a card given to me by my brother over 10 years ago. an artifact that embodies the essence of this blog. a set of words to live by.
enduring bonds
one of my favorite things about traveling is discovering the quiet corners, off the beaten path, away from the tourist traps—where you can witness authentic moments, slices of daily life unfolding.
i took this photo in florence, in a sleepy little nook off of piazza santo spirito. it was one of those shots that you couldn't have staged any better: four little old ladies, sitting on a bench kibitzing about life, catching up on the neighborhood gossip, watching passers-by, all while enveloped by the shadow of a huge tree hanging overhead. the branches emanated from this core, a nucleus of friends who i was certain had sat in that very spot an infinite number of times before, doing the very same thing.
here, in italy, thousands of miles away from home, i was reminded of my own friends. sure, these "nonnas" had seen a few more years than us, but their gestures, their comfort with each other, they way they finished each other's sentences and laughed with hilarity at each other's stories—all of that was intimately familiar.
it occurred to me that some things are universal. though we all have our unique stories and experiences, we also have (hopefully) a core set of true friends and family, who aren't just bound to us by blood or obligation (those connections have most likely fallen off long ago), but who we truly cherish. who know our true selves, without pomp or pretense. to whom we can tell our deepest fears. who we know won't judge us, but who will also be straight, and call bullshit to keep us honest. who share memories that never get old in the retelling. who will always have our back, and who know you've got theirs.
friendships like these are priceless. like the image above, they ground us, anchor us, support us, inspire us. they make us laugh out loud on a regular clip (you know who you are, ladies!). they help us make sense of the madness. remind us that we are not alone. in short, they help us live life to the fullest.
as i get older, i find that the old adage is true: the more things change in life, the more some things stay the same. the bond of true friendship is one of the few things that endures.
learning how to see
a portrait of audia
i could always hear him coming around the corner. he'd sing out my name "ceel-ya" and saunter into my grey cube, lighting it up with his childlike enthusiasm. though he was a successful photographer, audia didn't have the typical brooding "artiste" attitude. he was warm, quirky, sometimes irreverent, and he arrived at every shoot in his typical uniform: a pair of jeans, black t-shirt, crumpled blazer, his signature rectangular blue glasses and shiny bald head...oh and always a smile on his face.
when i worked at the merchandise mart, we hired photographers to shoot our interior design events. the shot list consisted of showroom visits, designer vignettes, VIP parties and crowd shots. at all of my shows, audia was my go-to guy. sure, i knew that if i needed him to shoot for 6 hours, i had to book him for 8 (just to accommodate his chill, laidback approach and occasional ADD in pursuit of bright, shiny objects), but that was no matter.
audia had something special. a way of scanning a room, snapping the obligatory photos on the shot list, and then honing in on details that were much more subtle—and infinitely more beautiful. the elegant curves of a baker sofa. the scrolled arm of an antique chair. the pristine lines of anything in holly hunt's glorious showroom. the gentle cascade of buttons down the back of a designer gown. he'd pick up on colors and texture, light and shadows. he'd find beauty in the minutiae, not just in the elaborate, perfectly planned vignettes that the designers meticulously laid out.
occasionally he'd even piss off the haughty showroom managers, rearranging furniture, shuffling around a $20,000 chaise here, standing on a rare wenge wood Christian Liagre sculpture there, getting fingerprint smudges on the swarovski crystal figurines—all in pursuit of the money shot. they'd watch us leave the showroom, grimacing, feathers ruffled, shammy in hand, scampering to polish and return every item its exact spot...and then they'd gush when the photos came back, seeing their show pieces transformed into art pieces.
when the camera shutter clicked, he wasn't just taking pictures of objects, he was infusing them with emotion—bringing them to life.
the perfect case in point: the photos above. no they're not sculptures or exclusive objets d'art from a museum installation. they're simple drawer pulls, mounted on a wall with 50 other handle designs like you'd see at restoration hardware. instead of the expected, full frontal shot of the entire line of pulls, audia went in, close. and captured images that could personify the human struggle to achieve, our quest to overcome obstacles, a moment of contemplation or agony...or simply just a cool artful image.
a photographer. an artist. an in-the-moment visionary. he taught me how to see. how to find the signal in the visual "noise". how to sharpen my focus on details, subtlety, lines and curves. on moments. how to create a canvas that the viewer can map their own emotions and experiences to. how to take photos that aren't just beautiful, but make you feel.
filling in the blanks
yesterday's post about "works in progress" reminded me of a photo i took in florence of an artist painting the ponte vecchio. while his finished pieces were beautiful, i was more intrigued by his process—the faint pencil sketch slowly being filled in with layer upon layer of watercolors.
