Bake That Shit, Honey

Memories of an unforgiving patroness

The week begins neck deep in the reserves of my bead stash, digging through the inventory of the jewelry studio as I prepare to replenish our coffers in the coming months, with several gem shows and a buying trip to Italy fast approaching. As Miriam Makeba Pata Pata’s across my eardrums, I forage to the very back of a coat closet positively beset upon with art supplies. The massive untouched canvii and shelves of paint mockingly remind me of the hubris by which they came to live here. Something like, “Twombly?! Pffft, I could do that.” Ok…so do it then.

Ignoring the anthropomorphic gauntlet that’s just been thrown down, I spot a suitcase with contents unknown that must have been sitting unopened for years now, as it is buried amid piles of vintage fabric remnants. Setting aside the carefully folded brocades, damasks, and antique tapestries, I hoist the suitcase from its nest, unzip the behemoth, and am sat face to face with a mountain of pearls. Imagine my surprise at this discovery, having zero recollection of either myself or my mother acquiring the tiny trove of bouillon.

The pearls, I can see, are cultured and large, but with the breath of age about them that signals a life I know nothing about. Their coloring, which predominantly appears in variegated shades of deep grey purple-blues and muted bronzie-coppers, is made even more subtle by a veil of matte that covers each strand — the calcium dust of their siblings — and I feel a familiar feeling seize up inside my guts. It’s the thrill of possession; a lust that captures my heart and mind, for better or worse, and rules me when I am in the presence of gems and jewels. Even these gypsy pearls, so desperately in need of a bath and a new arrangement to enhance their natural beauty, are driving me mad to look at them. With eyes ravenous, feasting on the heartbreaking beauty of this world, I take inventory and watch as a vision begins to coalesce.

Over the course of the next day, the pearls are cleaned, cut free from their strands, and arranged in piles on my work table. Just as a painter curates his palette of colors, I do the same with components; pulling various shades of beads from a color scheme in a variety of shapes and facets that will serve to keep the eye traveling. As well, I select a few contrasting elements, usually African brass in a variety of forms and tones to break the patterns. The challenge with pearls, and I suspect this is why our stash sat untouched for so long, is that very often pearl jewelry looks quaint, traditional and/or conservative, and as you may have gathered by now, we are not purveyors of the norm. After a bit of contemplation, I settled on a vague mala template in my mind and chose a collection of antique balinese buddha’s as centerpiece pendants.

I was about seven iterations into disassembling and reassembling a bead pattern that was screaming, “you’re boring me stiff, Smalls!”, when an old memory crept in and a voice proclaimed, “Bake that shit, Honey.”

I was three years old when my mother started making jewelry. The story goes that she was out shopping one day and the glint of a charm necklace hanging in a shop window ignited a strange fascination in her, as if enticing the young mother with a message it had to relay. She stood there gazing at the glimmering ephemera and, as she describes the moment, it was like a camera came into focus and she instantly saw a new line of jewelry in her mind’s eye and exactly how to make it. She promptly purchased a few antique crystal necklaces, reworked them into a dozen pairs of wild gypsy earrings, and took them to her favorite store where the owner bought them all. The single mom that didn’t want to put her kid in daycare had stumbled upon the answered prayer… and she was in business.

The first charm necklace my mother made for herself, 1984

She began collecting antique charms, talismans, brooches, beads from around the world. She sourced findings and chain from the yellow pages (this is the 80’s, people) and began assembling the most outrageous jewelry her vision could summon; bohemian glamour dripping with treasure. She would go on business trips armed with only her jewelry bags and a map, whereby she would pull into a new city, learn the lay of the land, find the most exclusive area of town, scour the stores in that neighborhood for the one’s most conducive to her vibe, show the owners her line, and walk out an hour later with a check. This is the grind that raised me and ultimately put me through ivy league music school. A few years into her endeavor, however, there came a turning point brought about by a most unlikely encounter.

Nearly five years in from the inception of it all, I, conspicuously absent from school yet again, was with her on a business trip in Coconut Grove. As the afternoon wore on, we happened upon what looked from the windows to be the antique hoarders paradise of all time. By Appointment Only, read the sign on the door. Undeterred, mom rang the bell and we were promptly buzzed inside and greeted by a seventy-something year old gorgeous classy-broad-of-the-ages named Charlotte. My mother lays on the schpiel, “I’m a jewelry designer, I make fabulous piece with antique components, would you care to see what I do?” Of course, Char Char is into it. As they settled into conversation, I took to snooping around, which was almost impossible given the fact that you could barely walk on account of the sheer volume of fabulosity crammed into the space.

When I tell you, to this day, in all my travels, I have never seen a more incredible collection of treasure packed into a single room, I am not lying. Every inch of space, every place you could rest your eyes, was more fabulous than the next. There were fifteen chandeliers hanging at various heights above my tiny imploding mind and they looked to be straight from the Belle Epoch; brass and gold palm leaves, animals and female figures dripping with colored glass drops of amethyst, aqua, roselyn, and green. Ancient chinoiserie from some 17th century dynasty. A collection of 30ish hand-blown Venetian glass perfume bottles — so delicate, obtuse, and Dali-esque, they looked to almost be melting in colors of deep plum, emerald, and rose. A faberge egg collection. Not replica’s. Actual Faberge eggs, jewel encrusted and locked in a double-bevel glass case. Original works by Léon Bakst and Maxfield Parrish, both of whom I recognized from my mother’s art books at home. French and Italian gold gilt furniture. Marble statuary. A taxidermy peacock named Frank. Everything was a startling showcase of the golden age of industry and artistry.

