Wine, Literature and Music

Imagine these three things at once. Imagine yourself sipping a glass of red Barolo wine, and reading your favorite book while listening to a song that has been the soundtrack to a cherished part of your life.

And now imagine yourself in Italy, in a beautiful village called Barolo, Piedmont, enjoying the fourth edition of the Collisioni Festival, a summer celebration of music, literature and wine. Every year Collisioni presents important authors and artists from different parts of the world, in a wonderful and dreamy atmosphere and in a setting that is definitely worth a visit, at least once in a lifetime.

This is the opinion of Patti Smith, special guest at Collisioni, who during a magical summertime afternoon shared her passion for Italy, and her thoughts about art, environmental issues, politics, and of course music. I couldn’t wait to see Patti Smith. I’ve been listening to her songs forever, but curiously enough have never attended any of her concerts. So I’ve always wondered how it would feel seeing her in person. From a few feet away, I can tell you that she is friendly, down to earth, interesting, smart and very passionate. It felt like I didn’t need to agree to what she said to appreciate her.

And now project yourself fifty years ago. It was 1962 when a twenty year old boy from Minnesota told the world that a new wind was blowing, blowing through poetry and songs. A wind that would soon become a hurricane, and, most importantly, the voice of young people trying to imagine a different future. Bob Dylan was in Barolo, too, the only Italian date of the legendary American singer-songwriter during the summer. I can’t describe my feelings when he sang Blowin’ in the Wind or Like a Rolling Stone.

And then there was Don DeLillo, speaking about his last (latest) books, Boy George, Vinicio Capossela, and Zucchero, and many other artists from Italy too.

Music and books among the vineyards, tasting local wines from the many small cellars that offered glasses of Barolo, Dolcetto and Barbera along the way – overall, this was just a perfect weekend.

THE LAND and THE VINEYARDS, AS I SAW THEM…

 

LAST WEEKEND THROUGH WORDS.

DON DELILLO ON TIME.

“Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.” from The Body Artist

PATTI SMITH ON TIME.

“Yet you could feel a vibration in the air, a sense of hastening. It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was. Now men had walked upon it, rubber treads on a pearl of the gods. Perhaps it was an awareness of time passing, the last summer of the decade. Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.” from Just Kids

BOB DYLAN ON TIME.

Yes, how many years can a mountain exist / Before it's washed to the sea ? Yes, how many years can some people exist / Before they're allowed to be free ? Yes, how many times can a man turn his head / Pretending he just doesn't see ? The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind / The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Geraniums and Green Feet

My parents built my childhood home, the house my father still lives in today, in the early 1970's, for just over $30,000. My grandfather convinced my parents that a fourth bedroom wasn't worth the extra money, a decision that turned out to be ill-informed when I made my surprise appearance a few years after my two sisters. He redeemed himself when I was a toddler, by paying for the addition of an in-ground pool in the backyard. That pool came to define our summers. Days, weeks, and months were spent playing sharks and minnows and agonizing over the 15 minute wait to get back in the pool after each meal, swim lessons were held there for all the neighborhood kids, and countless bbqs were thrown together on a whim, with my mom firmly at the helm. For a city girl, she thrived in her yard and by the pool---both of which required a staggering amount of work, as my sisters and I are finding out years later. She weeded and edged, power-washed, and for her pièce de résistance, she mowed the lawn in her bathing suit and bare feet, as evidenced by the color of her feet all season long. She never had a good explanation for her mowing uniform, beyond It's hot out! What do you want from me?, but  told us years later that it was the only time she had to herself when we were little. It wasn't all work and no play, though. As we swam away our days, my mom entertained neighbors and friends with gin wedges and an endless supply of potato salad, melon, and veggie platters, making it seem as though they just appeared out of the ether.  Her open door policy was known throughout the neighborhood and beyond---what would start as a small gathering inevitably became, in her words, a cast of thousands.

My mom was famous for her bright red geraniums, transplanted from large hanging plants and placed  in pots around the pool. The years she tried something different---begonias, dahlias, petunias even --- were busts, and she always went back to her beloved geraniums. She surveyed those flowers daily, methodically---and, if you knew my mom, without remorse---getting rid of dead blooms with a flick of her wrist. There is an area of the yard, behind one corner of the fence surrounding the pool, that courtesy of my cousin became known as the "Geranium Graveyard," where the dead blooms went to spend their final days. It is only fitting that we plan to place some of my mom's ashes there, forever memorializing the spot. In the first few days following my mom's death, those geraniums came up in conversation several times. Family and friends wanted to make sure that my sisters and I would still plant them; no one could imagine the backyard without those pops of red.

We all chipped in to open the pool this year---my sisters and I, along with our significant others and my dad, with the help of neighbors who have themselves swam in the pool since childhood. My sisters took charge of the geraniums, and the good news is that all but two of the plants are surviving their first summer without my mom's care. The unfortunate ones are victims of my dad's valiant effort to water them using chlorinated pool water.

