MAX SESSIONS Good afternoon, everyone. Hi. My name is Dana Tanamachi. I'm a designer and illustrator living in Brooklyn, New York. Today, I have the privilege of speaking with you all about a topic that is near and dear to my heart, which is "The Power of Creativity in Trying Times." So I know when you're scrolling through all the sessions, you're like, "Oh yeah, this one's going to be a rager." But I applaud you for taking a risk and for being here, or for tuning in online, thank you, and remaining curious and for trusting me with your time and attention. It's something I don't take for granted. And I promise we'll have a good time together. So over the last decade plus, my work has gone through many evolutions, and some of you have been along for the journey, and others are learning about me and my story here in real time today. Regardless, it's an absolute honor to be here and share some of my work and inspiration with you. What started as a humble hobby and a labor of love unexpectedly blossomed into something far greater than I ever could have imagined. So sort of as a visual introduction, I, on any given day, you can find me working on packaging design for food brands, like everyone's favorite Pasture-Raised eggs...
specialty coffee bags for my friends at Saint Frank Coffee in San Francisco. SAINT-FRANK COFFEE I work on branding and packaging in beauty and skin care to create unique and giftable products that hopefully stand out on the store shelves.
And everything from tiny gold foil stamps for the United States Postal Service. Like this "thank you" stamp released in 2020 in the midst of lockdown, to large-scale immersive murals for both mom and pop shops, as well as global companies in different cities all across the country. Like this one for Starbucks, which is actually here in LA in Koreatown.
I joke that one of my specialties is grueling long-term book projects, like this collaboration with writer Michiko Kakutani. She's the former chief literary critic at the New York Times for over three and a half decades. She...
I had the honor of illustrating her book, titled Ex Libris: 100+ Books to Read and Reread available at the Adobe MAX Store.
It's an incredible compilation of her must-read picks that everyone should read in their lifetime, and she would know because she has read it all.
And next is another long-term project called the ESV Illuminated Bible. It is a modern take on a traditional illuminated manuscript celebrating the tradition and craft of illumination and featuring over 500 pieces of art, printed in gold metallic ink. And this took me roughly eight months.
I often have the pleasure of collaborating with some of my favorite brands, like drinkware company MiiR. In 2020, we designed a collection of stainless steel drinking vessels, and raising money for a nonprofit organization that provides aid to refugees worldwide.
And delightfully, quirky gift company Blue Q, who I love collaborating with...
to create items like this fun and giftable tote bag, celebrating my Mexican-American heritage and made from 95% recycled materials. Occasionally, the stars align and I get to create artwork for some of my favorite bands, like modern bluegrass trio Nickel Creek. And in a great full circle moment, about 18 years ago, I designed a fake Nickel Creek album in one of my college design classes. So almost two decades later, getting to work with them was a dream come true in my little corner of the universe.
And here we have two other poster commissions, the first for Starbucks 50th anniversary in 2021. This was a unique honor for me, because the posters for the 25th anniversary were designed by design legends Milton Glaser and Victor Moscoso. And the second poster was for the Library of Congress's National Book Fair, also in 2021.
Lastly, I tried to carve out time for my fine art practice, which mostly includes hand-painted wooden panels or skateboard decks, such as these four, which are currently on their way to Tokyo for a fine art fair next month.
Now, that was just a quick run through of some notable projects in recent years, and I often tell people that it feels like I've had two separate careers. Because up until the last six or so years, I was best known for art in a very specific medium. And to understand this journey, we have to rewind a little bit to the year 2009. This was the year that Kanye famously interrupted T Swift at the VMAs. Obama was inaugurated. And Beyoncé's iconic hit Single Ladies was at the top of the charts as we rang in the New Year. So this very same year, I happened to pick up a piece of chalk at a friend's housewarming party, Great Gatsby themed party, in Brooklyn. At my friend's insistence, I attempted to hand letter some typography on a wall that was covered in what was then a brand new invention called chalkboard paint. And keep in mind, this was pre-Pinterest, y'all. So we had never seen such a thing.
