Creative spotlight — Tammie Knight

Tammie Knight. Where do we begin?

There are few of us who can speak and write with such fire, grace, and humor. Tammie is one of those people. I’ll listen to her stories for hours any day.

Tammie has a voracious appetite for life, which she channels into her family, her work, and a very special art form known as miniature making. Miniature bars, miniatures homes, miniature galleries — you name it, she’s made it. A magician with all things mini, you’ll often find Tammie making something remarkable with the little pieces life throws her way.

In this spotlight, we dive into how Tammie first got into miniatures, her New York City upbringing, uphill battles she’s faced in the art world, and her favorite project to date.

Note — All images in this piece, except for one of Tammie with her mother, are miniatures. :)

So, Tammie, when did you start making miniatures?

My passion for miniatures started really early. I was probably six or seven. I grew up in New York and we didn't have a ton of money, but I had this amazing mother — still one of my absolute favorite people — who was just so connected to culture and art and history and really wanted that for her girls. If there was an event going on that had anything to do with music or art or entertainment, my mother got us to it. If it was free, we were going really fast. If we had to pay something, she'd figure it out.

It was always an adventure. We had one car, which my dad drove to work a lot, so we didn't have access to it most of the time. Plus, my mom didn't drive, nor did she want to. She loved to walk. She loved the subway. She loved New York City buses. That's how we got around. Sometimes it would literally take four modes of transportation to get to a show, an event, or a museum. At first, my sisters and I sort of just went along, but then we all started really loving it.

And for me, art has always been there. I drew a lot as a child. Then my mother introduced me to one of her favorite museums, which was the Museum of the City of New York. The first two floors are all New York history — everything from politics to lifestyle to city planning. But the third floor was miniatures and dollhouses. We got off the elevator, the doors opened, and I lost my mind! It felt like Christmas.

I wish I could’ve seen your face! Was that the first time you saw miniatures?

Oh, no! It's the first time I'd seen that many of them in one place. We used to go to FAO Schwartz, which was a huge New York City toy store, and I grew up seeing the Macy's windows. So I'd seen miniatures before. But the first time that I ever saw them in mass was at the Museum of the City of New York.

I think it changed my life. My mother jokes that I never wanted to leave. I just couldn't believe that something like that was there. That I could go and look at it again and again. So it became my muse and when I did get my dollhouse, the first thing my mother said she noticed was that I wasn't just playing with it. I was designing it. I made wallpaper. I would ask her for snips of fabric from an old pillowcase to make a sheet. I just constantly wanted to sew and make it more than the dollhouse it was. I wanted to design it. That was really fun.

When I did get my dollhouse, the first thing my mother said she noticed was that I wasn't just playing with it. I was designing it. I made wallpaper. I would ask her for snips of fabric from an old pillowcase to make a sheet. I just constantly wanted to sew and make it more than the dollhouse it was.

What do you think inspired you to make these dollhouses your own, rather than leaving them as they were?

I think, to be honest, it was things like House and Garden Magazine. My mom was a magazine person. We always had traditional black magazines in the house, like Ebony and Essence, but we also had decorating magazines like House Beautiful. I would look through the magazines and see these very beautifully designed rooms. Even as a kid, I totally got that there was someone doing that work. It was bigger than just “Oh, there’s a really pretty room.” It was like, “Wow, someone chose that sofa and designed that wallpaper and put that chair in that corner.” I had the sense that it was a designed space and that was huge for me.

So, sometimes I tried to replicate what I saw and other times I would see it and decide that I could do it better. I know, how big of an ego is that? [laughs]. But I was like, “I can do that.” So I tried. And that started the journey of art becoming really serious for me.

So, sometimes I tried to replicate what I saw and other times I would see it and decide that I could do it better. I know, how big of an ego is that? But I was like, “I can do that.” So I tried. And that started the journey of art becoming really serious for me.

I became the person in the family that made our Christmas and birthday cards, all of which were handmade even though I could go to the store and buy Hallmark cards. By the time I was in middle school, I told my mother that I wanted to go to an art high school. So we started to investigate what the process would be like. My parents bought me all the paper and all the markers and all the paints that I needed to create my portfolio. It was just a really cool journey. My parents completely fed this talent and wanted to see where I would go with it.

I didn’t know you were so into interiors and art at such a young age. That brings even more dimension to what I know about you and your miniatures. What kept you fixated on the miniature scale?

That's a great question. I have to think about that. Maybe being a young girl and having a dollhouse at a young age was part of it.

But I also went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art starting around age six or seven. I loved it. They had period rooms and I really connected with the idea of things in a space having meaning because of where they came from, when they came into the space, and what they looked like in contrast to something else.

So, with miniatures, part of it was that I could control the scale because they were so small. I could create a whole space without making an entire life-sized room. And that stuck with me for reasons that are a bit control freakish, because I've got that going for sure. [laughs]

So, with miniatures, part of it was that I could control the scale because it was so small. I could create a whole space without making an entire life-sized room. And that stuck with me for reasons that are a bit control freakish, because I've got that going for sure.

