. I never thought anyone could stir up these softly patted down feelings but myself. But I didn’t think I would ever hear this kind of statement so publically, so raw.

    Our teacher begins: "I don't think this is the right place for this sort of question." True. Half of me understands his response and the other, wants resolution for this kid, some drop-the-mic moment with explosions of epiphanies and clarity. Again, I am not the only one. Another voice from the opposite end of the wall responds with —"This is the right place because life is acting and acting is life." How could anyone argue with that? 

    So here is what my acting teacher said:
    Well since your classmate is so adamant. And she is right, life is acting and acting is life, I'm going to share a story with you. 
    There was a student and a teacher. The student was very desperate. He went to his teacher to confess a deep frustration. He confesses that he does not feel like he has reached enlightenment and wants to give up. The teacher tells the student to meditate really hard for one week. The teacher has a feeling that he'll reach enlightenment in a week. A week goes by and the student does not reach enlightenment. He goes back to his teacher and expresses his now festering frustration. The teacher tells him that he will reach enlightenment in 3 days. He knows that the student is very close. He just needs to put in a little bit more time and more work. So the student meditates very hard, day and night, for 3 days. After the 3 days, nothing, no enlightenment. So the student seeks the teacher and with so much sadness and utter disappointment, confesses that he has yet to find enlightenment. The teacher tells him that all he needs is just one more day. The teacher can feel it in his heart. The student goes back to meditating, day and night, and every moment in between. Nothing, again. With little hope, he seeks the teacher again and tells him that he has not found enlightenment. The teacher says that he should go ahead and kill himself then. Shortly after their conversation, the student walks up nine flights of stairs to a roof of a building. He takes his time inching closer and closer to the edge. He looks down. And just as he is about to step over the ledge into his death….POOF…he finds enlightenment.

    What did you take away from this story? I'll share my thoughts, if you share yours. xx

    . April 21, 2016 .

    If you don't know this song, then you should be ashamed of yourself. Yes, I am a 90s child.  [insert prayer hands]

    Graphic Hands Tee - Isabella Rose Taylor // CMEO Skirt - (Similar) // Choker - (Similar) // Jean Socks - Hue 

    . April 18, 2016 .

    ...then I would be Baddie Winkle's arch-nemesis and half sister. I'm cool with that.

    Leather Choker & Leather Fanny Pack - Erin Dana
    Photos by Danna Hymanson

    . April 15, 2016 .


    Aubrey One-Piece Smoke - Mandalynn // Sofia P. Off-White Sunnies - ic! berlin 

    In every literal sense...no, it did not rain while I was occupying this gorgeous island. In the metaphorical sense, there were no reasons, at any moment, during the trip to be anything but happy. Actually, it felt strange. Uncomfortable, almost.

    We commented several times a day on how everything was working out too well, too perfectly, too pleasant. The sun was shining when it needed to. And when it didn't need to. The shade came over our heads at the right time, always. The restaurants we would blindly chose happen to have the most memorable dishes, even by my Puerto Rican companions' standards. The drinks were available when they most certainly needed to be, which was all the time. Keep it comin'. We danced and bopped around effortlessly. We crossed off everything in our Puerto Rico bucket list for those dates. Even the unexpected surprises felt uncomfortably in our favor.

    For example:
    After hiking for about 45 minutes to the waterfall in El Yunque's rainforest, followed up with blindly jumping in the cold water which lead to me freaking out, my friends throwing their bodies from the wall of rock, diving into the water, splashing here and there, our bodies' temperature adjusting to the frigid water, we finally climbed out of the water, slipping too often on the wet rocks. Totally worth it, by the way. My boyfriend was cautiously helping me out of the rocky obstacle course, holding my butt up, grabbing my hand, waiting patiently for me to locate a stable rock under my foot. He was quite the gentleman. And an older woman took notice. She had commented on it earlier while we first attempted to leave the waterfall, only to get distracted and pulled into another section of nature's gorgeous creation. When we finally got back to the trail, her notice went absolutely and unintentionally, well, unnoticed.

    "I've been waiting for you," her eyes widened and she stared directly at my man's pecs. Her daughter looked at me for apologetic affirmation, shaking her head while laughing. I gave her the green light. "Can you please take a photo of us?" She insisted. Confusion was quickly replaced with utter amusement. My boyfriend was getting fan-girled by an older woman. This was absolutely precious. And the woman along with her daughter and son were so sweet about it, not creepy at all. You can tell that they did not own a mean bone in their body. She just really enjoyed the way he looked like Tarzan or Rico Suave or even Jesus with his beard and long dark hair or perhaps all of those things. His abs bring all the ladies to the yard, or errr...the waterfall.

    We all walked away from that little incident a tad confused, yet, so entertained. We broke in laughter at the thought of this stranger, this sweet old woman, she now has a photo with a dark, tall, shirtless, and very handsome man on her phone. I think I took three for her. What made it even better was the fact that she could very well make up the entire context when she goes back home, wherever that is, and it wouldn't even matter! No one would ever know the truth. Oh man! What will she say his name is? How would they have met? Or what would they have done together in this romantic island? Ahaha, we almost lost a step walking back from laughing so hard. He didn't find it as amusing as we did.

