Author: Sheri Baer

Palo Alto’s Byxbee Park—a picturesque waterfront park with winding paths in the Baylands Nature Preserve—is more than meets the eye. It actually covers a 30-acre landfill, which is capped under one foot of impenetrable clay and two feet of dirt. Treating the earth as their canvas, designers formed teardrop-shaped hillocks (a tribute to the Ohlone people) and added conceptual art to the landscape, including artist Peter Richards’ grid of 72 telephone poles with shifting shadows. Palo Alto photographer Robert Quinn snapped this Perfect Shot while walking with his wife. “It occurred to me that if you can judge the livability of a locale by the beauty of its landfills,” he remarks, “we are not faring too poorly!”

Calling all Shutterbugs:
If you’ve captured a unique perspective of the Peninsula, we’d love to see your Perfect Shot. Email us at hello@punchmonthly.com to be considered for publication.

Words by Johanna Harlow

Check into Menlo Park’s Park James Hotel and your ear might pick up a familiar voice carrying over the click-clack-clack of rolling suitcases and the easy chatter of guests at the bar. Many a commuter recognizes the rhythm and cadence of the hotel’s creative director from his two-plus decades of radio banter on Alice 97.3 FM. That’s right, it’s Hooman Khalili.

As a seasoned film reviewer, Hooman boasts an impressive range of celebrity interviews—Charlize Theron, John Travolta, Julianne Moore, Ed Harris and George Lucas, to name a few. But his repertoire far exceeds his role as Alice’s former morning radio personality. Beyond his role at the Park James, he’s also co-hosted the Fandor Festival Podcast, produced a groundbreaking film and is currently collaborating on a huge advocacy project in Israel.

But to get to the present we first need the past. As a toddler, Hooman escaped Iran on the cusp of the revolution. “Mom jumped on a plane with one suitcase, $5,000 and a three-year-old boy,” he describes. When they arrived in America, the customs agent messed up the numbers on her stamp, issuing a one-year visa (which allowed for work) rather than the typical three-month authorization for tourists. “It was a miracle!” Hooman declares. As a professed Christian, Hooman believes in divine intervention. He also remains awestruck that, before that year was up, his mom went from a job cleaning hotel rooms (while they lived in a back room) to a job as an accountant with green card status.

So when did cinema come into the picture? Hooman credits turbulent times in his early 20s. “I would go to a theater and just watch a movie and escape,” he recounts. “It was freedom.”

His radio career took off after Alice Radio host Sarah Clark asked if he’d like to review the film Angela’s Ashes. He recalls Sarah telling him, “What you bring to this microphone is up to you.” He dove right in. “It was just a terrible review, but they liked it enough,” he chuckles. “So all of a sudden, I find myself at every movie premiere and film festival. Anything I was invited to, I would attend.” Sure, waking up at 3:20 every morning was no picnic… But, “To be on with Sarah and Vinnie for 20 years, that was a gift,” Hooman reflects.

When it comes to memorable encounters, Hooman calls out John Travolta (with whom he’s talked six times). He’ll never forget his coverage of A Love Song for Bobby Long—and not because the film was a hit. Due to a botched schedule, Mr. Travolta’s publicist offered to sit Hooman next to the actor while he conducted all his other interviews. For two hours, Hooman listened to the actor patiently respond to the same unoriginal prompts. “Even though he was hearing the same questions, he would say, ‘That’s a really good question. I’m really glad you asked me that,’” he recounts. Although Hooman, like the other reporters, had mixed feelings about the film itself, the response was the same: “‘Look, it’s not my favorite movie—but John Travolta… What a wonderful human being!”

Hooman has also been up on the silver screen himself, cameoing as a partygoer in Cloverfield and an animated reporter in Cars modeled after a Ford Ka Coupe. “I have an action figure!” exclaims Hooman, explaining that the director of the Pixar film, John Lasseter, was a huge fan of Alice’s morning show. “He gave us all a line.”

The Alice morning radio team from left to right: Von Bellows, Uzette Salazar, Bryn Nguyen, Sarah Clark, Vinnie Hasson and Hooman Khalili.

For Hooman, making his own film felt like a natural progression—so in 2011, he produced Olive featuring Gena Rowlands. Partnering with Patrick Gilles, the two made the first full-length feature shot entirely on a cell phone (a Nokia N8, to be specific).

The film’s soundtrack features original Dolly Parton songs—another wild story. After running into Dolly’s dentist at a conference, Hooman managed to land his film in front of the singer—which subsequently earned him a meeting with the Queen of Nashville herself. “Dolly Parton travels like Jay-Z. So it’s nine people on that side and me on this side,” Hooman recalls. “And she goes, ‘Well Kid, what do you want?’” With go-big-or-go-home boldness, Hooman requested four songs for the film. “She goes, ‘All right, Kid, get your butt outta here. I got a lot of work to do.’”