Léon Bakst, costume for the Ballet Russes, 1910

Dazed and astounded by the ambiance, I turned back to my mother, whose beauty and elegance were perfectly amplified in this space, and she was radiating her genuine warmth as Charlotte eyeballed each piece carefully. “My dear, these are fabulous. You have touched on something truly unique and I want them all but here’s what—they’re not done yet. I want you to take them home and bake ‘em a little more.”

“Bake them a little more?”, my mother smiled at her audacity.

“Yes, I want moreeeee,” Charlotte purred the accentuation, making an emphatic necklace dripping gesture with her hands. “Price is no object. Take them home and bake that shit, honey.”

They laughed and sealed the deal with an invoice and a signature.

For as much as she had already pushed past the threshold of creative impertinence, that afternoon with Charlotte shifted something in my mother as a young artist. Charlotte was very adamant that there was no time to lose. She wanted everything baked, cooked, drenched and dripping, or nothing at all. She knew her taste level and the taste level of her clientele, and whether or not the proletariat could access that echelon of beauty was not her concern.

For every level of excess, there are entryways of access. The first rule of business is to know your level and that has nothing to do with the caste you’re born into or the amount of money in your bank account. The level to which we rise is solely determined by the scope of our vision and the full embodiment of that vision as our reality. For as much as culture and our peers want to tell us who we are and keep us chained to that idea, we are free at any moment to elevate ourselves to the level of our ideal.

Charlotte’s encouragement was pivotal to the young artist in my mother that had always stood alone in a vision that other’s did not see, and fueled by Charlotte’s words to “Bake that shit, Honey”, my mother went on in subsequent years to design jewelry worn by Barbra Streisand, Janet Jackson, Ally McGraw, Kathy Bates, and other notable women.

There are many takeaways in this little anecdote but here are a few I want to highlight.

Firstly, we are all a direct result of input. Children learn by what they’re granted access to so let them in on your thought processes just as you would do with your skills and methods. Give them responsibilities that force them (gently) out of their comfort zone. I missed a lot of school in the early days but gained priceless life lessons and a tremendous education in the process. Given that it was just the two of us, I was my mother’s only sounding board, meaning I was privy to her thought processes, both practical and creative. One conversation of note in particular after the meeting with Charlotte revolved around the pros and cons of designing for the masses vs. designing for the art of it. I was eight. She taught me to read a map and put me in charge of navigating our roads trips. Eventually she put me in charge of handling the finances. I watched her navigate the various personalities of buyers and dealers, and from that I learned sourcing and negotiation. These were invaluable lessons. The battle cry of my mother’s life was freedom and she made sure I had a tool box of talent and skills from which I could draw on at any time, anywhere in the world, to support myself and stay financially independent. The level of freedom this affords me is incalculable.

II. Balls will take you farther than any talent or skill. There’s an endless parade of saboteurs in the form of thoughts that we all too willingly concede victory to on the path toward progress, opportunity, attainment, happiness, etc. It is the path of the fool to focus on what you don’t have. To the very best of your ability, do the very most with what you have right now. Clear vision and fearless execution will win every time.

Next: Creativity has to find you working. The first five iterations of anything aren’t it. Keep pushing. The goal is to blow your own mind!

IV. Be radical in your art and in your life. Nothing worthwhile lies within the box of conventional approaches. Acclimate yourself to the zenith point of a personal standard whereby you simply won’t tolerate anything but the highest manifestation of the moment, whatever it happens to be calling for: do your work all the way, take your art all the way, live honorably all the time, etc. You elevate your standard by exercising your ability to exceed it.

V. Your station in life is determined by the scope of your vision, not the scope of your wealth. Being rich has nothing to do with money. This is the truth.

Lastly, what you give attention to binds you to it as its patron because you are enabling it through the currency of your focus. You, like Charlotte, are a patron of the arts and a purveyor of the elevated experience in this world. A word from you, a share, a subscription, a purchase — these contributions are the fuel that enable the artist’s path. Without patronage, the greatest talent the world has ever witnessed would remain unseen so don’t ever underestimate your capacity as a patron. The days of the gatekeepers that tell us what to like and what to buy are over. You are the custodians and the patrons! Summon your inner Lorenzo.

As for me, the pearls and I are still slugging it out for who gets a starring role in this collection of strands de boheme. The vision curls through the smoke of my burning copal and Charlotte’s immortal words are still weaving their power through the lineage.

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Happy Birthday to my beautiful mother, Lannie. You set the standard for it all — beauty, truth, freedom, consciousness, and most of all, for love. Everything that I am and everything that I do is because of you.

Mom at the Algonquin

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