There have been barbeques and gatherings already this summer, and the youngest generation now whiles away their endless summer days in the pool, just as we did a lifetime ago. To celebrate the 4th, we invited friends and family over for what felt like just another Brady barbeque, but with me in charge instead of my mom. I grocery shopped, I straightened the house, and I made burgers, salads and snacks, all the while cursing my father and husband, who were relaxing and playing golf, respectively. How did my mom do it all those years?---this was the question I asked repeatedly throughout the day. But deep down, I already knew the answer. She did it because it was more important to bring family and friends together than to lounge by the pool;  she did it because it was always a few good laughs; she did it because she didn't know how not to do it. It's a burden and a blessing, this legacy of ours, but I don't have time to worry about that. I'm busy planning our next party.

New Normal

by Alison Schramm

My parents – and especially my mom - have always made extra-ordinary efforts to visit me and my husband in New York. I’ll admit that I’m skilled at lining up visits regardless of the occasion, but truthfully, my mom never really needed any convincing. Occasionally she flew, but more often than not she drove, always with her handwritten directions taped to the dashboard. She drove down with my dad, with my sisters, with friends, and because nothing was going to get in between visits with her baby, she even drove the oftentimes torturous 350 miles from Rochester by herself. The car was typically loaded with groceries – always with some type of pork product, as my husband loved to point out – and beer and wine. I joked with her, “Mom, it’s New York, there are grocery stores here,” but it was wasted breath. She came to help us move, to help celebrate birthdays, for girls’ weekends, and for everything in between. All of these visits were variable, but there was one that was more or less set in stone each year.

For the last six or seven years, my parents have made a summer trip to New York. If you’re sitting there thinking what an awful time to visit NYC, what with the tourists and the humidity and the smelly garbage, you’d be right. But for my dad, this trip is about one thing: going to a Yankees game. To say my dad has a healthy appreciation for sports is an understatement. The Browns, the Yankees, Syracuse basketball, Notre Dame football, anyone holding a golf club - the man does not only watch, but truly enjoys most sporting events, a trait shared wholeheartedly by my husband.

My mom, on the other hand, was a sports fan in that way many wives are, myself included. The Yankees play approximately 162 games per season, and my mom probably watched close to 150 by virtue of living with my dad, or as she liked to put it, being a hostage in her own house. Despite this love/hate relationship, she could rattle off the starting lineup for the Yankees on a moment’s notice and liked to provide her own color commentary on each of the players and their personal lives. I was home one Wednesday night and somehow wrestled the remote from my dad, just in time to catch Modern Family. I was shocked when my mom told me she had never watched an episode, but in her now infamous words, ”If it doesn’t have a ball, we don’t watch it.”

Last weekend marked our first Yankees outing since my mom died. A small milestone, comparatively speaking, but I missed her every step of the way. Before the game, we stopped for lunch at Dominick’s, an Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and truthfully, the real highlight of the day for me. Dominick’s is the kind of restaurant where the waiters recite for you the menu, where the red sauce is the star, where the table clothes are plastic, but most importantly to me on that day, the kind of restaurant my mom would have loved.

As we ate, I thought about how my mom would have oooh’ed and aaah’ed over each bite of chicken parm, one of her favorite indulgences. I was reminded of a conversation I had with my sister the week before. She was matter-of-fact, and told me how during a particularly difficult day, and after months of thinking to herself, “Mom would love this,” she decided to change her way of thinking. She said from that point on, she has repeated to herself, “Mom LOVES this,” and it’s changed everything for her. So I tried it on for size, over our Italian feast. And then this past weekend, when we were all together for Father’s Day, with the kids running around in the side yard, I said it again: “Mom LOVES this.”

This is my new normal. Baseball games with my dad and husband, holidays with my family, keeping my head up each and every day. It’s the new and it’s the old and if I’m being honest, I have no idea where it’s taking me some days. But one thing I do know -

Mom loves this.

The Cost of Convenience

by Breanne Martin Convenience is one of those things that is such an American ideal that challenging it sometimes causes people question your sanity. The problem is, when I think about the things that were created in the name of making slow processes go faster, I can't help but think that we've lost something important. Fast food, bought and consumed without leaving the car, takes the place of meals made out of real food and eaten around the table with loved ones. Exhaust-billowing vehicles get used to complete local errands that could easily be enjoyed from atop a bicycle or on foot. Thousands of dollars are spent on recreational vehicles used to power through the outdoors when a silent tent or a mountain bicycle might have sufficed. Heaven forbid we complete a routine task in a way that takes more time or worse, muscle power.

