Shopping Michigan Avenue, my mom and I wanted it to never end. We went in every store. Up and down. Miles and miles of Chicago’s “magnificent.”
We weren’t big Nike fans, but the store itself was gorgeous. We feigned affection. Running our fingers against t-shirts and track suits (long before leisure wear, that’s what we called them.) I don’t know who stopped first, but we stood in front of the poster and read. Words could always hold our attention. There was a woman running on a country road with these words, “There are clubs you can’t belong to, neighborhoods you can’t live in, schools you can’t get into, but the roads are always open.” We both smiled, and ran along beside her.
The places we traveled in that truth! I still do.
I’m still sometimes thrown by Mondays in France. Nothing is open. Yesterday morning, I told Dominique that we were out of treats. Before he finished asking, “Where would you like…” we both realized the Mondayness of the situation. By mid afternoon, I was able to travel to Chicago in order to find that my French kitchen was always open. Monday didn’t stand a chance against my molasses. I made the cookies, and may I say, they are magnificent.
I pride myself in finding a way. My mother saw to that. She’s still guiding me through Monday. Tuesday is here. Wide open! Let’s run!
Perhaps my most equestrian act is pulling in the reigns of my excitement for the upcoming Christmas holiday.
I don’t take them off of my musical playlist, but for a good nine months, while painting in the studio, I skip through the Christmas songs. A few days ago, my hands covered in paint, (which is always the case so it’s not really an excuse), when Frank Sinatra declared he had in fact “heard the bells of Christmas Day,” I let it play to completion. Up on the horse, in full trot.
Visiting recently, she asked about the horse painting in the bedroom. She wasn’t sure if I was a rider. I explained my reason for painting it. She looked surprised when I began, “One of my favorite restaurants in Chicago was the RL — Ralph Lauren restaurant…” I continued the explanation. “All of the walls were covered in the warmth of these beautiful paintings and photographs. As I sat with my mom, pre-Christmas, sipping on a glass of wine after a full day of shopping on Michigan Avenue, the large horse on the wall watched over us, promising to keep the joy of Christmas alive for every year to come.” I suppose it sounds silly, but if you felt it, that warmth, if you were gathered in that love, that promise, I guarantee you would do the same — create anything to preserve it. That’s why I painted the horse.
I suppose that’s what art is, for me anyway, this preservation of warmth, love. And it’s not living in the past — I don’t want to go backwards. It’s more of a celebration. A celebration of a moment with my mother on Michigan Avenue. Or capturing the kids beachside, in a state of wonderment. Gathering in the freshness of laundry on the line — the promise of summer. Allowing the Christmas songs to remain in the playlist year round.
I guess it’s official, I have let loose the reigns. It’s time to feel it all! I walk out of the morning bedroom and proclaim — Let’s ride!
Walking through airport security the uniformed guard waved her hand from my head to toes, as if to encompass my ensemble of jewelry and clothing, mid-wave she said, “What’s this all about?” What’s this all about? Did I have the time to explain it was my heart, my soul, my mother, my identity, my journey from the Christmas catalogs of youth to the malls of Minneapolis, to the streets of Chicago and New York and Paris? Well, she maybe didn’t need to hear all that, nor the line behind me… so I simply said, “Fashion…?” She passed me through.
But it was more than fashion. This I knew for sure. My mother had always taught me that. It was a healer. It was get up and get dressed, even when you had strep throat. It was a motivator, get dressed and go to work, even if your husband has left you. It was possibility – a look in the mirror and maybe, just maybe I could be this person I dressed to be. It was all those things. It was the secret my mother shared with me, knowing that it would save her, save me.
My mother and I often went to Chicago. Our first trip opened a whole new world. Entering this city with the freedom of no one knowing you, and the comfort of knowing you belong. Sure it started with Michigan Avenue. Of course, because it is, well, magnificent. The stores are lovely, proven, and grand. We beat the pavement, ate the food, tried on the clothes, carried the sacks until the handles made ridges in our wrists. It was glorious.
The more familiar we became with the city, the more we began to wander off the magnificent mile. One day we turned onto Oak Street. It sounded like a name out of a school play. An intimate place. So welcoming. Almost quiet. It didn’t have the shout of Michigan Ave, it had a whisper. A secret. The street smiled as we walked. It knew we were going to find our way there. It opened the little boutique doors, and said, we’ve been expecting you. Beautiful clothes, that only a select group had tried on, viewed, bothered to admire. And we were part of the few, the familiar, the welcomed and it was more than magnificent, it was glorious.
Maybe it’s because that’s how we knew each other. It is easy to show people the Michigan Avenue of your life, but the few that know your Oak Street, now that is something! Gather yourself there.
Yesterday, I was viewing a new store online. I knew my mom would like these fashions. I know her. I can wave my hand in front of her and tell you “what this is all about.” So I checked the store locator to see if there was one near her. The nearest was in Chicago… on Oak Street. I smiled and traveled back immediately.
Last, my husband and I looked at the website together. He knows my Oak Street. I am gathered in.
