Something borrowed, something blue...

For me, marriage is about commitment and partnership. I never grew up dreaming of the perfect wedding nor what my dress might look like, and for a proposal, I insisted a Ring Pop was all I needed. (And a Ring Pop I got!) In my eyes, marriage was about the act of promising permanence, rather than the materialistic flourishes of a pricey wedding. 

But when Sean insisted on a traditional wedding rather than an elopement, I decided (in my typical scholarly manner) to research the origination of the popular rhyme "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue."

First off, American brides are missing out on arguably the most exciting line of this old verse! It turns out the original English version includes a final line, "and a sixpence in her shoe," signaling financial prosperity. You better believe I found a sixpence to add to my conveniently hollowed shoes...though being the rebel I am, I went with an Australian sixpence boasting a kangaroo and an emu. (Because who doesn't want a kangaroo in their wedding?)

For something old and something new, I turned to jewelry—with a fresh pair of earrings and sophisticated bracelet by Kendra Scott for the "new," and my great-great-grandmother's bracelet for the "old," symbolizing lineage and family who could not be present at the event.

Yet "something borrowed" had me stuck. The tradition calls for brides to borrow an item from someone in a healthy marriage, in essence a role model. Meg and Bob Marsden immediately came to mind. As longtime neighbors of my parents (and essentially a third set of grandparents for me), I grew up popping by their home regularly to show them my latest Halloween costume or, in later years, to chat with Meg about the latest fashion trends while she pointed out the "handsome young men" jogging by (who she had stopped with her walker earlier that week to casually inquire if they were single!). Meg was a role model of brains, humor, and tenacity. Her sharp wit never left her, even as her body deteriorated with age, and the supportive steadfastness of her marriage with Bob never ceased to amaze me. I particularly recall one occasion in which Meg discussed this and even proffered me advice: "Wait until you're 30 to get married," she advised, "That's what I did. You don't know who you are as a person until you're 30, and that's the most important thing to know before you marry."

Fast-forward many years later to Sean and me driving down the highway to visit my mother in Concord, MA... I had just told Sean how I wished I had something physical to "borrow" from Meg beyond her excellent advice; something tangible. Not being a member of Meg's family, I had no physical token from our friendship after her passing, only the memories of moments shared. Sean heard me, and it was because of this car-ride conversation that we both stood eerily stunned in my childhood home a few minutes later when my mother handed me a perfectly preserved envelope, saying, "Look what I found in my stack of old files today! I was just about to shred everything, but decided at the last minute to sort through it—and look, somehow this note from Meg was in there!"

I couldn't believe the timing of its unburial. There, in my hands, was the physical token I had hoped for in this cheerful note from Meg (dated 14 years prior), allowing my fingers to touch the indentations of the ever-familiar luscious handwriting.

That night, Sean and I enjoyed Restaurant Week at a Concord restaurant neither of us had previously tried, and I ended the day by emailing my father in Paris to tell him of the note's synchronous unearthing. In the morning, I awoke to a reply with yet another overlapping—my parents had dined at that same restaurant only once: the day of Meg's funeral.

Wanting to keep Meg close during the wedding, I dashed to my local Joann Fabrics, and immediately spotted a beautiful blue lace that would be perfect for making a simple pocket on the inside lining of my dress to hold Meg's note during the ceremony. Without reading the label, I walked up to the cutting counter, was handed a slip of paper and my folded blue lace, and headed for the register. It wasn't until I began getting antsy in line that I finally noticed the name of the color blue I'd selected: "celestial" (synonyms: "heavenly," "ethereal"). "Ok, Meg," I whispered under my breath, "You don't have to be quite so obvious."

So although my desire for elopement was thwarted by my ever-traditional husband, I am grateful to have delved into the symbolism of this traditional verse to bring good tidings. The strength of Meg and Bob's marriage was present physically and metaphorically that August day, and as I tucked Meg's note into my dress that afternoon (while Sean waited under a celestial blue sky), I remember laughing and shaking my head upon finally realizing—in a matter of weeks, Sean and I would both be turning 30.

This entry is lovingly dedicated to Meg and Bob Marsden of Concord, MA. 

My Marbles on a quiet floor entry from 2012 speaks more about my wonderful friend Meg.

Red is the color of music

Childhood is a funny thing. For its inhabitants, it seems to go on indefinitely, yet in truth, it’s gone in an instant. Moments we take for granted as children later become cognitive snapshots we second-guess as adults—Was his mustache really that scratchy? Was the pool really that deep?—yet regardless, they leave a lasting impression, an invisible part of ourselves that impacts our lives moving forward, be they realistic memories or those warped through rose-colored glasses.

But when your cousin, Becky, one decade older than you openly shares her childhood memories of the grandmother you both shared, and they match your own nearly word for word, you know that your memories are not only accurate, but that the woman they depict really did, and does continue to, impact your life significantly.

When I think of my father’s mother, my Noni, I think of the color blue. Perhaps it’s because of the blue kitchen in which so many feasts were created and multiple conversations shouted across roomfuls of relatives (Many of whom I later learned weren’t relatives at all! But were always warmly treated as such.); maybe it’s because of the blue water of the above-ground swimming pool my cousins and I basically lived in during the summers (and that I accidentally nearly drowned my brother in, as I tried to teach him how to swim!); or maybe it’s simply due to the color of Noni and Pop Pop’s house—the feeling of sheer excitement upon seeing that blue exterior as we pulled into the packed driveway, and the accompanying sadness upon watching it (and my waving grandparents) gradually disappear as we left for home. 