After stepping back from my very casual doodle, a friend immediately asked me to take their photo in front of it. But I was confused as to why. They thought it was fun and invited others to take their photos as well. And to my amazement, my little sketch turned into the unofficial photo booth for that evening.
After that pivotal night, this was something I continued to do in my free time over the next year, just for fun, just for my friends. For all subsequent parties at this apartment, I would pop over and draw a photo wall that corresponded with that evening's theme. And there was nothing I enjoyed more than seeing people laugh and dance, and drink with themselves, with my art as the backdrop. This was something kind of secret and special that was birthed out of community and celebration. Two things that I always tried to come back to in my work. And little did I know, but that initial counter with a box of chalk and a blank wall would be a launching point into a very unexpected story for me. Because after seeing photos of my creations via a friend's Facebook album, I received my first commission for a business in SoHo, followed by a few chalk murals for friends. And then came many, a wedding commission, which led to commercial installations like this one at the Ace Hotel New York.
And into my first foray of packaging design with these wine labels for a vineyard in British Columbia. Miraculously, those little sticks of dust would eventually lead me to be commissioned by dream clients, such as Oprah and O Magazine. And I have a great Oprah story, if we have time left.
A Time magazine cover on education reform. My very own Burton snowboard that I wish I knew how to use.
A series of classic children's books drawn in chalk for Penguin Books. And even a commercial for Michelle Obama's Global Girls Alliance initiative, seeking to empower adolescent girls around the world through education, allowing them to achieve their full potential and transform their families, communities and countries.
This even led to an exclusive Tanamachi Studio collection of wall art in 2013 at Target stores nationwide.
So looking back, the early days of my chalk lettering journey were pure magic. Every new commission utterly shocked and humbled me. I'm not kidding. I honestly couldn't believe people were paying me to do this. One of the sweetest parts of that season was the safety and freedom that anonymity brought. Author Jon Acuff explains, "Anonymity allows you to make big necessary mistakes without everyone watching. Anonymity is the best creative lab because you've got nothing to lose. Anything is possible. Anything is on the table. There are no expectations to miss, no fans to disappoint, and no follow-up fears." But what happens when everyone starts to take notice? After a whirlwind few years, what had begun as something special just for my friends, just for the love of lettering, had become something far greater than myself. There's no other way to put it. But this thing just blew up. And I somehow found myself the unlikely author of a worldwide design trend. Initially, I didn't even post my work online, because my inner critic told me that surely there was someone out there doing this and doing it way better than I ever could.
But it turns out there wasn't. And, for roughly the next five years, I would be referred to as the Chalk Girl. And somewhere along the way I was upgraded to Chalk Queen. But still I think I would have just preferred Dana.
From the very beginning, I always knew that this esthetic in this particular medium at this particular time was something that was sort of on loan to me. I simply wanted to be a good steward of it, for as long as I was the caretaker. But nothing could have prepared me to see imitations proliferated far and wide on fast food advertisements, plastered on clothing and apparel, or on countless magazine and book covers.
It followed me from my local neighborhood bars and cafes to stationery stores across the country. It reached the far corners of social media, dubbed the ubiquitous Brooklyn Aesthetic, representing all things vintage and handmade.
Initially, I believe people connected with it so deeply, because it was born unexpectedly and organically out of community and celebration. Everyone was simultaneously discovering it alongside me. I just happened to be the hand guiding it across the painted wall.
The magic continued to unfold in front of our eyes, to everyone's surprise and delight.
But we all know what can happen when we try to commodify creativity.
To bottle it up, preserve it, or even mass produce it. Magic isn't something you can manufacture. There is no shortcut. The minute we try to own it, to lay claim to it, it slips through our fingers and disappears. When we try to formulate and fabricate something that was birthed in a moment of authenticity, it just doesn't resonate in the same way.
The way I see it, I'm grateful I got to touch it for a moment in time. And then it was gone. It makes perfect sense to me that the medium in this improbable story was chalk, something momentary, something ephemeral, something that wipes away with a casual swipe and blows away in a sudden wind. Because my desire was to build a legacy, not become a casualty of our fast-paced and fickle world, always chasing after the next shiny object. And so I took it as a sign to let go... to willingly set it free at the height of its power and popularity. I wasn't interested in fighting for ownership of something that was never really mine to begin with. But it was a hard decision to walk away from something I had poured so much of my life into, especially since I would still receive commission inquiries for years after. It would have been very easy to continue for the paycheck alone. But my soul would have paid the price.
