While there, I had the pleasure of sampling a few standout restaurants, including Bareo, a new concept by James Beard–nominated chef Nikko Cagalanan and wife, Paula Kramer; By the Way, an energetic yet intimate corner bar in the Cannonborough neighborhood with classic small plates and craft cocktails; Chef Daniel Humm at The Charleston Place, where Humm’s Eleven Madison Park speaks with a Southern accent; Estadio, a modern Spanish restaurant with artful cocktails along with smashing pintxos and tapas; and Stems & Skins, a wine-focused spot in North Charleston.

Over the past two years, Vessel has covered Charleston extensively, including can’t-miss makers and shops like AL&EM, HART, The Tiny Tassel, and Wentworth. We’ve also shed light on the design firm SDCO Partners, restaurateur Brooks Reitz and his wife, designer Erin Reitz, the soul-centered movement studio The Drop In, and the environmental group The Marsh Project. In our next issue (Spring 2026), we highlight Peter Washington III and The Washington Café, his new cultural hub for coffee and conversation.

Our Spring 2026 Arts Issue is hot off the press! This edition explores the energy of live performance through the South Carolina New Play Festival and a compelling Q&A with conductor John Young Shik Concklin, while also examining how regional museums are rethinking the role of contemporary art in the South.

Literary and visual storytelling take center stage with an evocative excerpt from Into the Night Woods by E. Davis Enloe and a striking look at the work of THE POOL Glassworks. The issue also travels—from the refined interiors of The Nickel Hotel to a creative retreat in the French countryside—while grounding itself in the rich cultural fabric of Columbia, South Carolina.

Vessel offers a thoughtful lens on the modern South—and beyond—inviting readers into spaces where art is not only created, but lived.

—Blair Knobel, founder and editor in chief

I just returned from a fast trip to visit a dear friend. Her husband orchestrated a surprise party for her 40th birthday, which brought together family and acquaintances from my friend’s childhood, college years, her time in Greenville, and new friends now in Lynchburg, Virginia.

After the party, a few of us kept the nigh…

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During the pandemic, when I couldn’t work out in a studio or gym, I took up running. Not for the first time, but—perhaps born of necessity and also because I discovered HOKA running shoes—the pastime stuck. Quarter miles turned to half miles, which stretched to full miles, and so on. My body found a rhythm, breathing in and out with each stride.

My partner fueled my desire to run.

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I COME BACK HERE AGAIN AND AGAIN. To this spot. This patch of ground, somewhere between the dining hall and the lake. As a freshman, I’d sit with my bag lunch, partly overwhelmed by school work, partly in desire of it, but mostly wishing that I could forever lounge in this spot, feeding the badgering squirrels and beautiful ducks, a swan or two casually swimming into the mix. 

Today, black swans join in, and my bike rests against a bench. The sun bounces off the surface, rippling in iridescent rhythm while I squint into its glare. I come back here again and again.

I am now old enough to have a measure of perspective of my alma mater, far enough removed to notice the difference and distance between current students and me. They are young, I think, but also advanced. Mature. Confident. I wasn’t as sure during my time at Furman, but then again our feelings are probably closer than they appear. With so much in flux—classwork, future path, the shape of the campus itself—my anchor was the lake: walking its edges, sitting on its banks, looking out at its misty morning countenance, hearing the “dong” of the bell tower. Like a meditation, its presence soothed my mind—a constant in the midst of chaotic feelings. I went there, again and again.

Today, the campus continues its evolution: renovations and new additions and landscape alterations happen each year. 

But, thankfully, the lake remains constant. When it comes into view at the turn-in from the Swamp Rabbit Trail, I audibly sigh. After a long pause, I pedal over to the side near the dining hall, dodging students lounging near the Paladen and families picnicking under the oaks. I wheel over to one of the cement benches near the water, prop my bike next to one, remove my helmet, and sit. Usually sitting turns to lying supine so that the branches are now my immediate view, and the low afternoon sun warms my body. 

Now, by the lake, instead of studying for exams, I journal about my life, brainstorm concepts for the publication I edit, and outline presentations I give to current students here. I think about the four important years at this university and marvel at the fact that they were just the beginning, just the start of my personal journey and my connection to this school that flows, continuously, like the water—an anchor that I come back to, again and again.

Thank you for your support of Vessel. My team and I are in the final stretch of producing our first print issue, Winter 2023. I look forward to sharing the magazine with you in the coming weeks! Meanwhile, I hope you soak in the fall colors this weekend.—BK

From day one, my goal has been to expand Vessel into a print magazine. Thanks to the support of this audience and a growing creative team, that dream is closer to fruition. I am pleased to introduce our intrepid new intern, Colin Brake—an Atlanta native, a rising senior at Furman University, and the incoming editor in chief of The Paladin. Colin is drawn equally to the newsroom and classroom, and you will see his name in our bylines more frequently. In true publishing fashion, Colin dove in his first week to contribute significantly to Issue 8: Growing Wild.

As we shift our focus to print, our publishing rhythm on Substack will change. Each month, we will create a newsletter that focuses on culture or travel, a Soul Good Dispatch (personal essay), and a full issue.

Vessel strives to deepen connection to place and to each other.

We are excited to keep moving forward. Thank you for continuing on this journey.

It’s already mid-June! Hopefully your weekend plans include time outside with a good book and a glass of something delicious.—BK

It is visibility—for the marginalized, for the undervalued, for the unseen, and for those who feel scared to be seen.