sometimes we have a rough idea of where we want to go, but the path to get there might not be so clear. some decisions may be firm, definitive, but many more may be measured, tentative, or complicated by factors beyond our control.
we fill in the blanks, moment by moment, but we can't forget there's a bigger picture. instead of scampering toward the finished product, the end goal, sometimes it's nice to linger, to stop and admire your progress, before picking up the brush again to make a few more marks.
is your destiny set in stone?
as a parent, you feel an immense sense of responsibility in nurturing your children, building a sense of identity and character within them, and (hopefully) setting them up to succeed in life, whatever their interests or passions may be.
in reflecting on this, i was struck by the inherent parallels between raising children and nurturing your own sense of self.
there's a great book on parenting called "nurture shock," which focuses on debunking the myths about how to raise children with a healthy self esteem. one of the subjects that the book tackles is labeling. while it's a long-held belief that praising your child for being "smart" or "pretty" or " artistic" or "athletic" is an effective way to build confidence and set your child up for success, the authors contend that these labels do far more harm than good. rather than building character and a sense of identity, they have the adverse effect of setting up lofty expectations, constructs which your child will always try to live up to.
the problem with labels is that they set up a predetermined notion of who you are and should be—an implied sense that this is your fate as opposed to something you can control.
in looking at your own life, are you defined by labels? if you've chosen a path: be it mother, father, professional, homemaker, have you allowed that label to define—and in the process confine you—a nice little box that excludes all the other things you used to be?
i have. it's only recently that i have rediscovered—and embraced—long dormant passions (photography, writing, design) that were set aside as i made a life for myself.
as i say in my credo: i am wife and mother. a sister and a daughter. a writer and an aesthete. a lover of beautiful things and making things beautiful—whether by capturing them on camera, expressing them in words, or experiencing them, truly, in the moment. i am mostly an optimist but sometimes a pessimist. i am a believer in life—despite all its imperfections—embraced and fully lived.
if labels can effect a self-fulfilling prophecy, then i say turn that power on its head. think of your roles but also your dreams and passions—and make your credo a volume of labels that don't pigeonhole you...but rather, enable you to soar.
best laid plans
when my husband and i first started dating, part of my induction into his "world" was an obligatory trip to sleeping bear dunes. if you haven't been there, it's on the northwest coast of michigan, a 450 ft sand dune, pristine, beautiful, surrounded by the turquoise waters of big and little glen lake. never having been to anywhere in michigan but detroit and flint before this trip, i was stunned by the natural beauty, the fresh, crisp air, and the fact that this little gem was in the midwest of all places.
after we raced up the hill that first time (i won!), it became our habit to, whenever we were in the area, make the trek up the sand dune, to stop. breathe in the air. soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when we came.
so when we had our first child, this was one of those "must do's" on our list of things we loved, that we had to share with him—an induction into our family rituals and the places that we hold dear.
we had brought him to the dunes once before, only then he was still an infant, strapped in a baby bjorn and not quite cognizant of the magnitude of what he was experiencing. a hint: he giggled just as much at the top of the hill as on the car ride watching baby einstein...
but this time it was going to be different. he was 2 1/2, walking (so therefore fully equipped to feel the sensation of sand between his toes), joyful, energetic and ready to go. i had my camera fired up. batteries charged. shot list in my head. this was going to be a perfect day sharing one of our favorite places, "the world's biggest sandbox," with our little boy.
when we got to the dunes, the sun was beaming. beautiful...but hot. we hiked up the hill, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, amazed that he made it all the way up. we spent a couple minutes taking it all in, and then it was time for the photo shoot.
only by then, mr. photogenic had lost his energy. he was hot. he was distracted. in the famous words of jerry lundegaard from fargo, "he was NOT cooperating, see"...and the sun continued to beat down. i'd ask him to smile, he'd pout. i'd call his name, his lower lip would jut out further. out of 50 shots, probably 5 were usable...and, with sweat rolling down my brow, i was a majorly unhappy camper.
and then it hit me. literally hit me...some sand kicked up by a gaggle of kids running full-speed down the massive hill. they were laughing, panting, squealing with delight, with each giant step of their descent.
i looked at my little boy and i knew what i had to do. i shut the camera off. strapped it over my neck. grabbed his hand tightly.
"are you ready?"
"yeah!" [squeal]
and we took off down the hill—leaving my expectations, our projected feelings about the import of the moment, and my incomplete shot list, in the dust. at the bottom of the hill, his reaction said it all. he squeezed me as hard as he could.