And, to be honest, I never really wanted to be an interior designer. A friend of mine asked me, “Why didn’t you become an architect, a textiles designer, or do something bigger with that passion?” I think it’s because I wasn’t going to have to wait a very long time for my miniatures to come to fruition. It wasn't going to take five years to be built. It wasn't going to take the input of eight people and six months. It was going to take me, my skill, my ability to get things, find the resources, and build it. And that was super appealing. If it’s small, I can see an end to it.

I was never a very patient person. I could wait for something if I knew I wanted it, but I was always watching the clock go by and wanting something interesting to happen. My dad had this wonderful expression. He said, “I'll tell you something, young lady. Life does not move at the speed of Tammie.” And I thought, “Ok, Dad. Got it!”

My dad had this wonderful expression. He said, “I'll tell you something, young lady. Life does not move at the speed of Tammie.” And I thought, “Ok, Dad. Got it!”

It’s interesting because “control freak” has a negative connotation, but there seem to be two sides to the coin. There’s the side that isn’t always able to surrender, but there’s also the side that lends itself towards being proactive and owning life’s circumstances. That’s a quality I’ve always been really drawn to in you. Where do you think that comes from?

Well, thank you! Sometimes it's a cliche when people say they had a lot of strong female role models in their life, but in my case, that is fact. Two of my favorite women were my great grandmother, Lacie, and my mom. These two women, more than others, really stand out as being incredibly strong pillars for me.

I think I've told you that my sisters and I joke, “You know you have a special mother when she has three daughters and each of you think you're her favorite.” That was my mom. When I was with her, whatever I was doing felt like it was the most important thing to her. And my sister Audrey, who sings, would later say, “You know, Mom got me those guitar lessons that we couldn't necessarily afford and really encouraged me musically.” She felt like she had her full attention there. And my sister Lynne loved to sew and felt like she had my mom's full attention there too. We really were very fortunate to have a mother who threw herself at whatever we wanted to do one hundred percent.

I also started paying a lot of attention to my great grandmother Lacie as a young child because she seemed incredibly wise. I knew quite a few adults who I thought were smart, but I loved that she was wise. She used to say that she's stronger than her circumstance and I decided that that was a good mantra to have. She had a lot of quotes like, “Enjoy the good times, for they surely will pass. Endure the bad times, ‘cause they’re not going to last.” And she didn’t mean it in a negative, fatalistic way. She just meant that life is wonderful, but can be hard. So you're going to have great times and you're going to have awful times, and each of those things are organic and fluid and they're going to keep moving and changing, but what has to be constant is your belief that you can and will survive. And, even thrive.

So I decided that that had to be how the world worked for me, especially because I was very small for my age. Tiny in size. When I was 16, being tiny and in a big city, I just wanted to feel some kind of power and strength in my person. And that became core to who I am.

So I decided that that had to be how the world worked for me, especially because I was very small for my age. Tiny in size. When I was 16, being tiny and in a big city, I just wanted to feel some kind of power and strength in my person. And that became core to who I am.

I love that. Is there anything else about growing up in New York City that influenced your creativity and how you see the world?

Absolutely. The Met was a huge part of my life for so many reasons. I spent so much time going there. But there was a complexity to it all for me.

When I was a freshman at Parsons, there was a dollhouse shop on Madison Avenue that I found. And I thought to myself, “Oh my God. How long has this been here?” I couldn't even believe it was there. They were closed the day that I happened upon it, so I got their number and called. They told me that they weren't hiring and I thought, “Ok, I'll fix that!”

So I went home, put together pictures of my dollhouse projects, went back a week later, and went for it. I was like, “Hey, I'm Tammie McKinnon.” And they said, “Yeah, you were interested in a job. We're not hiring.” And I said, “Right. I know you said you're not hiring, but I want to work here and you don't even have to pay me a lot. And in fact, I have a feeling most of my paycheck will go back to you because I love miniatures and I'm just going to be buying a lot of stuff.”

So, I sold them on the idea of trying me part time. Within a month I had a full time after school and weekend job there. And as I got more experience working in the dollhouse shop, I became the person that did dollhouse repairs. So that meant if someone's electricity went out in their dollhouse or their daughter wanted to convert a bathroom into a nursery, I would head out with mini electrification tools, wallpaper, and pink carpet and get to work. We actually made house calls! That was such a cool thing.

But this was all happening in a New York neighborhood known as Carnegie Hill, which was extremely affluent and extremely lacking in diversity. And I have to tell you, it was very painful for me at times because I realized that I was being treated much better than some of the other people who were people of color, because I worked for a dollhouse shop, because I spoke “properly”, and because I was this “magical” dollhouse person.

But this was all happening in a New York neighborhood known as Carnegie Hill, which was extremely affluent and extremely lacking in diversity. And I have to tell you, it was very painful for me at times because I realized that I was being treated much better than some of the other people who were people of color, because I worked for a dollhouse shop, because I spoke “properly”, and because I was this “magical” dollhouse person.

So I would go into these exquisite homes, mostly owned by wealthy white New Yorkers, and I would catch a glimpse of their nanny or their housekeeper giving me looks that were not very friendly. And it created this confusion for me. I can't really describe what the looks were, but they didn’t give me a good feeling. I started to sort of feel like I was an impostor and that if I looked like me, but I wasn't necessarily doing the dollhouse thing, that maybe I wouldn't be treated the way I was. It was just a very strange feeling.

