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  • Lynn Kim Do

    Lynn Kim Do

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



    Oh Montreal, I will never not think of you fondly nor forgive you for the amount of alcohol I ingested. Thank you. I hate you. And I love you. 
    . September 30, 2016 .

    Travel | Montreal Is Lit

    . September 30, 2016 .



    Oh Montreal, I will never not think of you fondly nor forgive you for the amount of alcohol I ingested. Thank you. I hate you. And I love you. 
    . September 28, 2016 .










    It takes a special kind of friendship to be able to go through NYFW with. The kind that helps you hobble down the street when your feet are blistered up. The kind that gives you the last bite of their granola bar at the end of the day. The kind of friend that takes the most amazing Instagram photos of you without an utter of complaint. The kind that hates on the same people as you cause..."ew, what is she wearinggggg???" Well, I've found the one.

    - NYFW friendship

    Tucker Top - Vivi Academy //
    Jody Culottes - Vivi Academy //
    Satin Bomber Jacket - Urban Outfitters //
    Estelle Knee High Heels - Public Desire //
    Reversible Choker - MD 13  //
    Amelie Mini Box Bag - Kalamarie // 
    ___
    Visuals by Erika Dickstein 





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    . September 26, 2016 .





    Photoville—its definition as straightforward as its name—is a whole square of photo exhibitions cleverly housed by re-purposed shipping containers that takes place in New York annually.

    Impossible Projects inspired me to come up with a strict and almost frightful task—take one full roll of polaroids for the entire Photoville experience. Let me explain further, that is ONLY 8 photos. EIGHT! No retakes. No bullshit. And an immediate and very physical artifact of something very good...or very bad! Fuck, I take 50 selfies in one sitting. I live in a world where provided with one subject, I can take iPhone photos, then several in many angles with my camera, and then a boomerang, a Snapchat, and an Instagram story. I, and along with my friends and maybe, you, too, don’t know what it’s like to be limited. To be sure. To trust that we can create the right image (or decision) right then and there. Or shit, the pressure of "you just HAVE to". So I took a deep breath and made my way to Photoville with a strange mix of anxiety, determination, and too much pizza the night before to take in this whole new experience…

    Our Uber driver dropped us off about 15 min in the absolute wrong direction (totally my fault) but it became a blessing in disguise as my roommate and I romantically scrolled through the Dumbo waterfront and gawked at the ceiling to floor window condos being built right in front of it. Real estate dreams. And a nightmare for everyone else that lives in Dumbo as the height of these new developments breaks their views of the city skyline.  As we walked by the strange sight of people on canoes floating merrily on the…imaginably…toxic waters, we quickly turned our attention to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. And you know why….BECAUSE. I. LOVE. ICE. CREAM. Okay, we note that we’ll have to come back and grab a scoop or two.

    We finally arrive at Photoville and were quickly overwhelmed. Something about hundreds of photo enthusiast, handfuls of shipping containers, tourists, photographers, and natives that can really separate two people that came in together. And there was nothing wrong about that. We both took our own paths, weaving through many voices visually expressed through photos and print. I wanted to capture everything. But as I looked at the beautiful contraption delicately laid in my hands—the I-1 Analog Camera, I knew I couldn’t. I had to decide what story I wanted to tell. And strangely, that decision came quite naturally to the most indecisive human being ever. I decided that I wanted to share what it felt like, not necessarily what I saw.

    Many themes festering within each container left me moved, left me provoked, and left me wanting to adopt a puppy (one artist took adorable photos of abandoned and ready-to-adopt dogs and puppies in the most adorable settings and get this…flowers crowns. We died). The New York Times dedicated an entire container to Bill Cunningham’s work. As you leave the decades of influential and brilliant style watching and photography, I also saw the classic blue coat that he wore…hanging on the wall. Another exhibit nearby featured many artists but had one very specific theme—black lives throughout America and throughout time. Others were playful, some political, yet all had a voice.  I began to watch people. I enjoyed watching their eyes study the photos. I enjoyed how private they felt in their own self as they examined the art.