Nothing worth doing is easy. And so I set out once again into the great unknown, not only to find my inspiration, but to find myself again in the process.
A decade later, as you have seen, my work has transformed, evolved, expanded beyond the four walls of a chalk box.
But the transition did not happen overnight. After all, it takes time to maneuver a giant ship one degree at a time.
With each new project, and thanks to a handful of very trusting clients, I was able to pay the bills and take another step closer to the kind of work I hoped I could create someday. I was able to once again play around, and experiment in that creative lab of relative anonymity to make big mistakes with no expectations and no follow-up fears. I didn't know where the second act would take me, or if there would ever even be a second act. I just wanted to make beautiful things that felt magical to me, whether people would notice or not. Often the post-chalk journey looked like simply putting one foot in front of the other. I had no way of knowing that that path would eventually lead me to the front door of New York City's most iconic building.
The Empire State Building opened in 1931 in Midtown Manhattan and only took one year to build this 102-storey art deco skyscraper. And whenever I fly over the city or land at nearby LaGuardia Airport, I instinctively look for the ESV in order to get my bearings. She's my North Star, always guiding me back to the center of the city. She's a beacon of strength, stability and endurance in our ever-changing city.
When long-term collaborators Starbucks approached me last year to design and produce a three-storey mural in their forthcoming reserve store inside the Empire State Building, I was shocked. And in all honesty, I don't even remember what I felt because I'm pretty sure I blacked out. But...
this would be my fifth hand-painted Starbucks mural in the city. But none of the others prepared me for a mammoth undertaking such as this.
The concept was clearly defined before I embarked on the artwork. It would be an art deco inspired mural celebrating the human connections of the coffee journey and all the people who work together to grow, harvest, transport, test, roast, craft and share coffee with the world. I was heavily influenced by the WPA murals of the 1930s, and the art deco figures and sculptures adorning the exterior of places like the Brooklyn Public Library, Rockefeller Center and the Daily News Building.
On the top level, which houses a full service restaurant and bar, stands a farmer surrounded by the hillsides of a Costa Rican farm. In the background are people harvesting, transporting and processing coffee among lush native flora. And as we move down to the ground floor, this section of the coffee mural celebrates the delicate roasting process, as well as the transportation methods that move the beans along the journey. We see a master roaster in mid roast holding a trier, inspecting the beans, inspecting the readiness and aroma of the beans. The far corner depicts a tasting room and includes Starbucks New York Roastery building in the Meatpacking District. And lastly, we descend into the concourse level, which is an ode to the many different brewing techniques, and culminates with a point of connection between the barista and customer, inspiring and fueling them both for their next adventure in New York City.
Looking at these photos now, I could not have imagined creating something of this scale, color and style ten years ago. This project gave me the rare and extraordinary opportunity to make my mark on the seemingly untouchable city that I have called home for a third of my life now. I know now it was only in letting go of the past that I could embrace what the future had in store for me. It was in closing one door that I could step through those hallowed revolving doors, and into a bigger, better story than I could have written for myself.
So that brisk walk through the last 15 years essentially brings us to current day, where we arrive at the most important topic that I get to talk about today, which is "The Power of Creativity in Trying Times." It's been a joy to walk you through some of the work and inspiration that I am super proud of. But it would be a disservice to only show you pretty pictures and not the very real human behind them.
Because as we know trials, challenges and setbacks are all part of the human experience, right? Just as celebrations, victories and successes are too. We have all experienced high highs and low lows and everything in between.
We have lived enough life to know that not everything is within our control, which can be a little bit scary, but it can also be incredibly freeing. As a recovering perfectionist, admitting that I can't control everything and that that's a good thing has been a lesson I've had to learn over and over again. Like you, I have been through my own seasons of disappointment, adversity, transition, melancholy and even grief.