Pieces: Window Pane #2. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

Blue was the color of happiness, of a warm embrace, of being passed from aunt to uncle to who-knows-who; blue was the color of the carpeted stairs that Erin, Jack, and I would slide down until we had rug burns or hit the floor a bit too hard; blue was the color of the ever-popular tacky backdrops in our annual school portraits that (although deeply embarrassing to look at) were always proudly displayed among dozens of other photos, old and new, on the wall above the living room sofa. And in later years (when I lived with her in the summer of 2009), blue was the color of my Noni’s nightgown, as we sat on that sofa: her, sassily teasing me and offering me food to the point of giggling and winking at me when I’d inevitably give in; me, sassing her back to make her laugh, and answering that evening’s three repeating questions with varying answers to keep us both entertained (as by then, her Alzheimer’s had truly begun to set in, especially in the evenings).

But red—red was the color of music.

Pieces: Window Pane #9. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

As a lifelong professional-level pianist and organist, my Noni played every mass, every wedding, every funeral, all while teaching quite literally every child in “Western Mass” weekly piano lessons from the small music room in their home. Family gatherings would naturally spur impromptu duets between Pop Pop on bass or guitar and Noni on piano, with a Pied-Piper flock of grand- and great-grandchildren huddled round and adding the occasional spirited (yet out of tune) chord on the other end of the keys, which was always welcomed with laughter and delight. Between my Italian grandmother and Portuguese grandfather, food was certainly a huge part of every visit (You could show up unannounced and somehow there would undoubtedly be a roast chicken in the oven!), yet I would argue that despite every DIY Network show saying “the kitchen is the heart of every household,” here, at the Guerra’s, it was the music room that was the heart. While living with Noni years later, I’d awake (far too early) to sounds of Mozart and Beethoven—at times, romantic and passionate, at others fiery and complex—but always red. Red as the blood in her veins, the blood we share; red as the dress adorned by the pianist in the painting opposite her in the room. Red was, and continues to be, the color of music.

Noni and Pop Pop, assorted images.

Fast-forward to 2017: As the year started, I was already knee-deep in my We Create project, having begun my work as one of its selected 2016-17 cohort artists in September. I was honored to be chosen for this project run by Marsha Parrilla, Director of Danza Orgánica, and although I ultimately found the 2017 We Create Festival to be largely flawed in its execution, the piece I created through this process turned out to be quite poignant in more ways than one.

Through April, I continued to research and develop my initial concept: delving into the cohort’s 2016-17 theme of “hidden stories” by creating an art installation recognizing those with physical and mental disabilities. As my work unfolded, I found myself narrowing in on the specific story of my Noni’s struggle with Alzheimer’s, and society’s habit of tucking Alzheimer’s patients away—glancing by them only on the surface, unaware of the beautiful, multifaceted lives hidden within.

After many early sketches and conceptual notes, I eventually landed on the concept of peering through a window (itself, taken from the wall of my childhood bedroom, since knocked down…luckily, like me, my dad keeps everything!), to find layers of overlapping memories (some complete, some missing sections, and others seemingly looping on repeat), as this is often what Alzheimer’s does to the brain.

Pieces: The making of. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

The construction process was difficult, as I knew I wanted each layer to consist of varying opacities, to blur into one another once eventually backlit by a simple table lamp. Scanning old photographs, I spent hours delicately taping tissue paper to cardstock, successfully printing one image, only to jam my printer on the next. By the time I reached the textual memories I planned to incorporate, I’d gotten a bit smarter (so I thought) by purchasing semi-opaque plastic film, only to learn the hard way that ink takes way longer to dry on plastic than it does on pulp! Ink-smudged hands and a healthy portion of swearing later, I embarked on the most tedious task yet: intricately hanging each image with thread onto thin wooden dowels acting as a trellis above.

Pieces: The making of. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

Setting the full installation up in my tiny Boston living room, I was so pleased. Visually, the lamp, window, and images of Noni reminded me vividly of every evening visit on my way to and from Mount Holyoke College as an undergraduate, peering through the living room window to find her doing her crossword by lamplight. Symbolically, I was putting into physical form the age-old saying “Eyes are the window to the soul,” while the lamp served as the human spirit—still bright and beaming behind all those layers of misaligned memories.

Pieces. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

My intention was to place an empty chair in front of the installation, encouraging audience members to sit and peer through the window panes, piecing together bits of the puzzle and learning about this beautiful multi-faceted woman by simply taking the time to do so. The goal was to speak to Alzheimer’s (and society’s treatment of the elderly) as a whole, reminding viewers that simply because an older individual might be slow to respond, it is not for a lack of knowledge, as they have years more experience than we, ourselves, have known. There are stories there, and when given the time, the patience, to peer through those eyes, we too can piece together the puzzles of these memories, and construct a truer image of who this person is, not was.

Pieces. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

 I will keep this next section brief, as I do not want to dwell on my negative experience with the We Create process, but its outcome is key to the full experience of my installation, which I had titled Pieces. Explaining to Marsha just how delicate and complex an installation this was, I inquired if I should be setting it up during tech on Wednesday, or setting it up directly before opening night on Friday, as I wanted to be sure it wasn’t damaged in between. (My project was the only one that was an installation piece; the rest were various performance art works.) After being told Wednesday was definitely the day to do it, I carefully and lovingly spent a full two hours setting up the piece, complete with the chair, a lamp from our home, and a small write-up on the work.

Two days later, Sean and I entered the space to a bustling audience, a clearly lit stage, and—to my shock—no installation. I felt my heart plummet, as if I’d misplaced Noni herself somewhere in the room. Where could it be?? With Sean’s help, we eventually found it: literally shoved into a corner, the chair gone, the lamp unplugged, and several of my delicate tissue paper memories torn.