    Along the way, I think the camera caught way more attention that I expected…being stopped in my tracks to answer some questions about the I-1 I barely knew the answer to. I’m excited to finally share the images I captured.

    P.S: If you're wondering if we got ice-cream, the answer is "DUH!"
    __
    Written & Visuals by Lynn Kim Do

    . September 24, 2016 .



    January 3rd is my official anniversary date in New York City—one of the most intimidating cities in the world. The city I had always prematurely claim. The city I now get to call home. Which in turn, I inherited impatience, a microscopic attention span, and a #richbroke mentality. We pimp one another out, voluntarily and with kindred affection. It owns me as much as I own it. I am its bitch as much as its mine. Tough love. 

    Over a year ago, I was in no rush. I had just graduated college. I had just started a full-time job. I had just formed a friendship—around 6 months—and dived into a rather life changing decision. I had never lived on my own. We spent about 6 hours looking at apartments, became smitten with one in East Harlem (the first one we saw that day), and applied for it before the sun even went down. Each step felt lucid. I remember making the decision not to tell anyone until the application was approved. Perhaps, I didn’t want to jinx it. Or it was my own way of coping with the potential disappointment. I decided my fate would be in the universe's palm this time—praying it wasn’t going to end with an excruciating belly flop but a skillful triple back axel followed by stadium size applause. 

    Our application arrived back in our inboxes with a large green checkmark. YESSS!...but no time to celebrate. We packaged over two decades worth of frivolous investments including 80 pairs of heels, an Ikea bed frame, and a million “vintage” picture frames in life-size cardboard boxes. Miraculously stuffed two women’s entire belongings into one UHAUL truck, convinced a couple poor suckers we call friends to help, many six floor walk-up trips later and it was home sweet home. This entire endeavor took about 4 days. And trust me, it was exactly as difficult as it sounds.

    When I finally started telling people that I was making the move into the city, I received mixed reactions. Many were genuinely excited for me, some looked excited but weren't really so, and a few were unsupportive. My mom was sad that I was going to leave her but she was also very proud of the daughter she raised. Her society-questioning parenting has poetic madness to it. And my existence and this transition was proof of that. I left her with promises of monthly phone calls and drink dates in the upcoming year. My best friends at the time had questionable thoughts on my move. On the outside, they seemed excited for me. Although, they were more upset I didn't tell them. More upset that my plan has changed. More upset I didn’t send group notifications every time I snipped my hair or wiped my ass. Motives were revealed. Feelings were hurt. Lessons were digested. Maybe we were growing apart, maybe we outran our story, either way these were simply the growing pains of a twentysomething year old. 



    That was a almost two years ago.

    Fast forward to the beginning of 2016, I packed up the remains of my Harlem apartment to move to a new borough—Brooklyn. I threw out old memories—cracked tea pots, college t-shirts, old photographs and saved only one or two nostalgic pieces I can afford to salvage for my own sanity's sake. Minutes before leaving the apartment, I took two shots from a bottle of Black Label left over from our Harlem housewarming, fittingly so, with my now ex-roommate and business partner. We said, "Catch ya later," not good bye. She moved to the next chapter in her life, while I went to Brooklyn to write mine. Long story, long, I am somewhere else. Again. And that's perfectly okay. Because I know I belong right here, right now. I am sitting on the same bed, typing on the same laptop, but surrounded by fresh plants, more square footage, located several blocks from the L train inhabited by a couple more man buns and yuppies than I have ever seen in East Harlem. My room isn't anything like the one that I use to call mine in Harlem. I am not the same woman who lived in Harlem. My space reflects that. 

    Grounded.
    Creative.
    Concise.
    And present. 

    It's safe to say, I'm excited for 2017. And the changes it will bring...

    Visuals by Daniela Spector


    . September 22, 2016 .