My experience as someone living with clinical depression has taken me to some painful and unfamiliar places. But this is my reality and it does not define me.
Mental illness is something that runs on both sides of my family, specifically depression. And Stanford Medicine says that 50% of the cause of depression is linked to genetics, while the other half can be attributed to psychological or physical factors. Many beyond our control, right? And with years of experience behind me, plus the miracle of modern medicine and a personal regimen of self-care, proper nutrition, physical activity, and spiritual practice, I am thankfully able to do the work that I love to do and be there, be present for the people I care about most of the time.
The road isn't without unexpected turns or potholes. But I have learned to be kind to myself in those moments, and take it one day at a time.
I once heard someone say in regards to difficult seasons in life, "Either you're currently in one, you're coming out of one, or you're about to step into one." Ouch. Right? And at first glance it might sound super bleak. But even though we can't control what life will throw at us, we can control our response, our chosen posture in the face of difficulty. Will we embrace it, or run from it? In these modern times, there is no shortage of off-ramps on this road littered with obstacles. We can choose a multitude of ways to numb, avoid, resist, or simply swipe next. But it's when we choose to be present, persistent...
and persevere in our pain...
that it produces something extraordinary in us.
The resilience and courage we never knew we had.
I'm reminded of a story that a friend from Cape Town shared after our other friend's business in Brooklyn, a shop they poured their entire lives into, was destroyed due to a fire. He told us about a flower found in the mountains of South Africa called the fire lily. Its vibrant red and pink petals can be found rising from the ashes after wildfires in the dry summer seasons. And not only that, but the species has adapted to cope with and even rely on fire to complete its life cycle. Signs of beauty, strength and new life after devastation... right in the middle of a barren wasteland. I think that's incredibly beautiful. Something that I have held onto tightly in some of life's darker moments is a gift passed down by the matriarchs in my family. And it has helped them weather life's storms, brave the unknown, and patiently persevere in trying times.
It has no worldly value, yet it is beyond priceless.
The power of beauty and creativity in the midst of dire circumstances and seemingly hopeless situations. It's the concept of gaman, a Japanese term, meaning to endure the seemingly bearable with patience and dignity. GAMAN Now, understanding this concept... allows us to go on a short journey through a uniquely American story that is rarely talked about and often misunderstood. It's my family story, but it's also the story of thousands of families whose time is forever marked by the before and after.
It's a story of injustice and remains a relevant reminder, especially in these divided times, for us not to repeat the mistakes of our past.
More than anything, it's a story I have found hope in, and I only hope you will too.
It's my family's firsthand pilgrimage through a literal and figurative desert... that has taught me so much about the power of beauty and creativity, especially in some of our darkest days.
In 1942, shortly after the bombing of Pearl Harbor by Japan, the US government called for the forcible removal of nearly 120,000 Japanese Americans from their homes in mainly the western coastal states to inland internment camps where they would remain for the next three years until the end of the war in 1945. This photo by Dorothea Lange shows a heartbreaking and freshly painted sign in front of a Japanese-American owned store in Oakland, right after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The owner wanted to make sure his community knew where his allegiance lied. I AM AN AMERICAN Yet, despite their innocence, these 120,000 American citizens of Japanese descent were torn from their homes, communities and in many cases each other, simply because they were assumed to be enemy aliens. Never mind that two-thirds of these men, women and children were born in the United States with English as their first language, some even unable to read, write or speak Japanese. This unjust imprisonment was an unconstitutional act that was fueled purely by fear, suspicion and racism. At the time...
my grandmother, Mitzi Nimura, was 19 years old, living in Southern California's Imperial Valley, right against the Mexico and Arizona borders. She had recently completed sewing school in Los Angeles, and had the skill and enthusiasm of a budding seamstress. My grandfather, Tom Tanamachi, was also 19, living just 30 miles south of here in Seal Beach, California, cruising the suburban streets in his 1940 black Ford convertible.
And when Executive Order 9066 was issued by FDR in '42, both the Nimuras and the Tanamachis were forced to leave their homes and relocate to Poston Internment Camp in the Arizona desert, along with almost 18,000 others. They traveled by bus and by train with shields on the windows. No one could see out and no one could see in. Each family member was only allowed to take what they could carry.