Although Olive only got a limited run (spending just enough time in theaters to earn an Oscar nomination for Best Original Song), Hooman expects the film to be re-released—and aspires to make as many as 20 films. “People don’t realize that independent filmmakers are still competing with Star Wars and Avengers,” Hooman shares. It’s a big reason why he’s also supported directors, writers and actors through the Fandor Festival Podcast, co-hosted with Chris Kelly, a previous investor in Olive, and Bryn Nguyen.

Hooman’s advocacy murals in Israel are designed to show solidarity with the Iranian people. The bird covering an eye represents Iranian women who were told they would be blinded in one eye by a pellet gun if they protested. They protested anyway.

A long familiar voice, Hooman speaks out in other ways—most recently, by producing and designing advocacy murals that show solidarity with Iranian protesters. With murals already installed in Jerusalem, Nazareth and Natanya, Hooman partners with Israeli officials as well as artists to create intentional designs. “Every time I create a mural, I am throwing a huge log into this fire,” he explains. “I am here to inspire the people in Iran to keep fighting against their tyrannical regime.”

If he can attract a supportive patron or two, Hooman envisions more than a dozen more murals coming to Israel’s walls. Meanwhile, he continues to balance his work at the Park James Hotel, where projects range from handling brand strategy to organizing their next speaker series. It’s a true hustle, but there’s no way he’s checking out. “It’s easy to say no to these opportunities and it’s sometimes hard to say yes, but you’ve got to ride that wave: the adventure of life.”

Words by Johanna Harlow

A baby grand trundles along a bluff in Half Moon Bay with assistance from several men and a wheeled dolly. As it jostles and judders along the uneven ground, the piano makes musical noises of protest as if to say, “I’m too old for this kind of thing”—but it changes its tune when it reaches a wildflower outcrop overlooking the sea. As soon as a player raises its keylid, the instrument begins harmonizing with a choir of seagulls, keeping tempo with the waves. It’s hard to imagine this wild mahogany beast ever returning to a domestic existence in some parlor, quietly collecting dust.

“We all think you go to a concert hall or somebody’s living room to hear someone play the piano—so you take it out of that context, and it makes people think,” says Mauro ffortissimo, an artist with expressive hands befitting one who grew up tickling the ivories.

Before immigrating to the U.S. at 18, Mauro grew up under Argentinian dictatorship rule. He was making music before he could read chapter books. “My mom played piano,” he relays. “I started when I was five. At six, I went to a conservatory.” As time passed, Mauro felt compelled to engage with the instrument in more ways than hands on keys. The piano became a muse, a source of inspiration for performance art and sculptures.

To Mauro, a piano’s body is as alluring as its voice. “I love the insides, the mechanisms,” he explains. As he rakes his fingers through his hair, it sticks up exactly like the Beethoven bust in his studio. “It’s just insane the amount between you pushing the key and the actual hammer. There are over a thousand parts—tiny pieces of wood, levels, springs, you name it!”

It’s this mindset that drove him to refigure the percussion instrument into a stringed form by removing the keyboard and hammers, then turning the soundboard and its wires upright like a harp. Mauro adds fishing line and brass tubes to further “free it from the 12-tone scale” and make more opportunities for unique sounds. When he plucks the strings, squeezes the tubes and taps the wires with a cork-topped baton, the result sounds like a harp, hammered dulcimer, violin and whale all rolled into one. “I fire the orchestra,” Mauro laughs. He calls it his Piano Liberado.

When Mauro alters a piano these days, he’s got the procedure down pat. “I do it really quick—in a couple hours,” he boasts. “It requires a couple big screwdrivers and a sledgehammer.”

Like a huntsman deftly gutting an animal, Mauro makes sure to preserve the piano’s many parts, wasting nothing. They will be stored in a tall tower of baker’s racks until he needs them for one of his other sculpture projects. Keyboards become black and white waves. Emptied piano bodies get stacked into columns. Hammers weave into hanging mobiles or bouquets of flowers. Steel frames decorate the backyard fence.

Mauro knows not everyone condones his treatment of these instruments. But some pianos are simply beyond a tuneup. And to him, it’s a conversion, not a dissection. “They go to the dumps all the time,” Mauro points out. “I give them another life.”

Piano as Performance Art

Plenty of instruments in Mauro’s care remain intact for his performance art. These projects fall under the umbrella of Sunset Piano—an ongoing series that involves “placing extremely heavy musical instruments in unexpected places.”

Founded in 2013, Sunset Piano is the collaborative effort of Mauro and his fedora-wearing filmmaker pal Dean Mermell (who is also a musician and art lover). The two were introduced by renowned Burning Man artist Pepe Ozan. “I remember him saying, with a very meaningful look, ‘You two should know each other,’” Dean recalls.