So often, especially on the weekends, I would end up working at the dollhouse shop, making a house call to someone in the neighborhood, and then retreating to the Met because the Met was like home for me. I would walk through the American wing and feel like I could just picture that period in history. I’d study some of the paintings by John Singer Sargent and be blown away. I’d go into the Egyptian wing and think, “I want to go to Egypt one day.” In a way, the Met was like traveling the world for me. It was a very exciting, powerful place to be.

But I always had this weird triangle of the dollhouse shop, these brownstones, and then the Met. It was my little corner of the world.

Did those uncomfortable feelings ever tarnish your relationship with miniatures? Or challenge your identity as a miniature maker?

For sure, they did. I had to fight through some of my own insecurities and pain. And frankly, though not often, I had to fight through some racism. When I was about 19, I did a miniature show in New Jersey. Out of 40 or 50 participants, I was the only black person. My mom was always my biggest supporter so she came with me and I can tell you that some of the looks we received were just rude and incredibly uncomfortable for me.

I remember thinking that I had to be tough and that I couldn't look vulnerable. That became a very pivotal time for me because I realized that this is the world. It wasn’t that everyone who’s white is a racist. That wasn't my view of the world. But I definitely knew that I was going to have an uphill battle with some people because I look like this and I was making dollhouses.

I have to tell you, frankly, some people have said things like, “Well, how did YOU get into miniatures? You don't see a lot of black people in miniatures.” And that's true. It's actually not something that you see a lot of people doing out here in California. I've been going to shows for decades and it comes up often. So I just decided that I had to get comfortable with being uncomfortable because people aren’t always going to be open minded towards me.

But, I also love the idea of doing something that people are looking at for what it is. I’m very proud of my blackness. I wear it with pride. But there’s more to me too. And I know that it can be really tricky for people because not everyone sees the world that way. But the world I see is the one where I’m doing this creative work. I want to do good work. I want to do work that excites people. That is positive. That brings something beautiful and new to the world. I want people to see that first and foremost. I want that more than anything.

I want to do work that excites people. That is positive. That brings something beautiful and new to the world. I want people to see that first and foremost. I want that more than anything.

I create this work with such a passion for it. It’s almost like I can't help it, like I have to create it. Which might sound kind of weird, but it's true. It’s a passion... and, it’s an obsession.

You’ve also been recently working on creating miniature galleries with artists, like our former co-worker Adrian. Can you tell us about those and where they are now?

They're all here with me. It's challenging for this Knight family of mine because I don't have a studio, so the house is my studio. At any given time, there are miniatures on the kitchen table, on the living room table, on the credenza. They're literally everywhere.

But I love the idea of creating micro galleries and I just started working on another one. I can't say the name of the artist or the project, but they are going to have a gallery show next year in the Bay Area and came up with a brilliant miniature gallery concept that I’m going to make for the show.

I've never done anything like this before. Adrian inspired this work with the request for a miniature of his ‘We Matter’ exhibition, and I am so grateful. Creating micro galleries with artists is an idea that has legs. It has room to grow. It also gives me the opportunity to show other people's work and to learn more about them. And I'm like you. I love connecting with people in a very genuine and real way. So having an opportunity to get to know someone's story through their work...it doesn't get better than that for me. This is work that I plan to be doing for a long time.

I love connecting with people in a very genuine and real way. So having an opportunity to get to know someone's story through their work...it doesn't get better than that for me. This is work that I plan to be doing for a long time.

Do you think you'll be doing other types of miniatures too?

Oh, yes! I still have the almost seven foot brownstone dollhouse that I have yet to finish. So, yeah, there are other projects. I'm working on a mini banquet for a friend, so I’m sourcing food and fabric. I'm also working on a book that I'm hoping to get out sometime this summer — fingers crossed — that is about miniatures taking on a very celebratory theme. So, I have a lot of projects and I'm trying to queue them all up. But for right now, in the near term, I’m totally focused on the galleries.

Very exciting! Lastly, do you have a favorite miniature? I'm sure that's a really hard question. It’s probably like asking your mom to pick a favorite child. :)

Oh, yeah! So my husband and I were dating during what I like to call San Francisco’s Golden Age. It wasn’t as expensive or populated as it is now, and the whole startup thing hadn't happened yet. You could go places...any place, quickly and easily. It wasn't super crowded and he’s a native, and we loved falling in love in his city.

One day we were hanging out and I asked him, “If you could have a business, would you want to open a restaurant?” He was in culinary school at the time and he said, “You know I love to cook, and the food thing is great, but I would want to open a bar. Not because I want to drink all the time, but because I love the camaraderie.”

So when he went away on a trip with his childhood friends, I made him a miniature bar. When he came back, he was shocked and blown away and excited that I spent time making this special thing for him.

