What’s In a Name?

I had no idea how difficult it would be to name my own photography business. Many photographers just use their own names, maybe tacking on “Photography” or “Studios” at the end. But I couldn’t do that – every imaginable URL featuring my name was in use by another photographer somewhere.  Even my grandmothers’ names were already taken! There are a lot of photographers out there…

And anyway, I wanted something better, a name that would make the marketer in me proud. So I embraced the quest like a high-end consultant: creative brief, market research, competitive analysis, brand architecture, soul searching, word association, six hats thinking, literature search, more brainstorming, crowdsourcing…. I explored every possible strategic and creative avenue, and came up with what seemed to be the perfect name! Mission accomplished, I unleashed one of the best graphic designers I know. 

The next day, a brew pub opened in the heart of my carefully-staked-out market with that very name. Arghhh. I went in for a pale ale. And back to the drawing board. 

The struggle was worth it. Pivot Photography emerged as the name, and I think it's even better than a brew pub. 

Pivot may be memorable because it makes fans of old “Friends” reruns scream “Pivot, pivot, pivot” on cue; or because it resurrects a hope that our Twitter-happy leader will make a rational and moral “pivot” a bit to the left. Or, maybe Pivot will be sticky because everyone knows I love basketball; or because photography is a new direction in my career. If these are the reasons, great. But they weren’t intentional. 

For me, Pivot is the perfect name because it reminds me every day what a great photo is and does. Photography captures vital moments, establishes connections, and causes shifts in thinking. It is pivotal. 

Company name? Check. Next challenge: work hard to produce photos that live up to the name. 

Someday

I moved to Chicago in 1979, after growing up with Ernie Harwell on the radio and a once-a-year visit to Tiger Stadium – usually on free bat day. It took a while for Cubs fever to strike, but when it did, I got it bad. Delirious highs, devastating lows. Carefree day games in bleacher seats, celebratory nights haunting the watering holes at all four corners of the ballpark. 

By 1984, I was a diehard and was crushed to the core when Steve Garvey’s thick forearms stole our show. I hung in, through a Cub-filled courtship, scorecard training, and many sunny Saturdays in Section 242. I was there to see the first night game rained out, and back again the next night to revel under the lights.

As more years went by, I entertained clients in the box seats, cursed that poor guy Bartman, hugged my soul mate and danced with our beautiful daughters way down the left field line. Like every other fan, I willingly traveled the long and treacherous road that led to this year’s triumph for the World Champion Chicago Cubs. Long may they reign (and not suck!) 

Here is a smattering of Wrigleyville photos taken on the morning of World Series Game 3. Holy cow, someday actually arrived. Can’t wait until next year!

Philadelphia Story

What did you do on your summer vacation? We went to Philadelphia on the day after the 2016 Democratic Convention. The mood was upbeat, the streets luminous with a red, white and blue afterglow and a palpable sense of history in the making. We were #WithHer and we weren’t worried as we set out as a family to retrace the streets of my husband’s boyhood. We bought a collectible campaign button featuring a porcelain throne (for our friend Cole), and posed in front of the bunting.

We weren’t on a political mission, but it wasn’t a totally tourist-y trip either. We visited the Liberty Bell, walked the boardwalk along Front Street and toured the Ben Franklin Museum. But we were more interested in grittier things like Girard College, the orphanage where Dave spent kindergarten through 8th grade, and the Eastern State Penitentiary (which he managed to avoid!), now offering historical tours. Our two city girls loved the cobblestoned back streets, freedom to wander, the Italian food and friendly Uber drivers. Looking back now, I wish we had knocked on doors, argued Her case, taught our girls to take action. We didn’t. Lesson learned. But here’s what we saw….

R.I.P., Jazz Record Mart

When you’re married to a musician, you find yourself a great record store and become a frequent shopper. It takes the stress out of anniversaries and birthdays and makes the yuletide merry, all while feeding your own selfish soul. That’s why I was so devastated at the demise of Jazz Record Mart, a Chicago institution. It’s gone, gone, gone, and I’m singin' the blues.