    Fast forward a couple of days later, my boyfriend was discussing to the group how he wanted to try to call his airline to convince them to give him an earlier flight (so he can be on my flight). He had never done it before and was having a hard time finding an excuse to give them. He isn't a great liar. At that very moment, my friend and her boyfriend found a nice scenic cobblestone alley way to walk through in Old San Juan. And guess who we bumped into?

    Yup, we bumped into the older woman who had and still has the craziest crush on my boyfriend, as well as her daughter and son. We all spoke for awhile. Well, she spoke to my boyfriend for awhile, telling him how amazing he is, occasionally turning her head to me and telling me how amazing I was, etc, and so on. During our conversation, we find out her daughter works for the same airline that we were going to take. They exchanged numbers and she was able to help him change his flight to my flight without even making a call. It was an absolute breeze. Now if you want to look at this at a practical sense, we were meant to all bump into each other again so that he could avoid the 5am flight back to New York alone. But if you want to look at it like I do, we were meant to bump into each other to inspire one another and contribute in one way or another—mentally and physically.

    Isn't life just awesome? I like to think so. And traveling has and will never fail to show me this.

      Photos by Pedro Morales

    . April 13, 2016 .


    Pacific One Piece - Static Swimwear // Burgundy Bottoms - See U Soon // Nude Sandals - Melissa Charlotte x Jason Wu // Supernature Sunnies - Gentle Monster x TOME

    I've traveled. I've been to many islands and several countries. But I have a confession. I didn't actually enjoy to travel until two years ago. Two years ago, I stepped foot into Puerto Rico with four ladies I never even spent more than 2 hours with at a time. During those five days in the year 2014, my life changed.

    I remember sitting on the curb with my dear friend who I've grown closer to, by proximity and female to female bond, our feet were resting on several blue blocks that make up the cobblestones that line every alley and street in Old San Juan. "This is truly the Island of Enchantment," she said. And it was that moment, that very moment that brilliantly summed up the entire experience. An epiphany that lied within those two seconds. I glanced into her eyes and I can't remember if I said anything at all or I said something melodramatic, like "yeah," but we knew the truth, the weight of the accuracy in that statement. And that feeling has never left me.

    On the flight back to New Jersey two years ago, I saw myself returning, again and again. I promised the island that I would return. I envisioned myself owning a home there. Hiding out there in several parts on my adult life. Building an oasis there that I can call my own. Maybe like Frida Kahlo's blue home in Mexico but pink or pastel yellow.

    Fast forward to 2016 and now skin has been severely depleted of vitamin D. My mind has been restless and now operates on autopilot. My heart has mourned, is still mourning. I need Puerto Rico, so badly, the magic that lives in the salsa music flowing from open patios. And I wonder if it needs me. Oh, it does not matter because I am back. I am here. Sunsets over brick and concrete buildings have nothing on the sunset over the soft Condado Beach sand. The artwork screams volumes, giving imagination and voice to those unheard.

    It's an island that gives without knowing that it gives. My skin soaks up each ray with full embrace. So much that I am burning, but all is forgiven. You just love me too much. I get it.

    But I am back. I am here.

      Photos by Pedro Morales

    . April 6, 2016 .




    Chinatown has always brought back kind memories for me. Maybe it’s the atmosphere or maybe it’s the kart with fresh puff pastry that I still can't walk by without buying. The sweet and very distinct smell hits your nose before the pillow soft texture hits your mouth.

    I remember going to Chinatown as early as 8 or 9 years old when we would drive there from New Jersey. It was really the only area in New York that my family ever made time for, ever stir up the courage to travel to, the only place other than their home towns that they even feel remotely familiar with. The door-to-door secret passageways that sells really crappy or really really good knock-offs. The sounds, the words that feel like a secret language that I could never crack the code but was also never invited to. But oh, it sounds so pleasant. And still today, it sounds strangely comforting. The sweets in every store, every corner, they call for you. Literally. Men and women pulling you left and right, screaming at you, coercing you to come in. To buy—$5 for you. Real good. Come, come. You wanna buy? I sell cheap for you. Don’t you dare expect top notch customer service. This is as straightforward as it gets. Cold-hearted, real ass people who want you to buy this keychain as much as they want you to leave them the hell alone. The fruit stands on the street, sitting comfortably next to the fish market, all the smells sharing the same air rights together, in an ugly way, but bearable, voluntarily bearable. Where else can you get a whole Durian fruit and an entire cod at the same time?

    To be quite frank, I don’t love Chinatown for all the delicious duck hanging by it’s feet, its oil dripping for days, drip drop, on a silver pan, and yes, I will still eat the crap out of that. I don’t love it for the large park tucked away in the back where you can find handfuls of people, some young, mostly old, playing mahjong, while other Chinatown headmasters sing and play their homeland classics as a crowd of white faces, brown faces, young faces, old faces surround the small band. I don’t love it for that one random Russian speakeasy that serves absinthe cocktails near Pell Place where I would gladly stumble to after indulging in lychee ice cream at Ice Cream Factory and Joe Shanghai’s soup dumplings.

    I love it because it’s all those beautiful things I mentioned and it smells like shit, the people are rude, you can probably get a happy ending one place or another, and best believe, there’s not enough insecticide in the world to get rid of the army of human-size cockroaches that reside under the neighborhood. And yes, I love it. It’s flawed. It’s cultural. And it’s real, whether you like it or not. It's fucking magical.

     Photos by Daniela Spector

    . April 3, 2016 .