As you can imagine, conditions inside the camps were bleak. Families were housed in shared wooden barracks and used communal latrines and slept on army cots or sacks filled with straw. With the days stretching on like an eternity and no sign of immediate release, the internees began to organize themselves into departments, teachers, doctors, nurses, mess hall cooks. They began to build a sense of community and order among the chaos, making makeshift libraries, churches. And baseball and dance teams sprung up. My grandma once said, "You see, when the Japanese get together, they organize." And she's right. She would go on to work in the sewing department...
making clothing and patterns. And my Grandpa Tom was put in the drafting department as he had taken some architecture classes back in California.
While in camp, Tom and Mitzi eventually met for the very first time at a social event. Every woman in the sewing department had tried to set Mitzi up with their sons, to no avail. She would hide under the sewing tables when they attempted to bring their sons in to meet her.
She said, "I had a lot of them bothering me, "but I wasn't going to get married just to be getting married," which sounds super badass and feminist, especially for that time. But then there was Tom Tanamachi.
And he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. And they were married in camp shortly after. The heart wants what the heart wants, right? And meanwhile, it's his mom, my Great-grandma Nimura was busy caring for the family, attempting to create a sense of normalcy. Described as a loving and gentle mother by her children, she also had a knack for crafting and working with her hands. My family is fortunate enough to have some of the creations she made while in camp handed down to us. My favorite is this origami umbrella, about six inches in diameter. The ribs are made of toothpicks and the stem is half of a lacquered chopstick.
If you look closely, you'll see that the umbrella is actually made from Marlboro cigarette wrappers.
This second umbrella showcases an impressive butterfly silhouette by folding the cigarette wrappers at different points. Recently, a fellow Japanese-American colleague of mine joked that there must have been a lot of chain smoking going on in camp.
Great-grandma Nimura also constructed these tiny flower arrangements out of bread dough. It has always impressed me how she was able to create such beautiful things out of the most mundane mediums, even scraps and trash. I've always admired how my elders made the best with what they had.
Now, growing up and seeing these pieces of hers always made me curious to know if other creations like her little umbrellas and flowers from camp existed out in the world. Several years ago, I was introduced to a book called The Art of Gaman: Arts and Crafts from the Japanese American Internment Camps...
a collaboration by author Delphine Hirasuna, whose parents and older siblings were also interned, and designer Kit Hinrichs, former Pentagram partner and founder of Studio Hinrichs. Well, it turns out that Great-grandma Nimura's little creations were just the tip of the iceberg. This incredible book opened up a whole new world to me and gave me a new lens through which to view the internment experience.
In recent years, it has been a delight speaking with Delphine and getting to know her a little bit over the phone and hearing even more amazing stories that she was unable to fit into this book. She is a deep well of knowledge and passion, and her curiosity and tenacity have made her a leading expert in this fascinating niche. I want to thank her for the important contributions she has made to the preservation of these stories and pieces of art. She has graciously granted me permission to share the following images and excerpts from her book.
The making of arts and crafts in the relocation camps was both a physical and an emotional necessity for the internees. "At first, they simply sought ways to make their surroundings more habitable. At night, evacuees dodged the searchlights that swept the grounds to forage for building materials. With at least half of the camp population made up of children under the age of 17, the adults were determined to provide them with an illusion of normalcy.
The scrap lumber pile was the most happening spot in camp. Many managed to produce objects such as wardrobes, dressers, baby cribs, hutches, even sofas, despite having access to only rejected and not riddled wood. Gardens began to spring forth in the barren desert landscape. And those with green thumbs and grand visions hauled boulders and indigenous shrubs to make rock gardens. For this garden shown, water was hauled by the internees from the communal bathhouses and laundry rooms. Here, an artist draws a crowd as he works on a watercolor of the landscape around Camp Amache in Southeast Colorado.
Also at Amache, the internee-run education department organized an exhibit of the children's art for everyone to enjoy.