Delicately installing Pieces. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

I was heart-broken, as my mind instantly replayed one of my “bad” visits with Noni earlier that year. I had shown up at her center to find her, and ten others, lined up along the wall in their wheelchairs waiting to be wheeled into the dining hall, and while I completely understand that the staff can only be in so many places at once, my Noni was at the end of the row, tucked around the corner, anxious and confused. I tried to calm her; tried to explain where she was and where she was heading next. I tried to show her photos of my parents; tried to remind her I was “the dancer” as she always called me (she regularly “auditioned” for my dance company while gliding through her kitchen in later years), yet nothing worked. Over and over she repeated, while crying, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry I don’t know you. I’m so sorry I don’t remember these people. I’m so sorry I don’t remember who I am.” I held it together until the staff came to wheel her to lunch, then sat in my car and sobbed—not because she didn’t remember me, but because she was apologizing for forgetting herself.

It was amazing to me how the simple act of wheeling her into an empty hallway with no one around, no reminders of her family (photos, music), and no one to talk to, had led to that light briefly going out. And now here I was, staring at my forgotten installation—an installation whose purpose was to actively remind the public not to bypass the elderly by leaving them alone in a hallway (but to sit with them and learn from them), literally pushed aside, forgotten, and abandoned. As I hurriedly reset the now damaged work with Sean, the symbolism of this incident was lost on neither of us. (I later learned that the performance space serves as an after-school program for kids during the day, hence the installation was moved for “safety” reasons. My instinct to arrive early on opening night had been the correct one.)

Pieces: Window Pane #7. Merli V. Guerra, 2017.

As we left that night, taking Pieces home with us, a gust of wind hit us moments before placing the installation inside the car, causing all of my intricately threaded memories to instantly knot and entwine, as if permanently damaged. It seemed beyond hope to untangle it, nor did I know of another event I’d be showcasing it at down the road, yet I still felt compelled to make it right. As if performing a ritual, I spent hours upon hours carefully unbraiding each strand until all were back in their rightful place. I packaged it up for safe travel to our next destination, and it hasn’t been opened since.

Photo: Quincy Guerra Hepburn, 2020.

Fast-forward one last time to now: mid-April 2020. Never in my wildest thoughts would I have known that the entire world would be in quarantine; that my Noni (despite the staff taking incredible precautions) would be diagnosed with COVID-19; and that my family would be visiting her exactly as my installation had portrayed: spending time with her by peering through a window, sharing memories, and enjoying that precious light emanating from her soul as flickers of memories, her signature humor, and boundless love glow from the other side of the glass.

As I write this, I am trapped in New Jersey, whose quarantine is strictly enforced, and beside me (by pure chance), among all my disheveled art projects since moving into our new home, is the damaged, yet carefully preserved installation. I cannot drive up to stand outside the window; and even if I could, I cannot indulge in the comforting “blue” of that warm embrace; but there is one thing I can hold onto: This past December, not long after her 95^th birthday, I visited Noni on the second floor of her building. Perhaps my hours of installation detanglement were finally paying off, because from the moment I entered the room, Noni and I shared the most incredibly lucid, loving, and joyous 2.5 hour visit (with poor Sean and Banksy waiting patiently in the car). “Where’s Sean?” she would ask, “He’s just so handsome.” “He has a bad cold, Noni!” I replied, “He didn’t want to take a chance and make you sick.” “But he’s so handsome,” she insisted (with a twinkle in her eye), “I’ll take that chance!”

Photo: Quincy Guerra Hepburn, 2020.

And so we sat together, chatting away like old times, showing her photos and videos from our summer trip to Scotland, photos of hikes in New Jersey during the fall, videos (on her request) of my recent choreography, and as I showed her a sweet video of Banksy opening an early Christmas present in my parents’ family room a few days prior, she suddenly paused—her hands cupping mine around the phone. “Play it again,” she said, peering closer, and so I did. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she pointed above my pup to the guitar on the wall, “That’s John’s. That’s John’s guitar!” “Yes, Noni!” I exclaimed, having become so used to my grandfather's guitar being there that I’d nearly forgotten. “Johnny, your grandson, plays it now.” She shook her head, crying yet smiling, “That’s so good. That’s so good… You know,” she reminded me, “John and I could never dance like you—we were too busy playing in the band; we never learned to dance!” Laughter returned to her soul, and I listened to her reminisce about my Pop Pop, her true love, and their deep connection through music.

And so, as I sit here feeling so far away, I will hold onto the fact that she and my Pop Pop will soon be reunited—a vibrant red reunion—for red is the color of music; their music.

_________________________________________

ADDENDUM: I completed writing this post on Thursday, April 30th, 2020, a little before 7pm. I read it aloud to Sean, sent it to my cousin, then heard the phone ring—my Noni had passed away just after 7pm.

This post is lovingly dedicated to Francesca Cristina Guerra (1924-2020). 

Top 10 Professional Highlights of 2018

It's that time of year again—time to reflect on the past 365 days' accomplishments through a professional lens. With my work now spanning both New England and the Mid-Atlantic, there's much to choose from, yet even more exciting were the moments this past year when my work traveled abroad to Canada, Italy, and Germany! 

These are the ten highlights that are fueling my energy as I head into 2019's already brimming professional pursuits. With many ideas swirling through my head, it's important to pause and look back before diving into the alluring (and daunting) unknown.

TOP 10 PROFESSIONAL HIGHLIGHTS OF 2018

1. PRODUCTION MANAGER, PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS  .  PRINCETON NJ

Since relocating my day-to-day to Princeton, NJ, I've continued to split my time with Boston, MA, as I continue to engage in the arts scene there, while looking for a new role in Princeton to replace my daily work as Art Director of Art New England magazine in Boston for the past five years. After some casual networking, I was quickly contacted by Princeton University Press, who sought a new Production Manager (a role I know inside and out thanks to my work at the magazine!). Since February, I've become responsible for the manufacturing of hundreds of titles per season (from reprints of the old Jung volumes—whose jackets require my designer instincts—to new books awaiting their grand debuts). Like at Art New England, I serve as the linchpin between Creative, Production, Editorial, and Sales as I continue to expand my knowledge of the publishing world, while working for one of the oldest and most prestigious presses in the nation—just look at the gorgeous building I work in with its historic architecture!