"again mommy, again!"
sometimes we get so caught up in our plans. how we're going to control every aspect of a situation: a party, an event, a presentation, a relationship, a photo shoot(!)—that we forget what's most important. sure planning is good, even necessary, but sometimes circumstances won't "cooperate." at a certain point, you just have to let go. be in the moment. stop. breathe in the air. soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when you came.
tradeoffs: why the grass isn't always greener
there's a hilarious "modern family" episode in which claire, the mom, gets a visit from a former co-worker (minnie driver). though the two were on par in their youth, claire has opted to stay at home with the kids while minnie glides in, a high-profile exec, dressed in haute couture, with lovers on multiple continents. filled with angst (and some hearty slugs of white wine), claire decides to invite minnie over to her home in an effort to show that it is she who is actually missing out on the good life. hilarity ensues (in the form of a port-o-potty, a bottle of jagermeister and a rat!) and the story is eventually tied up in a bow, but the truth of the episode still lingers.
whether we like it or not, life is all about tradeoffs. city or suburbs. work or kids. agency or client side. intense yet inspiring projects or work/life balance. a perfectly clean house or a couple extra hours of sleep.
often, when you think about the choices you've made, it's easy to feel satisfied, even content. you weighed the options, outlined the pros and cons. whether literally or in your mind, you drew the concrete line down the center of a blank page—a staunch reminder that, whatever the decision was, there were only 2 columns, and you had to choose a side.
but how much time do you spend pondering what it would be like on the other side of the wall...if you had thrown caution to the wind and actually made the "other" choice?
the conversation usually goes something like this: "i wouldn't trade my [insert life, kids, job or whatever word fits] for anything, but if i could do it all over again, i would..."
during good times, it's probably a fleeting thought that fades away as quickly as it forms. but when you're faced with rough patches, challenges, setbacks, you could probably write a novel, a screenplay with a sequel, about how wonderful your life would be, "if only."
the past year has taught me that things aren't always what they seem. think of the friends you know who seemingly "have it all." when you get together, perhaps you wish for things they have, places they've been, successes they've achieved. but once the wine gets flowing and you've caught up on the job and the kids and all the niceties that come with casual conversation, you find that, along with their wonderful and amazing experiences, come heartache, loss, illness, unrealized dreams and trepidation about what the future holds.
as human beings, we're connected as much by the joys in life as the sadness. realizing that behind closed doors, we've all got "our stuff" doesn't fix everything...but it helps you to get through, helps to make you just a little more grateful for your own patch of grass, with its unique pattern, weeds and all—and hopefully far more daisies.
pocketful of rainbows
we all dread mondays. usually for me it's like a ski jump at the vancouver olympics: at the strike of 5pm on friday, you're at the height, embracing the night with reckless abandon as the promise of the weekend lays before you. and then a slight tinge on saturday night as you feel the time racing by, hurtling out of your control. sunday morning you grasp for any shred of the last day before the work week starts: going to brunch, shopping or maybe perfecting the indentation on the couch and hoping against hope that the dead weight you've become can somehow halt, or at least delay, the screeching yet inevitable arrival of: monday.
to counter the all too familiar monday morning blues, my hope for this post is simply that you smile. :)
*note: because i have no idea how to make a song auto-play while you read, i'd like to suggest a little soundtrack as a backdrop to the story. even if you read no further, the sheer kitsch and bubblegum pop should inspire no less than a full-blown teeth-baring grin. guaranteed. so fire up the music and read on!
this weekend, we decided to check out the new west elm that opened in our neighborhood. no set agenda, just wanted to browse, check out the goods and be inspired. mission accomplished. but not for the reason you think...
the shopping excursion was a family affair and my 6 year old son was not exactly thrilled about the time set aside to shop—thereby cutting into an urgent rumble between darth vader and obi wan on the DS and an epic bokugan battle scheduled to be played out on our front door later that morning.
he grudgingly came along and proceeded to snuggle up against some fabulous cream mohair pillows. he moved further and stood awestruck as he admired the flock of origami birds suspended over a bed ensemble. then he ran to me with a major pronouncement: "mommy, mommy, i found the coolest thing ever!"
i ran over to check it out and looked in the direction he was pointing. "oh honey, i love it. it looks just like an eames chair! do you know who charles and ray eames are?"
"what are you talking about mommy?" he said. and then he pointed again, to the ceiling. "look mommy, i found a rainbow!"
i looked up. and there it was. light refracted from an uber cool glass lamp created a little slice of ROYGBV magic up on the ceiling.