And shown here is a tiny cigarette case woven from repurposed string from an unraveled onion sack.
Here are a pair of traditional Japanese sandals made from scrap wood.
Shell brooches like these were common at camps like Tule Lake in California and Topaz in Utah, as both were situated on dry lake beds littered with tiny shells. Using screens, internees sifted out the shells and then sorted, bleached and painted them different colors.
This desk nameplate was made from scrap lumber. Dr. Kiyasu was a popular physician who practiced in San Francisco's Japantown before and after the war. A grateful patient carved a nameplate for his desk.
This is one of my favorites, an exquisite pipe cleaner bouquet in a simple mayonnaise jar.
These bird pins were very popular. The pattern would be drawn on a scrap of lumber, then sculpted and sanded into a three-dimensional form, and finally painted and lacquered with a safety pin glued on the back.
These Japanese dolls were made from old kimono fabric, crepe paper and embroidery thread.
Here is a deck of hand-painted playing cards made from electrical insulation board made by artist Choji Nakan. And as word spread of his skill throughout the other camps, he got requests to make more decks, and eventually he made decks for people in the nine other internment camps. And lastly, a few of my favorite little pieces. Tiny wooden trinkets carved from scrap wood made for children who lived in the camps.
Delphine's book, The Art of Gaman: Arts and Crafts from the Japanese-American Internment Camps is an important and necessary piece of our history. It shines a light on art created as a means of survival, many of which were so long overlooked or hidden due to the shame associated with camp.
Not surprisingly, her book evolved into an exhibition for the Smithsonian, which even included objects by artists such as Isamu Noguchi and Ruth Asawa, as well as everyday shopkeepers, farmers, gardeners and fishermen.
The book went through its final printing in 2010. But I have made it my personal mission in life to get it back in print. And at the end of the session, I'll have more information as to how you can help me achieve this goal.
It's the umbrellas made by Great-grandma Nimura and thousands of objects like faces, dolls and brooches that are all clear pictures of the power that beauty and creativity have to help us gaman, to endure the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity. Life has many valleys and mountaintops in store for us, but these pieces of art have challenged me and inspired me to continue on in the footsteps of my ancestors. How will I navigate these ups and downs, these victories and losses? Art was a saving grace for my family, and I hope to carry on that tradition.
Now, when the war was over and my grandparents were released from camp after three long years, it's not as if they could go right back to LA and pick up where they left off. The world was a very different place. Just before being shipped to camp, my grandfather had been forced to sell the family vehicles, farming equipment and personal belongings. To add insult to injury, their 25-acre celery farm was now the site of a government ammunition dump. With nothing to return to, and a baby on the way, Tom and Mitzi had to make the difficult decision to start over once again.
And thanks to distant relatives in the Texas Rio Grande Valley, the young couple was offered a tiny white frame house and lessons in farming on this new terrain. With the help of gracious kin and community, they would plant the roots of what would become a vibrant and resilient family tree in the lush South Texas soil.
Now since I can remember, my grandmother Mitzi has always been my inspiration, my muse, my best friend, my greatest source of encouragement and my most enthusiastic cheerleader. She instilled in me that I can make something beautiful from whatever I have. She would take leftover cloth potato sacks, cut them up and add embroidery and sequin details. She, rather than hiding the fact that this fabric was from the trash pile, she would highlight and embellish the potato company logo.
She would make handbags from leftover carpet scraps and matching denim skirt sets out of old pairs of jeans. Her resources were few, but she never let it limit her imagination. She made suits for all three of her boys, and elegant dresses and outfits for her daughters-in-law, and anything else the extended family needed. She dressed everyone and we were all better for it.
She would also make all of my dresses and costumes as a child. Whatever I could dream up, she would make a reality. She puts so much love into every piece. And I remember feeling so proud wearing her custom creations. And every time a new box would arrive, I couldn't wait to see, what was inside. She allowed me to transform into anything my heart desired or my imagination could conjure.
A few years ago, my mom gave me a dress that Grandma Mitzi made for her in 1980 when she and my dad were newlyweds. The red orange Japanese silk is bright as the day she finished it. That's just how she was, welcoming you into the family with open arms and a custom-made garment.