2. FIRST TAKE SHORTS SERIES AND Q&A  .  DOYLESTOWN PA

In April, my dance-on-camera film The One I Keep (featuring Luminarium company member Jess Chang) was selected for viewing at the First Take Shorts Series. Held in The County Theater of historic Doylestown, PA, the evening featured 12 shorts by Greater Philadelphia filmmakers, ending with a Q&A in which I was the only female filmmaker in attendance. While it saddens me how often this is the case, I am also always eager to attend these events in the hopes of inspiring more women to enter this predominantly male field.

3. CEFALÙ FILM FESTIVAL  .  PALERMO ITALY

Over the summer, I was thrilled to learn that The One I Keep had been selected for screening at Cefalù Film Festival in Palermo, Italy. While my choreographic works, dance-on-camera films, and interactive art installations have been presented by more than 80 events across the country (in California, Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Vermont), this screening at Cefalù Film Festival marked my first showing outside of the U.S. It felt particularly sentimental for me, as Italy is a place I've always dreamed of visiting. Having my artistic film travel there first felt oddly fitting (and little did I know two more countries would be featuring it in the coming months!).

4. CLERMONT HISTORIC SITE COMMISSION  .  GERMANTOWN NY

At the end of Luminarium's 2017 Season, we were approached by the Clermont Historic Site about a customized performance. After months of discussion, research, and rehearsals, Luminarium presented a family-friendly performance in August 2018 on the beautiful Clermont Historic Site grounds in upstate New York, featuring two newly commissioned works: one setting into motion the real-life story of Clermont historic figure Nancy Shippen; the other examining the effect of legacy on industry in the Hudson River Valley. These two new works (My own Trinkets and Kim's Intersections, respectively) were performed alongside excerpts from our then-pending feature production HIVELAND and my historically-inspired, repertory favorite The Hostess Diaries. Serving as my annual Cultural Community Outreach Project, the program was sponsored in part by a Humanities New York Action Grant, and was by far my favorite endeavor of 2018.

5. WOMENCINEMAKERS FEATURE  .  BERLIN GERMANY

Over the summer, I felt honored to be interviewed for a special edition of periodical WomenCinemakers in Berlin, Germany, featuring artistic films by noteworthy female artists from Tokyo, Amsterdam, London, Athens, and beyond. Selected to speak on my 2013 film The One I Keep, my interview dives deep into the work, while speaking on what lies ahead.

"Elegantly composed and marked out with refined choreography, this stimulating work is a successful attempt to create a brilliant allegory of human condition capable of drawing the viewers to a heightened and multilayered experience." Read the full interview here!

6. JOINING DANCE NEW JERSEY'S BOARD  .  NEW JERSEY, STATEWIDE

In the Fall, I was elected to the Board of Trustees for Dance New Jersey (a nonprofit resource for the state’s expansive dance scene) as a thought leader for new public programming and fundraising events. Before joining the Board, I welcomed the opportunity to participate as a choreographer for Paths Cross/Doors Open (pictured above), which in many ways reminded me of a mini ChoreoFest (Luminarium's 24-hour choreography festival). In a few months, this fantastic event is returning, and I'm humbled to be leading it—from teaching the warmup to guiding the creative choreographic process.

7. HIVELAND RECEIVES GLOWING BOSTON GLOBE REVIEW  .  CAMBRIDGE MA

Hailed as one of “the most intelligent and innovative dance troupes in Boston,” Luminarium Dance Company returned after a two-year creation period in September with its feature production HIVELAND. Audiences were submerged inside the dreamlike world of HIVELAND’s athletic and weightless performers as they journeyed through a portal beyond the hive colony into the unknown, while composer Christos Zevos set the pace with a driving electronic score.

Kim and I worked around the clock on this production for two full seasons, and the end result was an evening-length singular narrative that beautifully entwined our two artistic voices, while giving our company members room to grow their characters from the production's tentative and geometric silhouetted opening to its vibrant and triumphant finale. Above all, we were overjoyed to read Karen Campbell's review in the prestigious Boston Globe, touting HIVELAND as "a compelling exploration...unpredictable, provocative, and gratifyingly visceral." Read the full review here!

8. LIBERTY HALL DANCE FESTIVAL & SATELLITE COMPANY DEBUT  .  UNION NJ

After a productive Spring networking with the New Jersey dance community, I was grateful to have met Rider University Dance Dept. Director Dr. Kim Vaccaro, who not only hired me to teach Odissi master classes and work with the dance department on its Spring 2019 production, but agreed to help me work out a wonderful exchange with her students. In September, Luminarium's satellite company (based in Princeton, NJ) made its official debut, performing repertory favorite The Hostess Diaries at Liberty Hall Dance Festival and featuring Rider University dance majors. As I head into Luminarium's 2019 Season, these ladies will work with me on creating new work, which I will then show locally (featuring the New Jersey dancers) and/or bring to Boston to set on the company up there.

Pictured above: Luminarium Satellite performs at Liberty Hall Dance Festival, co-presented by Buggé Ballet and Liberty Hall Museum at Kean University. The event invited viewers to walk along the beautiful museum grounds, while enjoying site-specific professional dance performances inspired by moments in history.




