As long as I can remember I have loved looking at catalogs. When we were little, my sisters and I would shriek with delight when the five pound J.C. Penney catalog would arrive, usually sometime during the sweltering month of July, or the frigidly cold month of February. We'd find a blanket, sit on top of it or, (depending on the season) snuggle up under it, and carefully tear off the brown, kraft paper, band that held the thick publication together while in transit. Then, we'd turn the pages, inhaling fresh ink and compiling a list of all the clothes we wanted for the next season's wardrobe. (We also played a silly game called, I-Like-Her, which regularly resulted in six fists of fury and drove my mother nuts.) Those one-thousand page tomes are no longer produced as far as I can tell, nevertheless, a dozen or so bantam weight catalogs arrive in my mailbox each week; office supplies, home goods, sporting goods and yes, fashions for the upcoming season. In my world it is currently, Summer Clothing Catalog Season. Each day when I open the mailbox I am greeted by glossy catalogs from Nordstrom, J. Crew, and Boden, to name a few. But alas, nothing stays the same. My sisters now live thousands of miles away and we can no longer gather on a blanket turning the pages together; we no longer have spirited games of I-Like-Her ending with mom snatching the catalog from our raging fists. Just as disappointing, also gone are the days when I can imagine myself in such flirty, seasonal attire; the skirts are too short, the bathing suits too revealing, my skin is too loose, my pocketbook too empty. Still, I peruse the pages, sighing wistfully as I look at cute clothes I'll never wear. To assuage my woebegone nostalgia, I now turn the pages of my summer fashion catalogs looking for figures and images that inspire me to pick up my sketchbook.