Vessel is an inclusive publication, celebrating the vibrant culture of a place that meshes traditional and modern ways, that bears a legacy of craft that continues to reverberate. But the South is more than things made—it’s history in the making. It’s our people who are continually shaping its edges and feeling its scars.

This publication is both a container and a conduit—a vessel—holding and connecting the stories of all lives.

May we keep evolving for the better.

Thank you very much for your support. Knobel Media recently sponsored the Queer Arts Initiative, a program celebrating the artistry of our LGBTQIA+ community, at Greenville-based hostel MODAL. We are also a proud member of the Upstate LGBT+ Chamber, a robust organization of 250 members and growing.—BK

It’s easy to dispense wisdom to our younger self, but ultimately we can’t benefit from the advice. Better to think of our future self—who is that person? What are her values? Her experiences? I like to pretend I’m meeting her for coffee, and I want to impress her because I know her standards. At the same time, I know she’s been there (or, quite literally, here). She understands the struggle. She remembers this time—fondly now she assures me. She reminds me not to miss it. To keep my eyes open for it all, even the hard parts.

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Kim and I are visiting her family in southern Indiana, just over the Ohio River from Louisville. The drive from Greenville takes us toward Asheville, then west through the Smokies and north to the Bluegrass State.

Through the car window, the brokenness of America is juxtaposed against a breathtaking landscape. Wildflowers flood aba…

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We easily came back to our old ways, like time didn’t matter. We grew up together, shared our high school years as best friends, were close throughout our tw…

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Editing is more than deletion—it is precision. It’s determining what is most important not only to move the audience, but also to i…

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I’ve been told this on various occasions. It is a striking directive, for it suggests that we are greater than our anxious minds.

The way we speak about our lives matters. If we identify ourselves as the roles we occupy, then invariably our self worth will be inextricably linked to what we do—though the “doing” of our lives changes over time. “I am an artist” is different than the statement, “I create artwork.” The words we repeat become our beliefs, our values, and in many cases our identities.

It is important to pay attention to how we speak to ourselves. We are not the roles we undertake; our value is much more vast. Though we may be creators and healers and teachers and leaders, none of these is ultimately who we are. 

Our roles shape our lives, but we shouldn’t allow these to quantify our self value. Our self worth is inherent just because we are here, just because we are human—and we’re most strongly connected to our life force when we simply get out of the way.

Thank you for reading Vessel. Unbelievably, it is the final weekend of this springlike February. Hope you enjoy! Until next week.—BK

ON TWO RECENT EPISODES of the excellent podcast We Can Do Hard Things, hosts Glennon Doyle, Abby Wambach, and Amanda Doyle featured psychologist and New York Times bestselling author Dr. Marisa G. Franco to talk platonic relationships and attachment theory.

I’ve always been interested in self exploration, constantly seeking fresh perspectives for persona…

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The 8-episode show features amateur climbers from around the world competing for a $100,000 cash prize and a year-long sponsorship by prAna. 

I love the physicality of rock climbing, the precision and tenacity required. Making intricate moves, literally hanging by toes and fingertips. Defying gravity, gripping the wall, gracefully reaching for the chalk—the choreography of it all, like modern dance.

Watching the body in action is beautiful, but more than this, witnessing people pushing the limits of what they believe is possible is wholly inspiring. 

Rock climbing is more than physical fitness. It requires verve, presentness, mental stamina, and trust.

Almost ten years ago, I sampled it for the first time at Chimney Rock State Park.

I was harnessed in, belayed by a guide, and the rock had ample holds. Yet it was, by far, the most frightened I’d ever been. I wrote about it then:

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Expansion is inevitable and for the better. We are organic beings, just as the flower and the tree. The more we create space for growth, the more transcendent o…

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ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, Kim and I took a hike. The day was mild, foggy, and wonderfully atmospheric.

We chose Table Rock, a 7ish-miler near Lake Keowee that looms over Highway 11. It’s a monadnock, a singular rock or ridge rising higher than the surrounding land. Kim and I were familiar with the Table Rock…

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It’s a typical practice, especially now—capturing glimpses of our lives, documents of our days.

But the detriment of thinking about what was is that we miss what is. Everything else is fiction, the mind’s constant play. Each moment is holy because it is charged with possibility: an opportunity to love, to grow, to learn, to enjoy—to be human.

Instead of taking stock, I’m taking it in. Thinking back can be gratifying—a reminder of my life’s gifts and accomplishments. Doing this satisfies my ego, but attuning to the present salves my soul. 

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Sending best wishes as we move into the final month of 2022. You’ll receive the second full installment of Vessel next Friday. Thank you very much for your support!—BK

That is, I’m being challenged to receive. Being able to receive is more than being open to physical gifts. It is a willingness to be open—to anything. To the good and the sad. To heart-swelling and heartbreaking news. It requires vulnerability and allowance, and the work is difficult. It means leaning in, turning toward, speaking up. Being open is a daily practice of staying present and accepting life without pushing against the moment.

I’ve been awed by the return, what happens when I let go. The revelation is profound. When I accept help, free my truth, or face a painful moment, as difficult as these can sometimes feel, the gifts are immediate and expansive. They’re reminders that I can ease my grip on the wheel a little—or a lot.

I can see more when I’m not focused on the road.

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Sending this short dispatch from southern Indiana where I am with Kim’s family. Gracious thanks for your support! Wishing you all a lovely final weekend of November.—BK