That’s probably the miniature that I'm most connected to in many ways because it constantly takes me back to being new to San Francisco, being newly in love, and working on a project that I made with my whole heart. It's very detailed on the outside and the inside. And even now, some 30 years later, when I look at it, it takes me right back to that time in our relationship. And I sometimes imagine us sitting on the little bar stools or walking through the bar, which to me, is the magic of any miniature.

I sometimes imagine us sitting on the little bar stools or walking through the bar, which to me, is the magic of any miniature.

That is magic! Thank you so much Tammie.

To close out, can you share what’s at the top of your list of favorites these days?

1. Song — Underdog by Alicia Keys, mantra for me and a bunch of people

2. Film — Come To Daddy, Uncorked

3. Smell — Autumn, central park, leaves start to turn, air has bite to it

4. Destination — Paris

5. Fashion designer — Donna Karan, Stella Jean

6. Home accessory — Lamps/Lighting!

7. Flower — Hydrangea

8. Cocktail — Vodka Martini, shaken, three olives

9. Artist — Kadir Nelson

10. Book — Just Us by Claudia Rankine

11. Color — Navy Blue

12. Food — Mediterranean

To see more of Tammie’s miniature work, check out her website or follow her on Instagram and say hi!

Creative spotlight — Moshe Aelyon

This first creative spotlight is warm, bright, and larger than life. I’ve studied him since I was little, often without knowing it. I once wrote —

“He wore tunics and idolized Oprah Winfrey, Joan Rivers, and Catherine Deneuve. He tried a new fad diet annually. Your mom was his muse. He spontaneously bought her trendy blouses and, while in Paris, convinced her to cut her hair short ‘à la Audrey Hepburn.’ At your Bat Mitzvah, his shirt was so drenched from dancing that he had to excuse himself mid-party for a wardrobe change. He drew romantic pieces of women’s bodies with his collection of pastels…”

Meet my dad, known to me as “papa” and to others as “Moshe”, “Mo”, or “Mushi Mushi.” When thinking of creative people — the kinds who really live creatively — he was the first who came to mind. I haven’t always understood him, but I’ve always loved him, and this conversation is one of many that paints a fuller picture of who he is and what it means to live à la Mo.

PA — As your daughter, it feels like I know a lot about your life, but I’m sure there’s so much I don’t know. What I can say is that you've had a colorful range of careers. You started out in fashion...

MA — No...I was a pole dancer. [laughs]

PA — Oh! I must have missed that...:)

So, you started out in fashion, then opened an event planning business. You've dabbled in cooking and in interior design. You were the creative director for a floral business, and launched a new line of home products. Now, you're a freelance creative director, working mainly within the hospitality industry. It sounds like a lot, and it is, but it’s clear to me that all of these paths converge at who you are as a person. Where did you get this zest for finding and creating beautiful experiences?

MA — As far as my background, I had the advantage of being born and raised in Turkey. If Turkish culture has one big forte that I should mention, it's hospitality. It's not necessarily about being chic or incredibly tasteful, but it's about really welcoming people into your home. There is a tremendous amount of social interaction here. And, if you don't know anyone, you meet them on the street and the next sentence is, “Why don't you come over for tea?” But it’s very different from the Los Angeles version of “let’s do lunch” where you don’t see the person for a decade afterwards. It feels a lot more authentic.

I also grew up in a Jewish family with Ladino-speaking grandmothers who were always entertaining. And in that culture, I had a total “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” experience, including people constantly squeezing lemon cologne (“cologna”) on my boo boos instead of Windex. As Turkish Jews, we spent our summers on the island of Buyukada. It was only an hour away from Istanbul, but it’s where I fell in love with a kind of liberating, Mediterranean barefoot lifestyle.

I then ended up in a French school system in Istanbul, which had a very different socioeconomic blend as far as students. The school took in children from all over the country. The only criteria was that you had to be smart, which meant that they made a huge mistake by accepting me. [laughs]. But I liked it. Most of our teachers were from Paris or Marseilles. We were subjected to their mannerisms, who they were, and a lot of French classics at a very young age. This was on top of all of the Middle Eastern authors and poets we read. So, between the Turkish and the Jewish and the French and the island life, you can start to see the various boxes of inspiration I had to pull from.

But, mostly, I think it’s in my nature. I was a quiet child, which nobody believes. But I really was quiet, curious, and always observing. I was studying people and constantly taking notes. I mean, at any point I knew what gift to get for whom, what they ate, what they liked, what they didn’t like. I think some of us are people pleasers by nature and I was a huge people pleaser early on. That serves you in this career.

And if you’re a people pleaser and you're creative, entertaining and food is one of the most gratifying activities because, ultimately, you get an immediate applause. It's not like creating an idea for a brand that’s going to launch in a year and then three years later, somebody maybe says, “Who was behind this?”

It's more like, “Oh, you like my mashed potatoes?” Great! I'm done.

So, maybe that's why I like it.

Imagine…I’m often responsible for someone’s once-in-a-lifetime experience, like a wedding. And that means a lot to me. I treasure the fact that I give that little girl her dream wedding. For that six hours, she fully trusts me, maybe even over the groom. Because if you truly put your heart into it, people know. People know because you have not missed a beat.

Because if you truly put your heart into it, people know. People know because you have not missed a beat.