9. VIDEOSKIN CONTEMPORARY DANCE VIDEO WORKS  .  YUKON CANADA

In October, I learned that my film The One I Keep would once again travel abroad—this time to Canada—having been selected for screening as part of ViDEOSKiN Contemporary Dance Video Works. The film was presented at The Edge Gallery in Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada, with showings every Saturday in November.




10. FIRST IN-PRINT FJORD REVIEW MAGAZINE  .  INTERNATIONAL

Chronologically last, but certainly not least, the Fjord Review announced in December its first-ever print magazine. I've been a journalist for the Fjord Review for three years now, writing feature articles, interviews, and critiques on ballet and contemporary dance in Boston, NYC, Philadelphia, and Princeton. This international online publication never ceases to amaze me with its stunningly beautiful photoshoots and exceptional writing from contributors literally all over the world. I'm eager receive my copy, as this new print edition will include my review of Alonzo King's LINES Ballet.

Yet as fate would have it, I am once again struck by the synchronicity of this final post, for just as my work this year traveled to Canada, Italy, and Germany, this morning I read that this print magazine was "made in Canada, designed in Italy, and printed in Germany." How fitting to think that this lovely periodical and my dance-on-camera film traveled the same path this year, and that both are (in a small way) sharing my voice with the world.


Wishing you all a joyous start to 2019 and many, many adventures ahead!
–Merli

Que vous avez inspiré...

I've spoken these words on my blog in the past, and I'll say them again: I may not be "religious" in the traditional sense, but I am a firm believer in the power of synchronicity to make me pause and appreciate the interconnectedness of this complex universe of ours as a whole.

This summer I found myself caught in the swirl of one such synchronous moment—so personally profound that that I'm documenting and sharing it here. Sean and I traveled to Quebec this summer for a wedding, and while there, came across an artist's work that spoke to us both. Yet as the weekend went on, and Sean debated purchasing a piece, I was surprised to find that this artist's work meant more to me than I initially realized. Perhaps the best way to tell the story is to simply share the email I sent to the artist once we returned home. Here it is, in my rusty French, and then translated into English below.

IN FRENCH

Subject: Bonjour d'un artiste que vous avez inspiré...

Chère Sonia, 

J'ai récemment acheté une de vos magnifiques œuvres d'art, et cela m'a causé une expérience très émouvante. Quelques mois plus tard, je prends maintenant le temps de vous écrire et de vous raconter comment vos œuvres d'art sont importantes pour moi depuis mon enfance. Cette note est émouvante pour moi d'écrire, et j'espère que c'est bien reçu! 

Quand j'étais une jeune fille, mes parents m'ont emmené avec mon frère et moi en vacances à Québec, à partir de notre maison à Boston, MA, États-Unis. Je me souviens de tomber amoureux de la vieille architecture de la ville, de son histoire, et surtout de ses ruelles cachées pleines d'artistes de rue. À Boston, je n'avais jamais vu des artistes montrer leur travail dans les rues, alors c'était spécial pour moi. 

Mes parents sont des partisans des arts et ils m'ont aussi inculqué l'amour de l'art. Un jour de notre voyage, nous sommes retournés à la ruelle avec des stands d'art, et mes parents m'ont invité à choisir une œuvre d'art pour ma chambre. De toutes les œuvres d'art de la rue, l'une d'elles se détachait: une gravure minimaliste de deux ours bruns qui marchaient dans la neige. À l'époque, tout dans ma chambre était lumineux et joyeux, avec des papillons et des ballerines décorant mes murs. Pourtant j'étais là, tenant une gravure sombre, brune et blanche, contrairement à tout ce que j'avais déjà exprimé mon intérêt. 

Surpris par mon choix, mes parents m'ont demandé si j'étais sûr que c'était celui que je voulais, et pas l'arbre à fleurs qui était à côté de cela qu'ils envisageaient d'acheter. Je me suis immédiatement découragé et j'ai retourné les ours, mais je l'ai toujours regretté.
Seize ans plus tard, je suis maintenant un danseur professionnel et un artiste interdisciplinaire, avec un amour de l'art visuel. Il n'y a pas de fées dans ma chambre, mais mon mari (Sean) et moi avons décoré nos murs avec des œuvres d'art que nous avons collectionnées dans le monde entier. 

En juillet, Sean et moi sommes allés au Québec pour un mariage (juste un mois avant notre propre mariage!). C'était la première fois de Sean au Québec, et ma première fois depuis 2001. Chaque fois que mon mari voyage dans un nouveau pays, il cherche un «souvenir» fidèle à la région, signé par l'artiste, et idéalement il rencontre l'artiste. C'est parfois difficile à accomplir! Mais cela devient un ajout mémorable à notre maison. 

Quand nous avons trouvé une rue avec des artistes (y compris de nombreuses gravures à vendre), il est devenu très excité, tout comme moi. Nous avons tous deux convenu que le premier artiste était de loin supérieur en détail et imagination aux autres gravures que nous avions vues. Mais Sean hésitait à acheter l'œuvre car elle représentait des sites que nous n'avions pas visités.

Cette nuit-là, il m'a demandé mon avis, et je lui ai parlé de la belle gravure d'ours qui ne correspondait pas tout à fait à mon style habituel, mais que j'avais toujours regretté de laisser derrière elle. "Ironiquement", ai-je dit, "c'est arrivé ici au Québec, et c'était une gravure de technique similaire à ce que vous aimez." 

Le lendemain, nous sommes retournés au stand d'art. L'homme qui regardait le stand se souvenait de nous et a montré à Sean plus d'œuvres d'art, jusqu'à ce qu'il en trouve un qui combinait notre amour de l'histoire et l'idée de la ville de Québec «alors et maintenant». C'était parfait. 

