Recently, I was fortunate enough to be back in Istanbul after a twenty-five year absence. Some things had changed but, for the most part, it was as stunning as it had ever been. In addition to blue glass amulets to replace my original one broken …
We’re one of those families. We love bread. I mean we love it. For a few years before the pandemic, my husband baked four beautiful loaves every week. Gosh, you should see the smile on my face as I write that sentence. As everyone and …
You know my thoughts on markets. I’ve been lucky to visit some excellent ones here and there. The Old Biscuit Mill is far and away one of the best. See for yourself.
Delicious food, check. Live music, check. A DJ, check. Heavenly aromas, check. A chill vibe, check. Beautiful surroundings, check. And the people…
I honestly cannot say what I enjoyed most so I’ll just say everything!
While I was at the loveliest birthday dinner with our brand-new friends we had met just four days earlier, I was asked what it felt like to call America home. Behind the question was the horrible legacy of slavery and the possibility of rootlessness. “Do …
I recently had the incredibly good fortune to visit South Africa for a project and I was showered with love letters. At every turn, there was beauty, and I took it all in. I learned, stretched, explored, and rested. And I joyfully tasted.
“To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a taste of freedom.
NELSON MANDELA
This Black Garden Epistle comes to you from Robben Island in South Africa. It starts with this paved and shrubby patch of land where the guide describes the trees planted by Europeans as takers of fresh water.
I am on the notorious island where people were held as prisoners over more than 350 years as offenders, lepers, and political dissidents. Its most famous one, Nelson Mandela, became the first democratically-elected president of this beautiful country four years after his release.
My guide, a political prisoner himself for 16 years, describes the ingenious ways that they communicated with other activists despite the severe consequences. We will find a way.
This visit is haunting, somber, and oh so quiet. We are rapt in anticipation of what he’ll share next. Everywhere is gray, barn-white, and faint blue.
And then we enter the yard where prisoners sat on the ground spaced apart to avoid communication. Here, we learn how President Mandela wrote passages of his book, Long Walk to Freedom, under and near a grapevine. With the help of other prisoners, he’d hide the passages and as a group, they’d all protect the scraps of paper to be stitched together years later. A We find a way.
“This courtyard did not exist when we arrived here. We created it. This court was for tennis, volley ball and tennikoit. The garden had grapes, peaches, vegetables and flowers. It was planted by Elias Motswaledi.”
Wilton Mkwayi
We find a way.
Express yourself, Whatever you do, uh, Do it good, uh! We definitely did it good! I’ll start at the end and then make our way back. My mom pulled out one of my favorite plates, plump strawberries framing the center, ready to full of the …
A dozen years ago, I went to an art show that changed my life.
A new friend, who had patiently washed sushi rice 5-10 times to my precise specifications (a story for another day), invited me to join her and two of her friends to see the photographs of Vivian Maier. There was quite a buzz around Maier at that time with the kind of backstory that sells papers and piques interest. Born in New York City in the 20s to a French mother and Austrian father, she had hopped back and forth between the States and France until age 25. Before her main profession, she had worked in a NYC sweatshop. She then moved to Chicagoland where she was a nanny for the next 40 years.
She would often go downtown alone (and sometimes with her charges in tow) and take arresting photos of Chicago’s inhabitants such as workers under the L, children playing or more likely working, families passing storefronts, and spectacles.
And in her hometown of New York.
Back to that exhibition, Finding Vivian Maier: Chicago Street Photographer, 2011. Shortly before Maier passed away, a trove of photographs and numerous negatives were found. Most of her negatives had never been developed. She had spent her last years destitute and unable to pay her rent and storage. As a result, the bulk of her work was snapped up for a song. Images were shared online, and not surprisingly, the public was eager for more. And from that, a lovely show at the Chicago Cultural Center captivated countless visitors and art lovers. Looking at each image with my old and two strangers was the gel for two friendships that are now incredibly deep twelve years later. Here’s to new paths!
Intentional. To kick off the new year, my friends at PostScript asked me to be their guest writer for their lovely blog, In the Loop. This month’s theme is coffee but I was encouraged to write about anything so I did both. If you’re interested …
