The story of the neon sign.
When I was about 17, my aunt came to visit for Christmas. She was the youngest of my dad’s sisters, and something of the ‘rebel’ of the family. She moved frequently, she had several eclectic hobbies, and she often did things that just bewildered the whey out of the rest of the family. For instance, that past year she had quit her job and moved again…to go to school to learn how to make neon signs. I don’t remember whether or not she wanted to become a sign-maker or if she just thought it would be fun to do (probably the latter). At any rate, her decision to go to neon school was just another Unusual Aunt Elle thing.
I hadn’t seen my aunt for several years; but a few years ago, she and I sent each other letters fairly regularly. This was the same aunt who, one year for a Christmas card, sent out mix-cassettes of various songs including stuff from Dead Can Dance, an acapella version of the Hallelujian Chorus by The Roches, a Susanne Vega tune, and something called (I think) “Pablo Picasso Never Got Called an Asshole” She wasn’t fighting hard to be different, but she didn’t fight to be the same, either. If she liked something, or wanted to do something, that was that. I was looking forward to visiting with her again.
We all gathered around the tree that Christmas Eve, and I was handed a box. “To LaughingMuse, from Aunt Elle†,“ read the tag. The box was 8x11, but a bit…light. Oh no. Clothes. Possibly a sweater. With ruffles. Or solid pink with scalloped trim and possibly a ribbon at the neckline. I opened the box, pulled aside the tissue paper, and saw four clear glass tubes taped together. “Picture a neon sign,” read the attached card. “I will make you any kind of neon sign you want: any color, any size, almost any shape.”
The next day, Aunt Elle and I sat in the family room discussing my neon sign. We talked about colors and shapes, and she said that signs without too many sharp tiny bends or uber-intricate details would be easier for her to do well. We spent about an hour looking at design books, talking about what I was envisioning (a stylized oriental dragon line-drawing, surrounding my name in Chinese characters) and her abilities. Yes, she said, she could do this, no problems. The minimalist, flowing design meant that details didn’t have to be exact, but that it would look good. The characters might give her some problems; but since they were mostly straight-ish lines with very few curves (and minimal curves at that), it wouldn’t be impossible, even if she’d only done a brief apprenticeship thus far.
My mother was (and is) a decorating and redecorating fiend. Every surface in their current house is faux finished, covered in murals or stencils or this or that wash or glaze. When I was growing up, she chose the paints and wallpapers for my room. She solicited my opinion, and I wasn’t forced to accept anything that I found utruly hideous; but she was always choosing the florals, the Victorian prints, the subliminally busy things with flourishes and curlicues all kinds of visual gingerbread. She was Martha Stewart before that creature’s rise to promimence: Moms was always finding a wallpaper pattern with matching bedding, or painting a table skirt to match the wallpaper pattern, or a furniture accent scheme. (Perhaps this is one of the reasons I have bare white walls: the shock of my youth absolutely refuses to wear off.) Sitting with my aunt, choosing the colors, dictating the style, content, and size — this was the first time in my life that I really felt like I had that much control over my environment. It wasn’t that I was previously stifled or steamrolled, just…mildly finessed. This was the first time someone had said, “Here. You choose. I want you to really really like this”...and meant it.
I never received that sign. To be quite honest, I don’t know what I would have done with it: neon signs’ power units use a lot of electricity, and the constant buzz would have meant that either I kept the sign off or lived with the noise pollution. It probably would have broken during one of my many moves. But I have the memory of that gift in my mind: unspoiled, unbroken, and I was the one in control, even if over something as minor as a 4x6 piece of art.
Aunt Elle gave me the gift of potential. She gave me the gift of respecting my opinion. She gave me the gift of taking me seriously. She gave me the gift of appreciating my idea wholeheartedly. She didn’t suggest alternate colors. She didn’t say that the sign might look better larger, or smaller, or landscape-orientation instead of portrait. She just listened, and said “Yes”.
† = not our real names, obviously.
Keywords: | holidays | Holidailies | family |
Posted by Laughing Muse • 907 views • Share this link • Newer • Older
Click here to join