PA — That’s so true. I think I took that for granted as a child — how much heart you put into experiences you created in and outside of our home.

When I was younger, I remember telling friends that my dad was an event planner, which was a pretty different job from the other dads and moms. When did that job become a thing?

MA — So, we moved to the East Coast in the 90s, which is when I launched my business. There were some big name florists and producers that were entering the scene in New York at the time, and the movie Father of the Bride had just come out. Remember, Steve Martin and Martin Short? Martin Short was this foreign accented, hyper gay event planner. He basically walked into the bride’s house, tore it apart, and created a whole new world with swans, flowers, and everything in pink. So, the concept of event planning as a job was making its way into the psyche of American culture around that time. And there was Martha [Stewart], who was becoming bigger with her magazines about styling and tabletops and color codes...

PA — So, you started your event planning business when you were 32. You were married to mama and had two kids. You had just moved to Connecticut from California, which is where you migrated to from Turkey. With so much change, plus with that desire to constantly please people, how did you balance giving all of yourself to your work while staying tethered and true to who you were?

MA — Well. That's a very good question. You're very smart. Like your parents. [laughs].

I mean, it's impossible not to get burned out. It's hard work because with this kind of personality comes a lot of self-criticism. Self-criticism is the fire that burns under your tush to push you to be better every day, but it also burns from inside and leaves nothing.

Self-criticism is the fire that burns under your tush to push you to be better every day, but it also burns from inside and leaves nothing.

So, it's really a matter of adjusting that fire. For me, my salvation has always been having a range of projects, personal and professional. For the longest time, I couldn't call myself anything. I'm kind of like this hybrid. Well, I call it “hybrid” and the medical society calls it “multiple personality disorder”. But I have all these moods and thoughts and I like creating different stages and themes.

I’ve recently taken on the title of creative director, but that took years. I mean, there were times I couldn't explain myself in a meeting. I'm an event planner, but I also cook. I do flowers, but I also do interior design. Your wardrobe is screwed up? You don’t know colors? Let me fix it. I mean, today I did a YouTube interview with an author that I adore and he mentioned the very same problem. When you have so much hunger to create and to produce, it's impossible to really call yourself something, which can be a kiss of death for a career. But at the same time, we’re typically not after careers. Our drive is not about the paycheck. It's about creating. So for me, what has worked is playing in these different spaces. As much as it may have complicated my career and my life, it has also given me a chance to be reborn regularly.

When you have so much hunger to create and to produce, it's impossible to really call yourself something, which can be a kiss of death for a career. But at the same time, we’re typically not after careers. Our drive is not about the paycheck. It's about creating. So for me, what has worked is playing in these different spaces. As much as it may have complicated my career and my life, it has also given me a chance to be reborn regularly.

I’ve also quickly learned that I am my product. I know that sounds like a big British theater actor — like “I am my own instrument” — but it's true. I am my own instrument and I have learned to take care of it.

At the beginning of my career, when you were younger, there were times when I was probably absent because I was working myself to death. I was trying to prove that I was going to be the best event designer in Westport without really knowing the industry. So I did everything — set up, production, and break down. I was basically up on my feet for seventy two hours per event while pouring my heart into whatever the client wanted.

I was exhausted and eventually learned that I'm not supposed to do the set up and I'm not supposed to break down. I'm supposed to be with the client in the planning stages. I'm supposed to be there to really work with my staff and make sure the creative vision is clear on paper so it can be implemented.

So, you truly have to gauge your personality, your motor, and your gas. I mean, you can't simply think that you're going to be driving from here to India with a full tank of gas because you're going to get to the corner and it's going to be over.

I'm learning this at an old age, but you truly have to take that whole instrument thing one step further. You have to live well. You can't really be partying every night. Sleep deprivation is not good. Dehydration is not good. Not exercising is not good. I think creative people are like athletes. I think we have to be in good form, which includes your emotional life and your relationships too. So, I try to take myself out of negative spaces and relationships that are draining.

I mean, there's this old idea that the artist has to suffer, but I call bullshit on that...

PA — Yessssss. That reminds me of a Liz Gilbert quote. Hold on. Let me find it.

“I blame the German romantics. There came to be a vogue and we've never really lost that vogue of very, very pretentious young men in black clothing talking about how hard it was to make things and then taking laudanum and writing dark poetry about it. And it established a kind of a chic that has never really gone away. Like two hundred years later, everyone's still holding that up as the model of what an artist is. And it's not my personal belief that that's what art has looked like for most of human history.”

MA — I agree. Earlier in my career, that black outfitted, cold creative was still super vogue. And I realized that so many of these successful men and women in the industry were nasty. They were high brow and distant and all “you just have to surrender to me and I'll produce whatever I want”. That kind of attitude was very much around me, including in myself.

And then I remember watching Rosie O'Donnell or Ellen DeGeneres, and they were really banking on being positive and being nice. The nice creative. The nice entertainer. That's another thing that I've learned in the past few years. Sometimes you feel obliged to stay in those nasty spaces because others are there, but you don’t have to. You know, it could be a long, ugly marriage or a day job for a company with a horrible culture. It’s hard, but part of taking care of the instrument is also avoiding these negative spaces because ultimately they lock you down.