For their first collaboration, Dean filmed Mauro and his “piano ninjas” as they navigated pianos to impossible places up and down the coast, from Pacifica to Santa Cruz. Pros and novices came to play Chopin and “Chopsticks” for the passing porpoises and sea lions. “A kid might be too shy to play at home in the living room with the grandparents looking,” muses Mauro, “but now he’s sitting there and there’s a goose going by, and he thinks, ‘Okay, I can play this!’”

Musicians, singers, poets, fire dancers and lyra aerial hoop dancers also contribute. An enchanting evening might involve a wordsmith spitting verse beside a crackling bonfire or a woman twisting and twirling through a hoop suspended in the cypress branches.

Twelve Pianos, Dean’s documentary of the entire escapade, premiered at San Francisco’s Green Film Festival. “Mauro and I share a pretty wacky artistic vision, but we’re also both very practical people who like to figure out how to get things done,” Dean shares. “It’s really all about getting the music out there, and providing a space for wonder to happen. We need more wonder—that’s kind of the business we’re in.”

The two have continued to cook up crazy ideas—and Dean has played a pivotal role in producing and documenting their projects together (handling their online presence as well as filming). Meanwhile, Mauro tackles things hands-on (or as he colorfully puts it: “I build shit.”) He’s in his element wheeling pianos along grimy Tenderloin streets to play for the homeless and hopping aboard a fishing boat to serenade the migrating humpback whales. “Fortissimo” (a musical term for playing a piece loudly—and his chosen surname) certainly fits Mauro’s commitment to evade quiet living.

The partners also brought Flower Pianos to the San Francisco Botanical Garden, an event that tucks 12 pianos and over 50 performers throughout the luscious greenery of the park. Guests follow enchanting strains of music filtering through the trees from one location to the next—from a meadow to a redwood grove, from an arbor brimming with flowering perennials to a pond-side platform. “There’s just something about nature and music—both awe-inspiring in their own right—that causes them to elevate each other,” notes Mauro. (Keep an eye out for the event’s return this September).

Good Vibrations

During one cliffside concert, Mauro set a piano on fire. When the story hit the media, some were outraged. But what they called “destruction,” Mauro considered a “cremation ceremony.” “It’s all temporary,” Mauro reflects. “It’s not dying, it’s just converted to another thing. It’s a sculpture now.” He motions at the blackened form of the piano in question, which sits in a corner of his studio, tenderly adorned in tea lights. “Music is beyond time. It doesn’t die.”

Over 60 people have entrusted Mauro with their retired Steinways and Yamahas. They seem to understand that for Mauro, music isn’t just a pastime—it’s a way of life. And his Half Moon Bay studio stands testament. A gutted piano serves as a planter bed outside, while his oddly-shaped coffee table lived its previous life as a piano lid. Mauro’s massive paintings cover the walls and feature musical notes—which splash across the canvas like ink blots in a particularly passionate love letter. There’s deep respect there.

Keyboards on the other hand, haven’t earned Mauro’s esteem. “They’re cold and plastic,” he shudders. “A lot of the electronic stuff… after three, four or five years, they’re gone. Like a cellphone, you need to upgrade and buy a new one.” Continuing these musings, he adds, “To me, music is not about sounds only. When you play an acoustic instrument, there’s vibrations. It’s a human aspect. It’s a physical thing. If you stand in front of the piano and you pluck the bass strings, you feel it in your guts.” Take one of his largest sculptures to date: a booth of galvanized metal, lined in piano soundboards. When someone steps inside this “music box” to pluck the walls and ceiling, they are met by a storm of sound that reverberates under their feet.

No matter the setting and whatever its form, a piano in Mauro’s hands is infused with intense emotion and rich history. “It’s alive,” he asserts, “and it is full of memories of things alive.”

Words by Sheryl Nonnenberg

The Marie Kondo method of house decluttering calls for discarding things that no longer spark joy. When it comes to Evelyn McMillan’s extensive collection of textiles, that mindset of paring down clearly doesn’t apply. A visit to her mid-Peninsula home reveals copious treasures stored in closets, wardrobes and chests—and Evelyn is eager to share the history and importance of each and every mola, batik, embroidered cloth and piece of lace she has acquired over the course of her lifetime.

It all began, she explains, with her mother’s penchant for embroidering small flowers on the collars of her dresses. Her mother and aunts did needlework and, at the age of five, Evelyn also began to learn the skill. But the collecting bug took hold when she started going to rummage sales organized by her mother. Evelyn loved helping the women sort and arrange clothing, and for her efforts, she was allowed to select a small item. “I bypassed the toys and books and went straight to the small pieces of lace and embroidery,” she laughs. You could say that was the first stitch in Evelyn’s lifelong obsession with the needle arts.