Il a ensuite demandé si nous étions familiers avec la façon dont les gravures sont faites, et a commencé à nous montrer de vieilles photos des travaux en cours. En feuilletant le livre, mon cœur s'est arrêté. Là, dans l'une des photos, il y avait mes ours bruns perdus depuis longtemps dans la neige, en cours de création. Je ne pouvais pas le croire! J'aurais dû dire quelque chose, mais je me suis figé. Je ne pouvais littéralement pas croire que toutes ces années plus tard, nous avions trébuché sur la même ruelle et étions tombés amoureux du même artiste. 

Sean a acheté votre œuvre et maintenant elle est encadrée avec nos autres œuvres d'Europe et d'Asie. 

Une semaine plus tard, j'ai raconté toute l'histoire à mes parents. Ils ont trouvé l'information originale avec l'œuvre d'art qu'ils ont achetée en 2001, et bien sûr, il y avait ton nom: Sonia Gilbert. Mon père (qui se sentait mal de ne pas avoir choisi les ours à l'époque) a localisé ton site web et l'oeuvre dont je me souvenais.

Se rendre dans une ville étrangère en tant qu'artiste en herbe et tomber amoureux du travail d'un artiste professionnel, puis tomber amoureux du même artiste seize ans plus tard (maintenant que je suis moi-même artiste professionnel) fut une expérience émotionnelle pour moi. Je voulais partager cette histoire avec vous afin que vous sachiez que les touristes qui passent devant votre stand n'oublient pas votre travail. Pour certains spectateurs, votre travail les inspire pour les années à venir. 

Je vous remercie,
Merli

IN ENGLISH

Subject: Thank you from an artist you inspired...

Dear Sonia,

I recently bought one of your beautiful works of art, and it was a very moving experience for me. A few months later, I am now taking the time to write to you and tell you how your art has been important to me since my childhood. This note is emotional for me to write, and I hope it is well received!

When I was a girl, my parents took my brother and me on vacation to Quebec, from our home in Boston, MA, USA. I remember falling in love with the old architecture of the city, its history, and especially its hidden streets full of street artists. In Boston, I had never seen artists show their work on the streets, so it was special for me.

My parents are supporters of the arts and they also instilled in me the love of art. One day of our trip, we returned to the alley with art booths, and my parents invited me to choose a piece of art for my room. Of all the works of art in the street, one of them stood out: a minimalist engraving of two brown bears walking in the snow. At the time, everything in my room was bright and cheerful, with butterflies and ballerinas decorating my walls. Yet there I was, holding a dark, brown and white engraving, contrary to any of my prior interests.

Surprised by my choice, my parents asked me if I was sure it was the one I wanted, and not the flower tree that was next to that they were considering buying. I immediately became discouraged and returned the bears, but I have always regretted it.

Sixteen years later, I am now a professional dancer and an interdisciplinary artist, with a love of visual art. There are no fairies in my room, but my husband (Sean) and I decorate our walls with works of art that we have collected from around the world.

In July, Sean and I went to Quebec for a wedding (just a month before our own wedding!). It was Sean's first time in Quebec, and my first time since 2001. Whenever my husband travels to a new country, he looks for a "souvenir" true to the region, signed by the artist, and ideally he meets the artist. It is sometimes difficult to accomplish! But it becomes a memorable addition to our home.

When we found a street with artists (including many prints for sale), he became very excited, just like me. We both agreed that the first artist was far superior in detail and imagination to the other prints we had seen. But Sean was reluctant to buy the work because it depicted sites we had not visited.

That night, he asked me for my opinion, and I told him about the beautiful engraving of a bear that did not quite fit my usual style, but that I had always regretted leaving behind. "Ironically," I said, "it happened here in Quebec, and it was an engraving similar to what you like."

The next day we went back to the art booth. The man who was watching the stand remembered us and showed Sean more works of art, until he found one that combined our love of history with the idea of ​​the city of Quebec "then and now." It was perfect.

He then asked if we were familiar with how the prints were made, and started showing us old pictures of the work in progress. Leafing through the book, my heart stopped. There, in one of the pictures, were my brown bears long lost in the snow, being created. I could not believe it! I should have said something, but I froze. I literally could not believe that all these years later, we had stumbled onto the same alley and fallen in love with the same artist.

Sean bought your work and now it is framed with our other works from Europe and Asia.

A week later, I told the story to my parents. They found the original information with the artwork they bought in 2001, and of course, there was your name: Sonia Gilbert. My father (who felt bad about me not choosing the bears at the time) located your website and the work I remembered.

Going to a foreign city as an aspiring artist and falling in love with the work of a professional artist, then falling in love with the same artist sixteen years later (now that I'm a professional artist myself) was an emotional experience for me. I wanted to share this story with you so that you know that the tourists who pass by your booth do not forget your work. For some viewers, your work inspires them for years to come.

Thank you,
Merli

Much to my excitement, I soon received the following reply.

IN FRENCH

Je suis très émue !!! 

Votre courriel a rempli de fierté ma fille et mon amoureux..., ce qui me touche énormément ! 

C'est une belle histoire et c'est une grande récompense pour mon labeur. 

J'ai inculque l'amour des arts à ma fille et ça me touche que d'autres suivent ce chemin qui élève le cœur et l'esprit des humains. 

Je fais la même chose que vous lorsque je voyage. J'encourage les artistes ! 

J'aime, à la fin de la saison, me rendre sur la Rue du Trésor pour rencontrer les gens, mes gens. Cela me donne beaucoup d'énergie et votre courriel me remplie de bonheur. 

Vous êtes très belle ! 

J'aimerais votre adresse postale si cela ne vous ennuie pas. 

Merci beaucoup.
Sonia Gilbert

IN ENGLISH

I am very moved !!! 

Your email has filled with pride my daughter and my boyfriend ... it affects me tremendously! 

It's a great story and it's a great reward for my toil. 