PA — That’s a great point. I know you’ve been working hard on creating healthy spaces around you, like the Rituals 365 concept. Can you tell us about that?

MA — Yes. So, I was going through a lot of personal hardship 15 years ago, but I suppressed the pain and then it all exploded 11 years ago. And in that crisis, I kind of realized that in order to find balance in my life without really freaking out and destroying everybody else's life around me, I needed rituals. I mean, I didn't know they were called rituals, but I was slowly creating these practices or habits and obeying them. And that was my way of getting out of bed and not being depressed. In those times, rituals became super important.

So, I came up with the concept of “Rituals 365” and had many ideas for how to “bring it to market,” all of which fell through. The “365” obviously means daily. I feel that your daily rituals will anchor you and will help you live your best life. And a lot of them are incredibly simple — like lighting a candle — and they have to be about you and your time alone. They’re about slowing and quieting.

Fast forward 10 years, I started talking to a local aromatherapy brand here in Istanbul. They said they wanted to collaborate, but didn’t know how. And I said, “Look, I really don't want to be that influencer who holds up a different product every day in their hands because they’re just not believable.”

And it came to me at that meeting. I said, “I would like to launch an idea with you.” That was Rituals 365. And instead of making it all about their product, I’ve made it about my rituals with their product sprinkled in. But, I think what’s important here is that the concept was not created to sell the product. The product is incorporated into a concept that already meant a lot to me. And that's important, because otherwise it would have been fake.

PA — I love the idea and that you’re able to share it with others in a way that finally feels right to you. We could keep talking forever, but it’s almost time to wrap up, so I’d love to know if you have any parting thoughts for people who are hungry to create or start something later in life.

MA — I do....Stay home and relax. No, I'm just kidding.

Look, I mean, I had read somewhere a hundred years ago in the US that an average American has five careers. First of all, don't be scared. I mean, what is the worst that's going to happen?

Second, I think it's really important to make space for all kinds of ideas, to record them, and to let them live in your psyche without allowing them to bother you too much. Seven years ago, I wanted to make Rituals 365 into a coffee table book. It didn't happen. I sent the idea out and no one got back to me. But if I somehow ripped that idea out of my mind because of rejection, I wouldn’t have had this project now.

So, be ready for opportunity. If I hadn’t held onto the idea of Rituals 365 from years ago, I would have just told the aromatherapy company, “Oh, let me hold that bottle for you” instead of having an interesting concept in my back pocket.

I mean, we hear the same thing from authors all the time. They’ve just published their third book and it’s a mega hit. You ask them, “When did you write this?” and they're like, “This was the first book I wrote, started, but never finished.” So, have these drawers and pockets to store your ideas, and don’t judge yourself for not finishing or completing them. You may not be ready, and that’s okay too.

So, have these drawers and pockets to store your ideas, and don’t judge yourself for not finishing or completing them. You may not be ready, and that’s okay too.

One last little story. I’ve always dreamt of writing a book and recently wrote eleven chapters, but realized that I'm not going to be able to finish it anytime soon. So, I sent the chapters to my author friend, whom I think has the most similar voice to me. I said, “Just read this shit. See if you like it. And if you like it, would you write it with me?” It's more important to me that that book comes out than me being the only author. We've talked about this many times. I could spend years wondering when I’m going to have the time to work on it. Analysis paralysis is a real thing. You just have to keep moving.

PA — Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

Thank you so much papa. To close out, can you share what you’re currently dancing to, drinking, and dreaming about?

MA — 

Song — Life by Jehro

Film — Uncle Frank

Smell — Grapefruit

Destination — My Bed, just kidding Tulum

Fashion designer — Ozgur Masur

Home accessory — Orange Blossom, Cinnamon, Clove by Homemade Aromaterapi

Flower — Dry craspedia

Cocktail — Whisky sour

Book — Hayal by Ayşe Kulin

Color — Navy

Food — Pazı dolma (ground beef stuffed chard leaves) topped with yogurt

Find Mushi Mushi at @mosheaelyon. Send him a message if you have thoughts, questions, or just want to say hi.

Jiggly thighs

I’m a big believer in the idea that the universe smiles at us — that it sometimes, maybe not always, gives us a little bit of what we need right when we need it. My marketing team used to sing the mantra “Right audience, right time, right message.” I’m not sure that anyone is better at delivering me the right message at the right time than the universe itself.

I often feel the smile through books and music and film and art. Recently, I stumbled on a quote from Anne Lamott. I don’t remember the source, but I took note of it instantly as a reminder to self. This is definitely not the first time I’ve bookmarked her words.

“Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written, or you didn’t go swimming in those warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.”

— Anne Lamott

I think the quote speaks pretty strongly for itself, so I’ll leave it at that.

Wishing your jiggly thighs — or whatever the equivalent is for you — a delicious, uninhibited life ahead.

Old stories

As much as I used to dislike Instagram culture, each year I get better at silencing the noise and making space for a more peaceful meandering, collecting souvenirs of art, design, photography, and music as I go. Whether accurate or distorted, I also get a glimpse into the lives of past friends and acquaintances — growing and shrinking families, political beliefs, hobbies, perspectives.