"amazing."
i took my kid to the furniture store and, with his usual heart-warming sweetness and cheerful pov, he spent the rest of the time searching for rainbows...and finding them. on a vase. on the side of his head. even right on top of his eyes!
i hope, on this monday, you're lucky enough to find, as we did, a rainbow tucked away in a tiny little corner of your day.
"look at the donut, not the hole"
it was senior year. beaumont school for girls, class of 1990. the assignment: for our high school yearbook, we had to submit a quote to go along with our senior picture.
thankfully i opted for a tasteful headshot with a simple black background—no vertical blinds or wicker armchairs for this girl (that was so sophomore year!).
so now all i had to do was come up with a quote.
the pressure was on. for some, the task was a no brainer. "dead poet's society" was the blockbuster movie of the year so "carpe diem" and "seize the day" were the obvious choices. others took the high road: "i wanted to live deep and suck the marrow out of life" a la' Thoreau and the transcendentalists. and still others took the cheesy route. remember that terrible 80s song by timbuk 3? that's right, "the future's so bright (i gotta wear shades)" [insert groan here]
after intense internal debate, and because i waited until the last possible second to submit my quote or forever be remembered for saying [nothing], i decided.
"look at the donut, not the hole."
i was in honors classes, got good grades, and this was the best quote i could come up with? rather than quoting an author, a philosopher, a president or my favorite line from a cure or depeche mode song, i chose a simple kitschy quote to sum up my credo in life.
should i chalk it up as a bif, the result of a bad case of senioritis? or the duress of a looming deadline? it's interesting that even when it think about it today, it still resonates. it's brilliant in its simplicity, direct, a bit unexpected, and all about being optimisic. it's who i am. the same mantra then as now. it was an epiphany.
when you look back at moments in the past that have defined you, it's interesting to reflect on your life's trajectory and see whether the thread continues. can you "connect the dots" or trace them back to a single guiding principle? or has time, experience or maturity changed your outlook?
what would your quote be now? if you've got one, say it out loud...and live by it.
taking the plunge
2009 was a rough year. from january thru december, i felt inundated by bad news. at the macro level, i was disgusted by the modern day robber barons pillaging our economy. hearing about how virtually every industry—from banking to healthcare to our food system—was rife with corruption, mismanagement, corporate greed and public deception. on the personal front, diagnoses of cancer for family members and close friends, job losses, financial woes, construction problems with our home, and the loss of a twin that i carried for 27 weeks, were the flavors du jour. the morbid headlines and personal tragedies left me with an overwhelming feeling: futility.
what could i possibly do to make a difference? i certainly wasn't versed enough on the issues to tackle the big stuff (i'd leave that to my husband, a modern day crusader against the "pigs at the trough" of corporate america). with friends and family, i resolved to reconnect. reach out more, make phone calls long overdue, take a few minutes out of my daily grind to let them know i cared. i appreciated them. i was there if they needed anything.
but somehow it didn't seem like enough.
enter christine. my notoriously blunt cousin and the sister i always wished for. we grew up together and spent countless nights laying awake in the wee hours talking about our hopes and dreams. we visited them over the christmas holiday after a several year hiatus of not seeing each other. from the first word uttered, it was just like old times.
“you should start a blog,” she said.
“i know, i should. i just don't know what i'd write about.”
it's not that i'd never thought about it before. that was just the first time someone actually said it out loud...and it struck me. i ruminated. i could start a blog about branding or marketing, but it just felt forced (and god knows there are way too many of those already). how about women and empowering them to find their voice. that one felt a little truer, but too narrow and far too touchy feely.
every social media guru i've ever heard has said the key to starting a successful blog is finding "something you're passionate about." well i wouldn't say i'm passionate about facebook but i do spend a lot of time there...perhaps i could find a kernel of an idea there?
and then it hit me. amid all of the mindless rambling about the weather and my workload and the scrumptious meal i was about to sink my teeth into, i found the answer.
"inspired by..."
it's a photo album i created on facebook with some of my favorite images. photos i've taken of my family, my neighborhood, my city, and yes, of travels to far away lands too. some are landscapes, subjects of empirical beauty, but many are, in a word, simple. shadows from a bridge on wacker. light shining through the trees. clouds against a bright blue sky. my son's toes twinkling before their first dip into glen lake.
i decided to "take the plunge" and write this blog because these are the moments that sustain me. help me get through the nastiness in the world. there's a lot that is ugly, but far more, in everyday life is beautiful. inspired even. you just have to open your eyes to it.