During a recent trip to the grocery store on our steel bicycles, my husband and I were carefully loading our week of food into our panniers, balancing unclipped helmets atop our heads. As we worked, the cashier puzzled at our slow method of covering the five miles between our house and the store, finally commenting, "Well, at least you don't have to walk!"

Thinking of the two functioning cars that we intentionally left in our suburban garage, I marveled that our society has become so dependent on gas-powered vehicles that it would be inconceivable that we might choose to use a bicycle to pick up some vegetables from the store. Little did he know that while I loathe grocery shopping in general, completing the task via the outdoors makes it something I savor. By the time I return home, my cheeks are rosy with exertion; I'm perhaps a bit breathless as I pack the bags in the house, but I'm aware of my body, motivated to feed it something real and delicious.

Born and raised in the SUV-driving, Costco-shopping suburbs, I am a newcomer to the idea that slow is better. Little by little, deliberate, laborious routines have had to painstakingly wrap themselves around my tendency to rush things, slowly rooting me into the here and now. After all, I finished my four year college degree in just more than two years---if anything, I am gifted at rushing things.

The truth is though, when I think of the most incredible times in my life, I am keenly aware of the time and work that went into each of those memories. The hours-long meal we ate with new friends in France, the grueling process of hauling literal tons of dirt in a wheelbarrow to create my own expanse of organic garden, the three months of pedaling a bicycle across the European continent. I could have hired a landscaper to tend to my yard or ridden a train across Europe, but tackling these endeavors using my own muscle power and without a time schedule etched them into my whole being in a way that will always be with me.

Things that move slowly force you to reduce the number of things you can accomplish, forcing dedication to the task at hand, and adding meaning to processes that once seemed inconsequential but somehow necessary. Hurried errands morph into a chance to get moving and experience the weather. Regrettable combo meals give way to cherished memories around a table, and social media falls second to the joy of a real conversation.

One of my fondest childhood memories finds me sitting in my grandfather's kitchen, eating French toast only moments out of the skillet, smothered with his home bottled apricot jam. I never liked jam much, but always knew there was something different about the stuff that came from grandpa's storage room. Of course, the store-bought jam we ate at home could never have rivaled the stuff that is carefully made by hand and spooned into enough jars to last the winter, but of course, I've never made my own because I don't know how. I keep saying I will ask my aging grandfather to teach me and spend the weekend driving to his house to visit and learn, but I just haven't seemed to find the time. When I get there, I know he will drop his plans and spend the weekend sharing his secrets to jam and life---he's never been much for convenience. He's 80 years old this year, and suddenly I'm keenly aware if I don't slow down and make time soon, I'll never get the chance.

Inheritance

I’ve always bristled at comments made about women turning into their mothers. They strike me as belittling---as though our lives aren't our own to shape. Still, there are moments when I find myself doing something and I swear it’s as though I’m watching my mother instead of myself. I'm reminded of her when I'm brushing my wet hair in front of the mirror, or tucking a checked shirt into a pair of jeans, or pushing my long sleeves up to the spot on my forearms where they’ll stay put. The movements themselves are inherited. There are other things, too. The Brooklyn Bridge Park offers monthly horticulture walks and last week I made plans to attend one. At 5:30 pm, just at the moment when the late afternoon sun is glinting most dramatically off the East River, I trekked down to the park. I had my notebook and camera stuffed in a bag and in that earnest pursuit of knowledge gathering, I was reminded again of my inherited traits.

My mom is a woman who calls things by their proper names. A stand of magenta flowers by the side of the road are not just pink flowers, they’re Sweet William. A small grey bird at the feeder is a Tufted Titmouse. A neighbor’s tree is a Black Locust. As a child this knowledge was impressive and as a teenager it was mortifying. Now, the pattern seems to have cycled around again and I realize that I am the kind of woman who wants to call things by their proper names. Like my mother before me, I'll trek to the local park for a nature walk in order to do it. Lucky for me, living in a city doesn’t preclude my learning. As the weather has warmed up, I’ve spent most of my evenings walking through the park. It’s an incredibly impressive spot. Pier 1 is filled to brimming with native and ornamental species where only three years ago it was an empty concrete lot. If you’re nearby, it’s worth every minute of a visit and if you go soon, you'll see it teeming with juneberries and elderflowers and blueberries that are just starting to ripen. The rosa rugosa are as beautiful as the sea roses near my childhood home and a deep enough whiff of them could transport me right out of the city. If I had any intention of leaving.[gallery link="file" orderby="rand"]

The Wisdom of 105 years

What She Taught Me: If you happen to be born under a Czar in Russia, it is best to die under the first black President of the United States.

The most memorable path from Odessa to New York is via Ellis Island.

If you marry young and wrong, fix it.  Then marry again, older, and get it right.

Go to summer camp, work at summer camp, send your kids to summer camp.

