(be)Coming Home

I have not written in a terribly long time, and this post may seem redundant if you read back in my history.  Nonetheless, I am once again confronting the issue and importance of "Home" to me - to my psyche, to my internal balance, to my happiness.

Andy and I have temporarily gotten a second home in Chicago for the nest few years.  The choice was all about logistics, frankly, and we chose Chicago since it is a vibrant city, something important to us both.  Since we made this change 8 months, I have felt somewhat like an uprooted tree.  I'm fine and healthy, but without my friends, without my art-filled home, without the objects I have collected throughout my adult life, without that west coast air and vibe, I often feel like a perpetual tourist, a person out of place.

There are many components to this unbalanced feeling, but one of the biggest ones is ART and handmade objects.  We decided to leave all our art and furnishings in our San Francisco home, so Chicago has been an opportunity to begin to collect again.  While that opportunity may sound exciting, it is daunting - financially and aesthetically.  I only want pieces I love and don't have much time to look, nor can I afford everything I might want. (who can?) . So this is going slowly, painfully slowly.  Yet, it is beginning to look a bit more like home with the additions of a few new works of art.

For years, I have admired the work of artist Gugger Petter.  The textile artist in me loves the medium of newspaper and altered tapestry technique.  The visual artist in me just plain loves the imagery.  Every year I see her work and think, "Someday".  Someday happened a month ago when I serendipitously stumbled across her show in San Francisco.  Andy and I made the leap and purchased a portrait and it finally arrived and is hung.

I cannot express how much joy it brings me every time I see it.  The power of art to transform my thinking is extraordinary.  I know this.  I talk about it all the time, especially given my profession.  But when it happens to me in such a personal way, it knocks me over as if it were the first time.

Welcome to my home, Gugger Petter.  Welcome home, Lisa.

A Slap in the Face

I was in a meeting yesterday when a statement was uttered by a well-meaning but ignorant participant.  “Put a bunch of them in a room together and boy, do they buy”.

They, in this case, was referring to Jews.  I was the only Jew in the meeting and I immediately felt a sting, an anger, a horror that rarely gets touched. 

I understand that I am privileged in the world of bias.  As a Jewish descendant of Europeans, I have few obvious outward indicators of my heritage, so perhaps my co-worker was unaware of my background and faith.  I check the “Caucasian” box on every survey and my curly hair could be of many descents, from Italian to African-American, Indian to Eastern-European Jewish.  So I “pass”, in this case, pass as Christian, enough so that this person felt comfortable that he was talking about a group of others.

Feeling the sting of ignorance made me acutely aware of what it might be like to someone who has outward indicators – skin color, eyes, dress, markings, size, speech – and face this sort of behavior day after day, over and over again, to hear biased references to oneself made blatantly and stupidly and prejudicially.  This remark was nothing at all compared to being preyed upon based on being black, was nothing compared to being harassed for being gay, was nothing compared to hearing debasing jokes based on your size, was nothing compared to not being allowed to love who you want to love, was nothing compared to so many horrifying slights and injustices.  But it was a sharp slap in the face, and a good reminder that ignorance and bias is everywhere, and that unless we call it out, recognize it for what it is, and ultimately not allow it, it will persist and eat away at our humanity.

Homecoming

I try not to make my posts here commercial, but today the boundaries between my personal life and professional life are feeling blurred.  That’s not uncommon.  As someone whose love of art led me to running the company I’ve been at the helm of for eight years, I often spend off-work time at art-related events.

Nonetheless, in a far more personal way, my two worlds are colliding and combining this week.  As Artful Home is currently showing a collection of artwork based on the theme of “Home”, I am feeling such an intense longing for home I can taste it.

What is home?  Is it a place?  Is it people?  Is it a structure?  Is it tangible?  I believe it is all of the above and I miss it.  I’ve been gone from home and from my husband for 12 days now and the longing for both is deep, something like an ache.  As someone who has chosen a life with nonstop travel, a life with tremendous perks and benefits, an exciting and varied life, I don’t resent this.  But I ache.

Yesterday, a gorgeous, sunny, hallelujah-kind-of  day had so many aspects of joy to it.  The sight of a farmer’s market directly across from my hotel in the park brought immediate pleasure to my spirits. I’m a sucker for farmer’s markets throughout the world, and this one with its plump tomatoes and bursting pastries made me feel right at “home”.  A delicious bike-ride along the lake after a hard day of work brought equal pleasure with its familiarity, its beauty, its great-to-be alive aspect.  With those events bookending my day, I didn’t miss home.  Much.

But as I walk through yet another airport and see adults clutching teddy bears, pillows, hands of loved ones, I can’t get home soon enough.  I suspect those travelers are seeking to hang onto a bit of precious “home” as they embark for their destinations.

Kyle Hawk’s sculpture depicting a home with roots below it, roots growing deep in spite of the shelf below the house, feels just right to me now.  My roots are deep, growing deeper, even if I am not physically home to tend them.  Let my flight get me home in time.

  

Yes, I’m going to Burning Man

The word is out and yes, it is true.  I am going to Burning Man this year.  Since the choice and decision to go seems out of character, both to most people I know as well as to me, I thought I’d chew on it a bit to try to understand and explain why.