One of those past life peoples is Emory Hall, formerly Emory O’Donnell, who was a year above me in middle school. I didn’t know much about her then and I don’t know much about her now, but Instagram tells me that she’s a photographer, writer, and artist married to Trevor Hall, who happened to be my best friend from high school’s favorite musician. It’s hard to get a clear read on energy through small perfect square boxes on the internet, but something tells me Trevor and Emory are doing good for the world and I hope I’m right.

In September, Trevor announced a new album called In and Through the Body. I was especially drawn to this release because I’m a relentless romantic and for the first time, husband and wife share the mic. One of the songs they serenade each other with is called The Old Story and the lyrics moved in and through my body in the most delicious, knowing way — 

The Old Story

You could play it out

But all of it's in your head

Holding on with both two hands

Gotta let go

Is it really you

Knocking at your own door

Always looking for something more

Don’t be a fool

Don't be a fool

Oh no no no

You just gotta let that old story go

You just gotta let that good river flow into your heart

It's a start

Where you gonna run to if you’re gonna run from here

Only running from your own fear

It'll catch up now

Gotta let it die

Gotta let it go its own way

Who will you be if you let it stay

I'm afraid

I'm afraid

Like many, I’ve been fearful since I can remember being, but it’s not until this past year that my eyes really opened to the way fear contracts my being into a smaller, more limited existence. Fear, often born from old stories I tell myself or have been told, has found its way into my career, my creativity, my relationships with others, and my relationship with myself. And although I don’t always succeed, I’ve opted to choose the “love over fear” mantra as much as I can.

My impatience with growth sometimes gets the best of me, but now I can at least see myself reacting from that place of fear, when in the past I would’ve missed it. And simply by catching it, I attempt to move my way into a warmer, more curious, less outcome-driven space. It’s not always a guaranteed motion, but as Trevor and Emory sing, “it’s a start.”

Blue and the art of naming

Stepping foot into 2020, something told me that there’d be a lot to look forward to. First, the number two — twice! My lucky number. A number that feels simple and balanced and symbolic of togetherness.

Then, Pantone released color of the year. Blue. The vastness of a big sky reflecting on a wild ocean. The familiarity of an evil eye hanging from the closet doorknob. The navy band around my wrist that holds a trio of rings in place, representing three generations of women in my family.

While this year wasn’t exactly what I expected, I continue finding my way back to the calming depths of blue. The light blue trim of the 1940s house my boyfriend and I moved into. The blueberry stain I lick off my fingers every morning after making a smoothie. Maybe it’s the mind just looking for connection, but there’s something poetically pleasing to me about seeing the world through some sort of theme.

Soon after moving into our new home, my boyfriend and I decided to get a dog. Still navigating differing tastes in homemaking and interior design, he was sure we’d face similar challenges with the puppy naming game. My mind took me back to naming products and features at work, where I’d lead teams through as objective of a process as possible. Together, we’d agree on critical criteria, create a matrix, and then funnel names through that system, scoring each possibility and relying on numbers to dictate the winner.

While bringing structure into team naming exercises often helped limit personal attachment and increase efficiency, it also sometimes undermined the power of gut instinct and intuition. What about a name that just feels right? Could that ever be enough?

A day or two after we found our dog, unbeknownst to me, my boyfriend’s dad said to him, “Why don’t you name him ‘Blue’?” Loving the idea, but not the word choice, my boyfriend looked up the word for blue in my family’s mother tongue. In Turkish, blue is “mavi.” Born in France, he loved that mavi sounded like “ma vie,” or “my life” in French.

That same day, my boyfriend looked at me and said “What about ‘Mavi’ for the puppy?” And that was it. Absolutely no matrix needed. No criteria. No scoring system. Sometimes it just feels right.

Pour être heureux

A few weeks ago, I made a new Instagram account. I can’t tell you what it’s called because, A) it’s my little, anonymous corner of Instagram (yay!), and B) it’s an embarrassing handle. Anyway, I decided to create this new space purely to follow and save content that inspires me. No strings attached. No social ties. Just beautiful, thought-provoking goodies for my digital treasure trove.

Last week, Arte, a Franco-German TV channel, talked to 20 and 30-somethings in France and Belgium about happiness. From deeply considered to quick reactions, I loved the poetic range of responses. In my experience, there’s always been a certain kind of depth to the French people, culture, and language. They often just get it.

Here’s what some of them had to say — 

“Apres, je ne sais pas ou ca se situe d’être heureux a 100%, mais en tout cas je sais que pour l’instant ca va, ma vie, elle est belle.”

Translation “I don’t know a case in which you can be happy 100% of the time, but for now, I know that it’s okay. My life, it’s beautiful.”

“Parce que je suis romantique. Et que ca me donne une force supplementaire, l’amour”

Translation “Because I’m a romantic, and that gives me extra strength: love”

“Je ne sais pas si je suis heureux, mais j’aime de plus en plus être en vie. Et accepter aussi les moments de malheur. Parce que c’est un peu ca en fait. Moi, j’ai l’impression qu’il y a de ca. C’est que être heureux, c’est aussi accepter que parfois, ca ne va pas. C’est un peu con que je vais dire, mais je trouve que pour être heurex, il faut peut-être un peu lacher la question du bonheur.”