Work very hard in noble, middle-class professions, but have manners like you are from Old Money.

Speak your mind early, often and even, maybe especially, when your speech fails you.

No excuses---maintain your hair, makeup and nails.  In a pinch, lipstick in a bright hue and clip on earrings will suffice.

Read voraciously, talk about books constantly, engage politically and do the New York Times Crossword Puzzle as far into the week as you can manage.  Obviously Sunday is the pinnacle.

Be unabashed in your pride and boasting when it comes to your family and your own significant accomplishments.

Make your marriage a true love affair, canonize your husband and keep his memory alive during all the years he misses.

Venerate the country you live in and be passionate about preserving its loftiest ideals.

Women can and should be controversial, if at all possible.

Be grateful about the opportunities in your life, whether they came to you by chance or by your own toiling.

Listen to music, play music, make your children play music.

It is totally acceptable to embellish when you are singing the praises of your family, even if a few of your grandchildren somehow end up with promotions along the way.

The Sweet and Low and all the other accouterments on the table at a restaurant are there for the taking.  Fill up your purse, sister.  Fill it up.

Rhea Sapodin Tauber July 17, 1907 – May 26, 2012

Welcome!

It was a dark and stormy night—no really, it was.  Our boutique creative agency YOU + ME* was in need of a retreat/vision quest/mini sabbatical/whatever you want to call it and we decided the perfect location was Salt Lake City in January.  We weren’t there to seek inspiration at Sundance or on the slopes (though that would have been a solid plan following the storm that blew through town).  Instead, we flew three quarters of the way across the country to attend the Altitude Summit, lovingly referred to as Alt, a design and social media conference that attracts creative powerhouses from all over the country. If you think boondoggle when you hear conference, it might not be obvious why we expected to forge a bold new path for our business from the lobby of the Grand America Hotel.  But forge we did.  It was time to step away from the glare of our computer screens and into the warm glow of shiny notebooks and neon pencils.   We wanted to liberate our brains from practical matters like business taxes and invoicing systems and let our minds wander toward our biggest dreams and grandest plans.  Most importantly, we needed to meaningfully connect—with old pals, new friends, and each other.

Over the course of our four-day trip, we had a blast (um, as you can see), extended our wheelhouse with a few new tricks, and figured out the next step on our never-ending quest to create a business that reflects our values and leads to fulfilling personal and professional lives. We stayed up late into the night discussing the fact that our internet circles are closing, rather than widening, comparing our experiences of the world, and chatting about our desire to connect women to each other in ways that extend beyond what our houses and weddings look like, what we cook for our families, and how we conceive of and present our outer selves. We downed coffee after coffee contemplating the fact that the online world has been one in which women have been framed as tearing each other down rather than building each other up. We lamented the dearth of online content for women that acknowledges that we are more than our outfits, our homes, and our consumption habits.

From that, the Equals Project was born.

And it looks like others have been thinking along the same lines. From the growing "Things I'm Afraid to Tell You" movement among bloggers, to the focus on meaningful gatherings in Kinfolk magazine, to people sharing incredibly thoughtful stories online with the sole intention of helping other people achieve happiness, it's clear that the internet is evolving from a place where we store and showcase our (often-unattainable) goals into a place where we can be real, multi-dimensional people. As we slow down and think about what we are really consuming on the internet, it seems as if we as a society are aching for meaning and process, rather than destinations and results. We hope you will find here a collection of stories, discussions, and art from women across the country (and across the world) that compels you to think, contribute your own stories and thoughts, and most of all, to act.

We are more than what we can cook, we are more than what we can create, more than our makeup, our jewelry, our aesthetic tastes. We are people with complex ideas, and conflicting thoughts, who read, travel, discuss, do, and make. We are people who are influenced and inspired by the women who came before us, and we aspire to create something greater than the sum of our parts.

After many months of work, tellingly accompanied by more grins than swear words, it’s finally time for us to make the Equals Project a reality.  We still have to pinch ourselves a little bit when we think of the talent, the stories, and the passion found among this amazing group of contributors and collaborators.  And we only get more excited when we think of how the Equals Project will be interpreted in print early next year.  We've also taken to jumping up and cheering on an hourly basis when we think about kicking off Equals Does, our philanthropic call to action--money is not the only tool for making a difference in the world.  In a short while, we’ll be announcing our first project representing Equals Does and featuring a series of inspiring projects that share a similar spirit. If you’re interested in supporting the Equals Project, you’re in luck:

• Follow us on facebook and twitter for regular updates
• Share The Equals Project with your friends, family, and every nice person you meet
• Contribute your writing, photography, or video (see submission guidelines)
• Send us a story of how you’ve used your skills, talents, or sheer gumption as a force for good in the world

Let's continue this conversation and get to know each other better, shall we?

Warmly,

Elisabeth & Miya