I instills the love of art with my daughter and it touches me that others follow this path that elevates the heart and mind of humans. 

I'm the same as you when I travel. I encourage artists! 

Like at the end of the season, go on the street Treasury to meet the people, my people. This gives me a lot of energy and email filled me with happiness. 

You are very beautiful ! 

I would like your mailing address if you do not mind. 

Thank you very much.
Sonia Gilbert

A few months later, I received in the mail an intricate, tiny print of a hummingbird. Such a gorgeous gesture! In turn, I sent Sonia a small bundle of seed packets (Botanical Interests uses artwork on all of their seed packets—simply beautiful) to attract hummingbirds to her garden. Sure enough, she replied that she does love to garden and looks forward to planting them in the Spring.

So there it is: Another moment, seemingly just like any other, until that swirl of energy catches you up and you realize you've been here before. Only this time, you realize you did take the bears home with you after all—in fact, you've carried them with you every day since.

A Pivotal Moment: Performing at the Boston Opera House

Apologies in advance to my readers: This post takes a more rambling approach than I tend to use, but one thought led to another, and it felt too circuitous in the end to force it into a more linear format. Enjoy!

People often ask me where my love of dance originated. To be honest, it seems to have lived inside me since the moment I could freely move my limbs. When I was old enough to talk, I repeatedly concerned my parents with a straight-faced story about my true identity being a professional dancer who lived in a pink house, and that my "real" family missed me. Alter ego aside, my dance career did start young, and was encouraged by a supportive family (yes, my actual one) and a network of mentors with whom I still keep in contact and thank for their help along the way. 

A glimpse at a time when performing made me feel timid, rather than charged.

Despite this encouragement from the outside, I was always aware of the fact that fulfilling my goal of becoming a professional dancer/choreographer would be a challenge to say the least. I started taking formal dance classes at the age of six, which—sadly—is considered "late" in the ballet world. Yet as I grew, I discovered both my set-backs and my strengths. What I lacked in turnout and height, I made up for with stage presence.

"Stage presence." What an interesting term. The dictionary defines it as "the ability to command the attention of a theater audience by the impressiveness of one's manner or appearance," and this is certainly true, but for me the term is two-fold. Whenever I perform in a new space, I find I have not one favorite moment, but two. Who doesn't love that instant when the stage lights rise, heating your skin, your face, as you connect with the viewers in the dark abyss through the intricacies of movement? Yet equally powerful is the moment just prior, when the tech crew has shifted its focus away from the performers; the performers have wandered off to eat, change, and apply their makeup; and the stage just sits there, not as a magnificent focal point, but as an insignificant structure awaiting the production.

That is the moment I love most. When the only "stage presence" left in the theater is the presence of the stage itself.

Kim and I pry ourselves awake for our first meeting with TEDxCambridge, at the very non-Luminarium hour of 8am.

In February, Kim and I received a call from TEDxCambridge, inviting us to open for their spring 2016 TED Talks. The call could have gone a far less glamorous direction, but instead we soon found ourselves creating a newly-commissioned work for the single largest TED event in the world (even larger than the original TED Talks in Vancouver), performing for an audience of 2,600 viewers in our city's most celebrated theater, the Boston Opera House.

Wandering around the block, we spy our event featured on the Boston Opera House marquee. Photo: Merli V. Guerra.

The process was as exhilarating as it was daunting, but in the end, Kim and I found ourselves walking around the block—exhausted, excited—chatting about how solid we felt about the work we were about to debut. It was our first commissioned work of this magnitude coupled with our first time co-choreographing in four years, and we had successfully created a piece that the full company felt proud of, allowing ourselves to work somewhat commercially without compromising our artistic integrity.

Kim feet and my feet, standing on this monumental stage.
Photo: Kim Holman.

Our walk ended back inside the theater, standing on the stage. And thus my "stage presence" moment began. Here was this mighty, famous, historic theater whose gilded walls gleamed in the light. But who was she really? I took a moment for myself to commune with the space—a spiritual pre-performance ritual of mine—feeling the weight of the people whose energies graced this same spot over the years. The floor creaked under my feet in patches, while others pushed back against my legs. The ceiling mural somehow felt farther away now, and I wondered who painted it—were they as scared of heights as I am? The backstage opened up to reveal a colossal, cool cave of inspiration—what set design couldn't one build in here? And as Kim and I exited to return to the group, I marveled at how quickly all the backstage passages had become second nature to travel.

Soaking it all in, and fully embracing the evening to follow. Photo: Kim Holman.

A few weeks before the production, I brought my mom to see Boston Ballet for her birthday, and we made a whole day of it. Amusingly, it wasn't until halfway through the performance that she suddenly realized which theater we were in, and that this was the same stage Luminarium would be performing on in June. The conversation shifted back to one of my earliest memories of seeing Boston Ballet perform—back then at the Wang Theatre. My dad had brought me and my friend Ginny to see Swan Lake. I remember sitting in a booster seat, peering down at the dancers, completely mesmerized. Even more vivid, I remember my dad sneaking us around a corner in the lobby—as the adults laughed and mingled, sipping their wine—and surprising us with our own intermission beverage of choice: Juicy Juice, with a snack of Teddy Grahams.

24 years later, here I was. Sipping cocktails at the Ritz Carlton after party for the event's VIPs; chatting with corporate sponsors; and laughing with my company members, my friends, about the last-minute trials of the performance a few hours earlier. I wonder what that little girl would have thought—sitting cross legged on the floor, sipping her juice box and enjoying her snack—if a young woman in a black dress suddenly turned around, winked, and with a reassuring smile said "This will be you someday. You'll perform on the same stage as Boston's finest; your work will be shown to the region's smartest audience; and you'll be surrounded by artists you admire and who support and admire you right back."

