Hi, I'm Ruby.
This is my corner of the internet.
I make things, climb things, and occasionally sit still long enough for my dad to take a photo. He built the first version. I'm the boss of it now.
The Timeline
A walk through the years. Each one gets a page of its own: a few photographs, and a line about what was going on.
Fourteen, nearly. Two ski Februaries, a Grand Prix in May, London in July, and New York twice.
Thirteen. Volleyball camp in Poland, Warsaw's old town, a Sardinian July, and a birthday at golden hour.
Thirteen. Football most weekends, a stage, a borrowed blazer, and a hammock that held.
Twelve. Sea water, cartwheels in the corridor, and a pink dress on a Sunday.
Ten. A cake with her name on it, an aerial hoop, and a shell straight from the sea.
Nine. Anything climbable was climbed, including the tree.
Eight. The year of staying in: living-room workouts in pink, tennis in a sun hat.
Seven. Face paint one day, bunny ears the next.
Six. Where the archive begins: a Sofia the First dress and someone's phone.
Adventures
Sport, water, mountains, mud. Everything that happens outside, and a few things that happen on a court.
Travel
Trips, stamped and filed. Where we went, what we ate, and who fell over on the slopes.
A week in August. Fifth Avenue windows, two separate sets of wings, and a late cab most nights.
Gray skies, good puddings, and everyone walked further than planned.
A side trip up to the coast. Gold light on the old town gables, and a boardwalk that didn't quiet down after dark.
Visiting family in Poland. Sushi out, peace signs in the living room, and paper fry-glasses at the drive-through.
Nine days of camp: matching yellow shirts, a fairground counselor named Iker, a beach toast, and a very tired flight home.
A rooftop glass floor that looked scarier in the photo than it was, a shopping street, and a train ride nobody stayed awake for.
Race weekend. Team caps on, engines loud, hearing optional.
A short one in spring. The dinner reservations were taken seriously.
A team trip to Charlotte — a photobooth wall, a huddle before walking out, and a whole squad down on the floor for the group shot.
Four days at altitude. Snow report: excellent. Injury report: pride only. Also, Target.
Sofia nights, Borovets mornings. Two and a half thousand metres, one arena concert, and the pub at the bottom of the hill.
A November weekend. Coats out, flags up, city at night.
Cabins, canoes, and archery with the whole grade. Back a second time this year, for a completely different reason.
Windowsills with a view, a show at night, and a hotel room with room to dance.
Ten days of hat, harbour, and lunch with the sea at the table.
Old town by day and by night, with new friends in both.
The first summer at camp. Spanish class on a whiteboard, a mall run, bowling, and popcorn at the cinema.
A cold snap, big coats, and an ice rink under the lights.
Four days of outdoor school: a lake going gold with the leaves, a log crossing, and headlamps once the sun went down.
A white wall, a sky's worth of blue pots, a gallery, and a lobby with a ceiling worth looking up at.
The Acropolis in the morning heat, then a boat: donut floats, a beach club toast, and a whole fish carried out in a bed of salt.
A cousin's bar mitzvah: a party with disco balls and balloon arches, then daylight and a purple bird sculpture downtown.
A different mountain this time: a dog sled team across a frozen lake, and a village of dark timber and deep snow.
Two days in Missouri, credentials included.
Ten years old, proper skis, and a wind tunnel in Denver on the way home.
A summer hop: dressed up in Miami, airborne in Fort Lauderdale.
Concerts
Stadiums, arenas, and one old quarry above Marbella. Newest first, like everything else here.
The Narodowy, full to the roof. A golden figure taller than the stands, arches lit like sunrise, and a whole stadium keeping time on its wristbands.
Not really them, and completely them. The second London night in a row — a sun the size of the room, and nobody sitting down for the last twenty minutes.
Wembley, the arch, and the long walk up from the station. High enough to see the whole floor, which is exactly where you want to be.
Tampa, and every single person there knew every single word. The grown-ups included, which was the surprise.
An old quarry in the hills above Marbella, turned into a venue. Warm night, yellow light on the rock face, nobody sitting down.
Warsaw, dressed in white. A stage that kept rearranging itself and a stadium that never once sat down.
One man, one guitar and a loop pedal, in front of an arena that didn't need anything else.
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