So when we lost her in 2020 to COVID 19 at the age of 97, it was a difficult reality to come to terms with. I had never known a world without her. I am grateful to have had so many years with her, and I think it's the simple things that I miss the most. Sitting together in her office, watching her play Sudoku, fighting over the check at any and every restaurant, and listening to her pray for me like she had a direct line to the heavens.
Unlike most people in her generation, she was not afraid to speak of the camp years and would patiently and graciously answer any question I asked. She spoke most about forgiveness and the faith she found after God spoke to her in the cotton fields of South Texas. He told her to forgive, and by releasing the anger and hurt of the past, what was once considered an unspeakable shame no longer held any power over her. In its place grew empathy, compassion, freedom. Her ability and eagerness to speak openly about her experience is the only reason we have so many of her stories in her own words from her own perspective. Her story is also preserved through the people she loved so well. And after her passing, we all reminisced about the pieces of clothing she so generously made each and every one of us, from immediate family to far reaching friends. She actually kept a book of sewing records and a sort of fabric diary that kept track of each project she made and who she made it for. She would snip a piece of the fabric and pin it into the book next to their names. I think she kept it in case anyone ever needed a repair or patching, and the swatches would allow her to easily locate the fabric inside her extensive collection. But I also think it was just a record of the people she loved.
She kept a piece of cloth to remind her of each person before she freely and joyfully gifted them a garment made especially for them.
Now before our time this afternoon comes to an end, there's one last story that I'd like to share with you.
Now I gave a quick preview of this project at the beginning of the session, but I want to crack it open and take a deeper look at the process behind creating the Illuminated Bible, an undertaking of epic proportion. After taking a month to consider whether I was even capable of completing a project this grand, I decided it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to create something beautiful. A legacy project, an heirloom, hopefully valued for generations to come, something that I could pour my heart and soul into, a meditative process that the fast paced nature of our industry rarely affords. It's something I knew Grandma Mitzi would love and use every morning while she sipped from the coffee mug that she had definitely reheated, like, ten times. And the thought of her one day holding it in her hands was an image I came back to daily during the long and arduous creation process.
The concept, as I mentioned earlier, was a modern take on a traditional illuminated Bible, a reverent reinterpretation of the beautifully and elegantly drawn typography, ornamentation and illustrations found in illuminated texts of old. In the Middle Ages, this type of manuscript was only available to the very wealthy people who could afford to commission them. So the publisher's desire with this version was to create an equally beautiful book, but make it available and accessible to all. And to give you an understanding of the sheer scope of this project, let me quickly share some of the features with you. This included 64 full page book opener illustrations full of symbolism and metaphor.
50 full page verse illustrations, which were mostly typographic. 250 plus hand-lettered margin verses spread over the 66 books. And over 100 other pieces of extra ornamentation throughout. The stats were staggering to me because that added up to over 500 pieces of art, not to mention cover design, slipcases, endpapers and dedication and title pages.
As I embarked on the first of hundreds of sketches for the Illuminated Bible, it quickly became apparent that this was going to be a bigger challenge than I expected. Not only because of the sheer volume of artwork, but the duration of this project coincided with the most difficult period of my life to that point. It was the breaking down of a long-term relationship that triggered my depression and took it to an entirely different level. I found myself suffering from crippling migraines, which made it nearly impossible to look at the computer screen at times.
As I said, I had wanted to pour my heart and soul into this book. I just didn't know it would also require my blood, sweat and quite literal tears.
The beauty that adorns these pages was born of some of the deepest pain I have experienced. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't just throw in the towel, explain my situation, break my contract, stay in bed for those eight months.
Because creating in the midst of what felt like internal chaos was something I wasn't convinced I could do. But instead of taking this exit ramp, I decided to stay on the highway, even if I was only moving inch by inch, step by step, one foot in front of the other.
As difficult as it was to be productive and to tap into my creativity in this dark season, creating in the midst of bleak circumstances was something I had seen done before.
I had a template, a roadmap, that proved essential when I couldn't see the road in front of me. I'm talking about two women whose blood runs through my veins, whose legacies live on in my bones.