What would she have thought...

Backstage, the company huddles together one last time before the show begins. Photo: Luke Fogel.

Below are two videos from this mile-marker event in Luminarium's evolution. The first is a 5-minute documentary giving viewers a look into the company's experience behind-the-scenes. The second is the beautiful, professional footage taken of the performance itself.

Many thanks to all who were involved in the creation of this work and to all who encouraged us throughout the four months leading up to its debut!

Not all detours...

Today's entry will be brief, but will hopefully strike a chord...

It seems there are moments—when things just aren't clicking—that our normal habits shift for the better. A missed turn finds us walking down an unfamiliar Boston side street with a hidden cupcake bakery—the perfect gift for the somber friend we're about to meet. Or a missed train causes us to run into an old acquaintance. Both of these moments have happened to me in the past six months, and both were unexpected examples of frustration turned to gratitude.

A cupcake from my most favorite cupcake shop ever: Lulu's Sweets.
North End, Boston. Photo: Merli V. Guerra.
(Find more like this on my Instagram!)

This weekend I stood in line holding the first step in making my much-anticipated prop for The Phoenix Piece: a full bolt of Casa Collection satin fabric. Excited to find a full 10 consecutive yards on sale, my day couldn't get any better. (This is a rarity, and I'll need 4 of these 10-yard cuts to complete my prop.) Yet as the ditzy clerk quickly half-listened to my instructions, I watched as the store's only bolt was cut at a much-too-short-to-use 8 yards.

My mood sank. It was as if I'd found the most beautiful coat of my dreams at a thrift store, only to have the cashier accidentally lop off one sleeve as they rang it up.

Frustrated with the time, effort, and fabric now wasted, I called around to find another store. Again, my efforts were rewarded, though it meant a considerable trip out of my way to track down a new bolt. As I stepped into line, the woman in front of me (joking with those in front of her) mentioned the old adage "measure twice, cut once." "If only that had happened for me!" I replied. Before I knew it, I had met an incredible woman whose theatre and art interests paralleled my own. I had the pleasure of chatting with her through two lines, and by the end, had made a new friend in the arts!

So while today's entry is brief, let it serve as a small reminder that not all detours lead to endless frustration. Remain open to the surprises these new paths may bring...

Then and Now: Johnny-Oh! vs Art New England

Every once in a while, we find ourselves staring at a piece of our past, and are instantly compelled to compare it to the world we live in now. An old index card in a drawer reveals "Snowman with fingers: Merli 1990": A humorously hideous scribbling of blue ink against yellowed parchment. Middle school is suddenly reignited by the discovery of a box of prized scrunchies, lip glosses, and nail polishes now separated into swirling colorful rings, like marking the age of an old tree. In some cases, like the latter, the comparison from then to now is a clearly striking one (I no longer wear fake hair while sporting a Princess Lea look, for one); in others, like the sketch, little has changed in 23 years (drawing really isn't my forte, though that doesn't stop me from scribbling on every paper scrap I can find!). Most recently, I was so struck by one "then and now" comparison that I knew it was time to document it. And given another decade of growth, I hope to once again be floored by my own humble progress!

Those closest to me know my story as a graphic designer (my ambitions, my training, my current portfolio) and without divulging too much here, the one aspect I seldom share is my initial inspiration. Being 5 years and 361 days older than my brother had its advantages while growing up, and among them was the opportunity to take our mutual love of the anime series Yugi-Oh! and turn it into a fanciful (yet professional) graphic design endeavor to give my brother the colorful world...of Johnny-Oh!

The 4 final Johnny-Oh! cards ever printed.

Johnny Gobbler was a big hit, and a classic addition
to any Johnny-Oh! deck.

Over the course of 4 years, Johnny-Oh! became a growing enterprise in our childhood home, with each card carefully crafted to fall within the guidelines of its own complex hierarchy of attack points, powers, rankings, and colorful descriptions. Soon each pack began arriving in hand-crafted decorative cases; Johnny's friends started putting in requests to see themselves turned into cards; and eventually the first plastic-wrapped debut edition of Johnny-Oh! Magazine waited by my brother's door.

Johnny-Oh! Magazine. Published by M.V.G. Paints.

I was having a blast. As the creator of Johnny-Oh!, I was Tooth Fairy and budding entrepreneur combined, and teaching myself design tricks all the while. For design geeks at home reading this, I was working with a form of Adobe software so old, the Creative Suites had yet to be invented. A painful process to be sure, but like any artistic tool, I learned ways to bend the rules and accomplish each look I required.

5 of the 7 issues I've designed for
Art New England magazine.

Fast-forward over a decade later to my current position as Production Manager (graphic designer) of Art New England magazine in Boston. Each day I travel into the city to work alongside a team of talented ad reps, publishers, writers, and editors, and for some (crazy) reason they continue to entrust me with the design of their nationally-distributed publication. The best part? I'm helping readers across America learn more about my favorite field: The arts!

Then and Now: A spread in Art New England
(above) alongside a spread in Johnny-Oh!
Magazine (below).

So here I am, 26 and loving both of my jobs: One in the field of dance, the other in the field of design, but both in the field of the arts. In the 4 years I ran Johnny-Oh!, I produced 11 magazines, 100 unique cards, and 1 happy brother. In the year+ I've worked for Art New England, I've just completed my seventh issue, and it is by far the fullest, largest, most impressive issue printed in the company's 35 years on newsstands. I am so fortunate to be a part of this publication, fortunate to have had a younger brother who encouraged me to pursue this line of work, and will surely be fortunate again another decade from now when my next leap forward makes me stop and reflect.

This entry is dedicated to the hilarious, witty, talented, lanky John D. A. Guerra. Never stop creating new worlds!