    I use to hate brown. Kinda like the way I use to hate that ex back in high school who dumped me through a post-it note. I moved on. Okay, not really...I still hate him. Also, that never happened to me.  But I've heard about it. Which is almost just as bad. In fact, I think I broke up with my second boyfriend name Ricardo through a written note. Hey! At least it wasn't a post-it.

    Anyway, brown and I...we've reconciled our differences. As you can see. Totally normal. In fact, I think I love brown. And all its shades.

    - ricardo

    Plantar Honey Hat - G Viteri //
    Suede Fishtail Tee - Threadworkshop //
    Born Free Pant - The Fifth Label (via Fashion Bunker) //
    Cream NMD Sneakers - Adidas //
    Orion Cuff - Mata Traders  //
    Amelie Mini Box Bag - Kalamarie // 
    ___
    Visuals by Daniela Spector





    . September 19, 2016 .




    1. Maman
    "A nook I almost overlooked as it was conveniently decided over calendar invites and thoughtless group messages but Maman stole whatever warmth I still possess in my heart with its quaint space, the most delicate printed cups, and the delicious liquids it hold within."
      Must Try - The Lavender Hot Chocolate // 
    Advice - If you can grab a seat near the window, do it! Something about people-watching and feeling the sun
    against your skin while you're sipping java that makes it...not feel like you're about to start another shitty day. 




    2. Greecologies
    "Get cultured here...no, literally. Something about a place that specializes in greek yogurt that makes the Chobani-buying person inside of you...hate yourself. Oh, and Greecologies' caffeinated counterparts aren't bad either."
      Must Try - The Rose Petal Preservatives (put it in your greek yogurt) & A Latte // 
    Advice - Do me a favor and remember to walk around this small space to take in the 
    thoughtful interior (and exterior!).  Their backyard is a dream.




    3. Cha Cha Matcha
    "aka Matcha Heaven. aka Pink Panther's hideout. Come to Cha Cha for the hype but leave absolutely understanding why this place is so so popular. Maybe it's the Matcha Soft Serve...that you can have for breakfast."
      Must Try - Iced Matcha Latte With Coconut Milk  // 
    Advice - Just order the matcha soft serve! Even if it's 10 AM. You're an adult and 
    you have made too many big decisions today. So go ahead and acta little crazyyyyyy.


    __
    Visuals by Lynn Kim Do
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    . September 16, 2016 .





    . September 13, 2016 .











    Fashion Week just seems like the perfect space for wearing lingerie in public and then throwing on other ridiculous shit until my mad mind is happy. Voila. I am very happy. Even my shirt gave me a pat in the back for my valiant efforts—“Nice Try". 
    Well, thank you. Thank you very much. 
    Photos by Junior Joseph
    By Lynn Kim Do
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    . September 8, 2016 .







    Getting back in the ring for NYFW, once again. Somehow, I am not prepared. Somehow, I am pulling outfits minutes before the shows. Somehow, my phone is dying. Again.

    I always say it will be my last. And I don't like to call myself a liar but...I lied. I am back in it. And I love it, I think. But like that one relationship in grade school, you only remember the butterflies and the break-up. And babe, we're right back in it. So let's fight, let's get back together, let's put our gloves up and laugh, cry, eat liquid for dinner, and pass out at 6AM on body-warm stoops.

    I'm ready. For NYFW that is.

    Photos by Pedro Morales
    By Lynn Kim Do





    . September 1, 2016 .










    70s are slowly creeping back. The weather, not the decade. (I'm still lovin' the 90s revival.) And as god is finally blessing us with some real breeze, not the hot backwind of the subway being blown up my skirt and impregnating me with hate and the desire to punch sweaty people. I am able to finally wear the collection of bombers, leather jackets, and light coats that I have been shamelessly collecting during the summer. Somehow, I was justifying this. And in this very moment, I am proven right…once again (if you ask my boyfriend). So let’s liberate ourselves by layering more clothes on our body instead of crying for “LESS CLOTHES PLEASE!” Bye, bye…sweaty pits!

    Photos by Daniela Spector
    By Lynn Kim Do







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