Translation:

“I don’t know if I’m happy, but more and more, I like being alive. And also accepting moments of unhappiness. Because it’s a bit of that, actually. To be happy is to also sometimes accept that it’s not going to go well. It’s a bit stupid what I’m about to say, but I find that to be happy, you maybe have to let go of the question of happiness.”

Not stupid at all.

Aheste, aheste

In 2018, my dad moved to Istanbul after living in the US for over thirty years. Friends and family thought he was crazy to leave the ‘American dream’ for more shaky territory, but his instincts beckoned him back to the smells, sounds, and sensibilities of his childhood home.

I’ve been lucky enough to travel to Istanbul for family vacations since I was little, but visiting my dad in his Sishane apartment really cemented the city as my second home. Together, we take our time exploring local shops in adjacent cobblestoned neighborhoods like Galata and Cihangir, walking and talking for hours along the Bosphorus, and frequenting Aheste, his favorite spot just a stone’s throw from his apartment. The first time we stepped foot into the warmly lit restaurant, he asked me if I knew what “aheste” meant, knowing well that I’d love its translation —  “slowly” in Farsi.

Although my dad’s effervescent life still moves to a quick beat, I think part of what brought him back to Turkey was the option to slow down — longer dinners, frequent coffee, tea, and cigarette breaks during the workday, extended conversations with local cafe owners and taxi drivers. It’s a quality of life in other parts of the world, and other parts of the US, that I’ve always been drawn to — not just the possibility, but the celebration of slowness. It’s why, although difficult, I hope the pandemic opens some of our hearts to a new pace of life. And, it’s why my boyfriend and I recently named our sound system at home “keyif,” which can be explained as follows — 

“In its simplest expression, ‘keyif’ means to do nothing happily but with meaning; it is about the pursuit of a moment of idle pleasure; it’s about suspending a moment in time, separating it from the confusion of daily life, and savouring it.”

— Eastern Turkey Tours

My mom jokes that the timing of my birth was an early indicator of my personality. While my brother was born two weeks early, I made my debut two weeks late. From childhood to today, I enjoy getting to the airport extra early to avoid the mad dash, people watching for hours at curbside cafes, soaking in a full day on a quiet beach, and leaving padding time for any type of deadline.

As I went through high school, college, and the first several years of my career, all of which promoted efficiency and speed, my love for slowness became harder to honor and justify. And yet, today, in the middle of a pandemic that forbids me to commute to an office, grab dinner with friends after work, or squeeze in the gym, I’m reconnecting with my inner aheste. This doesn’t mean that I don’t miss the occasional high of a packed, energizing day — but I do feel alive in this newer pace.

I read these words recently and they really resonated, so I’ll leave you here —

“The only way to gain power in a world that is moving too fast is to learn to slow down. And the only way to spread one’s influence wide is to learn how to go deep. The world we want for ourselves and our children will not emerge from electronic speed but rather from a spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls. Then, and only then, will we create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it.”

— Marianne Williamson

Peace and emptiness

A few weeks ago, bored of my solo pandemic exercise routine, I decided to try out The Class. The Class is an hour-long, live workout that has been my ultimate release. I make strange sounds, move in ways that would make people on the street stop and stare, and completely let go for an hour.

Throughout each workout, Taryn Toomey and other instructors draw parallels between physical strength training and strength training of the mind — in other words, the resilience needed to get through a strenuous, sometimes monotonous routine is not unlike the resilience needed to get through the emotional aerobics that are life.

I feel extremely annoyed as we move onto minute three of a burpee, hoping that the instructor will give me permission to stop. But then I think about the other difficult things I want to get through in life — loss, argument, illness — and all of a sudden the ability to do 100 burpees feels a lot less like imposition, and a lot more like privilege.

Each class ends with what Taryn calls heart clearing, where I sit cross-legged on my mat, lift my arms up like a cactus, and pulse them back and forth. It’s hard to explain what happens in those few minutes, but what I can tell you is that I’ve cried and laughed and that I almost always experience some sort of electric energy release.

A few classes back, Taryn made a comment about what peace feels like and it stuck with me. She said that the first time she felt peace, it felt like emptiness. Sometimes it takes me awhile to process someone else’s thoughts, but this one resonated immediately. When I shared it with my boyfriend, the use of “emptiness” didn’t sit right with him. To him it had a negative connotation, whereas for me it had a liberating quality to it.

When I think about peace, I visualize a vast, open space, void of activities and movement and thoughts and things. And like Taryn, I also feel that an initial encounter with that empty space can feel uneasy, especially when the world keeps telling us to fill it — to fill it with productivity and passion projects and podcasts and as much as we possibly can.

Which brings me to the paradox that is language. What if our modern, at least American, understanding of “full” is sometimes “empty,” and “empty” is sometimes “full”?

If you were to visualize it, what does peace look like for you? Is it empty, is it full? Is it both, or neither? :)