The most simple answer which is now only one small part of the reason is that my husband wants to go.  Andy has wanted to go since I met him.  Of the two of us, he is more of an adventure seeker and risk taker and I am more fearful and cautious.   So while my initial response when he posed the possibility of going was “seriously?? – instead of Europe this year??”, the possibility also intrigued me.

Over the past several years, I’ve been learning to explore ideas and experiences that are outside my comfort zone.  Scuba was definitely one of those.  I’ve learned that immediately shutting my mind to things which “Lisa doesn’t do” keeps me from growing and explanding.

Nonetheless, Burning Man falls way outside my comfort zone.  I am not comfortable running around naked.  I don’t use drugs.  I don’t like wearing costumes.  And I don’t have an active fantasy life or alter-ego waiting to be acted out in an alternate world. I'm a 62-year-old wife, mother, CEO, friend, Rock of Gibraltar type.

So why am I going to spend the better part of a week in the hot desert where an alternative world is erected and dismantled, where nothing will be familiar, where I will have no access to the body part known as my Iphone, where I’ll live in an RV and fill every crevice of my body with dust?  I’m going for three powerful reasons.

I’m going for the art.  While I know that sounds like men who say they only read Playboy for the articles, I am extremely interested in seeing the spectacle of the art created for the playa.  Photos of past years amaze me, and I think that anyone interested in current art has to see this.  A dear friend who is sponsoring me at BRC believes this and I trust her implicitly.

I’m going for the opportunity to see exactly what this alternative world is.  I’m not looking to live in another place nor planet, but rather, experiencing, if only for a short while, a world based on barter, gifts, and self-rule is fascinating.  Described as a catalyst for creative culture in the world, it's a place I want to be, or at least try.

My adorable second or third hand bike, already replete with handprinted designs

And I’m interested in seeing what effect all of this has on me.  Just the exercise of trying to figure out what I’ll wear, if there is an alternate-Lisa waiting to burst out in costume, has been an interesting experience.  (So far there is not!)   

Hat #1 for Burning Man 

Wish me luck.  I am very excited, thrilled to be going.  And scared.

Cheesemonger and Queen of Leather

When you raise your children, you have no idea who or how they are going to be as adults.  You hope, you wish, you wonder.  You try to stay present and love them for who they are, worrying about their challenges and weaknesses, praising them for their hard work and achievements.  But really, you just don’t know.

In my case, I sent my kids to great private schools, schools which allowed my bright young things to learn in their own styles but which I also knew were often feeder schools to, ultimately, great universities and careers.  I was a working mom, a hard-working executive who had the means for these great schools and the desire to give my kids the best chance.

My kids definitely marched to their own beats, with one to whom most everything came easily and one for whom obstacles were ever-present.  One thing was constant, though.  They each had passions, and my ex-husband and I were committed to feeding and nurturing their passions, regardless of what those passions were.   At the college level, neither was pursuing anything which looked like it could ever make a decent living, something I worried about – a lot.  But again, they were committed, passionate, and involved in their work.

Now, here I am, with two adult children each having been acclaimed publicly in the news.  My son was just awarded the winner in the 2015 Cheesemonger Invitational and written about in the Wall Street Journal.  My daughter has been proclaimed “the Queen of Mainstream Bondage” by the New York Times.  Cheese and leather, mongering and bondage, neither are exactly what I had in mind every year as I paid those hefty tuition bills. 

And yet I could not be more pleased.  It’s not the public acclaim that has me so happy, though that is certainly wonderful.  What I’m pleased about is that my kids have become adults who continue to pursue their passions and are figuring out every day how to build their lives around what they love.   Bravo Nick and Zana, following your dreams, making this mother proud.    

Today I made an ugly ring

For three days, I was honored to be an attendee of the Craft Think Tank dedicated to discussing the world and future of craft – craft artists, education, collecting, making, and selling.  Brigitte Martin does an outstanding job of leading these annual retreats.  While the entire experience was incredibly thought provoking, I learned a profound lesson during one separate experience.

For 2 ½ hours, we were immersed in making something.  The think tank took place at the amazing Lillstreet Art Center in Chicago, with studios in so many media.  I had chosen jewelry, as the tools and the materials were something I’ve never tried to work in.  My hands have been hungering lately to do something – anything! – as I’ve been in a knitting hiatus and I find that working with my hands feeds a part of my soul like nothing else.  My soul was hungry.

Pam Robinson

Being a complete ignorant novice was humbling.  As I watched the demonstration by PamRobinson, an expert in her field of jewelry and an awesome teacher, I thought, wow, I can do that.  It doesn’t look so hard.

At work

You already know the end of this story.  It WAS hard, so much harder than it looks, with details and technique, familiarity and subtlety all missing on my part.  But at the end of the workshop, I, like all the other participants, had made a ring.  Mine is ugly and bumpy, a little rough at the edges where it should not be, and a slightly different size than intended. 

My ugly ring next to my beautiful ring created by Lynda Bahr

As I got over my embarrassment about my ring’s lack of beauty, I also realized two things.  My exhilaration from having made something was back.  And my respect for jewelry artists only increased.  I have always admired their work and marveled at the intricacy and workmanship, but I have a bit more understanding now and only respect them more.

Proud students showing off our work