Before that painful year, creating on a daily basis was the norm. It's my job and, you know, I love what I do. But in this season, I didn't feel I always had the strength to exercise that muscle. Rather than an outlet, creativity became a discipline in order for me to maintain a sense of normalcy. It became both a buoy and an anchor, grounding me against the swirling winds and waves and keeping me afloat when it would have been easier to surrender to the currents or sink to the depths. It became a necessity for survival.
And people often ask me what the most meaningful piece of art from this experience is. And without hesitation, I tell them the Book of Job.
One day, through the tears, I put pen to paper and the artwork came flowing out of me with a kind of ease I find hard to even describe. Job was a man going through an intense period of suffering and trial, and as he lost all the good things he had received from the hand of God. As he loses his family and suffers immense emotional and physical pain, Job realizes that he will one day return to the dust. And despite his hardship, he clings to hope. The story of Job resonated immensely with me in that moment because I felt seen. I saw myself in these pages.
For the book opener artwork, I knew that roots and the dirt would take up at least half of the composition. We always want to focus on the pretty part, the flowers blooming and the sun shining. But it's this damp, dark environment where the seedling cracks open and allows the blossom to breach the surface. These deep elaborate root systems are the solid foundation from which the new life can spring forth season after season.
The upright middle flower here represents Job's refusal to blame or curse the heavens and to have hope, even while his body, symbolized by the outer flowers, wastes away.
After his years of suffering come to an end, Job's life is renewed. His latter days are blessed even more than in the beginning, having everything doubly restored. But more valuable than the return of his material possessions, he dies an old man full of days, a beacon of hope throughout the ages, a powerful example of enduring the seemingly unbearable parts of the human experience with patience and dignity. I keep a small letterpress print of Job in my office to remind me that I can and have endured what felt like the impossible. I have done and can do hard things. When I hold this book in my hand, it's a symbol of perseverance and endurance that my struggle was not in vain. To this day, I do not take for granted the emails and messages I receive from people who say the Illuminated Bible saw them through some of their darkest days. I smile and am truly grateful. But I remember the courage it required to create through the tears. My greatest pain produced the thing I'm perhaps most proud of. Would I choose to go through that season again? No. But I also wouldn't change it.
When I began the chalk murals almost 15 years ago, it was not lost on me that I was using literal dollar store chalk, tiny sticks of dust to create elaborate designs for some of the world's most influential people and brands. Creating beautiful things from simple and unexpected materials is in my blood. Art has been a saving grace for my family, myself included. Their small acts of creation have inspired and empowered me generations later to use my art for good, to bring people together, to create beauty, and to find it in unlikely places, to always come back to community and celebration in my own work. For now...
I will continue in the footsteps of women in my family whose quiet strength gave them the audacity to create beauty even in the midst of dire and bleak circumstances. If you are in the middle of a very difficult season right now, or maybe you're just coming out of one or perhaps going into one, I want you to know that I see you. You are not alone.
Life is sprouting under the surface where you can't even see it yet. There is beauty to be created and found right there in the dirt. It's possible that this present pain could produce the very thing you are most proud of.
We cannot underestimate the power of creativity in trying times. And lucky for this crowd, creativity is something that most of us already possess. And remember, it's totally free. Yet it's more precious than gold.
It is using our gift as an act of hope, regardless of our situation.
And lastly, I charge you to embrace the spirit of gaman with me, to continue creating beautiful things even when you may feel voiceless, that your resources are limited or that your well has run dry.
Because the most beautiful and valuable piece of art I own, a tiny umbrella fashioned out of trash, was made in the middle of a literal and figurative desert. Thank you very much.
Thank you, guys.
So really quickly, before I open it up, just for a quick Q&A, I'd like to personally ask everyone here in person and tuning in online to consider scanning this QR code and adding your name to my petition to get the book The Art of Gaman back in print. The link is also available on my Instagram stories and profile @dana_tanamachi and please feel free to send along to a friend or family member who you think might like to join our cause. And on behalf of Delphine and myself, we want to thank you so much for your help.