“Lace and embroidery don’t have a reason to exist,” she explains. “They don’t keep you warm or dry. It is the human love of color, pattern and creating beauty. What can you make out of a needle and thread?”
Fast-forward to the 1980s when Evelyn, a career librarian at Stanford University, began to attend the annual craft fairs on campus. It was here that she became aware of the colorful and detailed textiles of the Hmong culture. “I was blown away by the skill and needlework of the pieces I saw and knew they might be a dying art,” she recounts.

Evelyn became friendly with the women who were selling their work and learned of the turbulent history of the Hmong people, which was often portrayed in the form of story cloths. These large, colorful cloths consist of hundreds of figures and symbols that tell the migration story of the Hmong from China, through Laos and Vietnam, finally ending in resettlement in places like California’s Central Valley as well as in Minnesota and South Carolina. “The Hmong had no written language until the 1950s,” notes Evelyn. “This was how they told their story.”

As an example, she gestures to an incredibly detailed piece with tiny figures performing traditional dances, taking part in ritual customs and, sadly, being pursued by figures with guns as they made their way to refugee camps. Evelyn owns 49 of these story cloths. “I hope I am helping to preserve these,” she says, “as well as helping the women to pay the rent. They knew that I appreciated their work.”

Another of Evelyn’s prized collections is lace, specifically lace made during World War I. In the 1990s, she began spotting beautiful handmade lace tablecloths in second-hand and antique stores. An exhibit at the Hoover Tower on campus really honed her interest in “war lace” and the fascinating story behind this time period. Prior to 1914, lacemaking was a national art in Belgium. Created mainly by women, it was a thriving industry with exports to countries worldwide. With the onset of the war, the sea blockade of Belgium not only deprived people of necessities like food but also the thread needed for lacemaking.

Herbert Hoover, who was living in London at the time, intervened, and through the Commission for Relief in Belgium, arranged for famine relief and also the importation of lace thread. Evelyn shares that the lace industry, which included 50,000 workers, survived the war thanks to his efforts. In gratitude, commemorative gifts in the form of tablecloths were sent to his wife, Lou Henry Hoover, and are now on display in the Hoover Library and Archives.

Thanks to her extensive research, Evelyn can discern the difference between handmade and machine lace—even by just looking at a photo. She has amassed hundreds of examples, some in the form of tablecloths, pillowcases and other utilitarian formats but also small squares that have been cut away from larger pieces. This knowledge has enabled her to identify the many symbols found in pictorial lace that express outrage and sadness about the war. Animal figures portray the Allied countries and some lacemakers even depicted the Belgian lion defeating the German eagle—a subversive expression that could have had dire consequences.

World War I Belgian Lace

Lacemakers often used real or mythological animals as symbols in their work. In this tablecloth, Belgium: Lion, Russia: Bear, Great Britain: Unicorn, France: Cockerel, Italy: Standing Lion, Serbia: Eagle. (The United States had not yet entered the war.)

As a result of her research and collecting, Evelyn has become an acknowledged expert on the subject of war lace. She has written numerous articles for PieceWork magazine and is cited in an eight-volume publication on world textiles. Her passion for the subject has propelled her into an unexpected post-retirement career: textile consultant. “Opening my emails in the morning is a great adventure,” she reports. “I never know who I am going to hear from.” Evelyn has assisted countless people in determining whether their lace is valuable—and what to do if it is.

Recently, a man from Vermont sent her a photograph of a lace tablecloth he had inherited. Putting her research skills to work, Evelyn discovered the town in Western Flanders where the lace was made (doing this required working in French and Flemish) and even found a photograph of the church depicted in the center of the lace, which had been destroyed by the Germans and then rebuilt. During the course of the year she spent on this project, the owner trusted Evelyn enough to actually send the lace to her for some conservation work. “It was custom-made in the town, with many women working on it,” she divulges. “It is a very complicated, detailed piece.”

Thanks to her hard work, not only has the lace been identified and conserved but it will be returning to the small town of Hooglede in Belgium, where it will be displayed in the City Hall as a memorial
to the war.

Hooglede Tablecloth

In this piece, two lacemaking techniques are used: bobbin lace and needle lace.

Bobbin Lace is done by weaving (or plaiting) threads together to create patterns. The thread is wound on pairs of wooden bobbins; complex figural lace can require hundreds and hundreds of bobbins.

Needle Lace is built up from individual knots or loops done with a needle and a single thread on a skeleton of outline threads that have been established over the pattern.

“Beginning lacemakers worked on it as well as expert lacemakers,” Evelyn explains. “I love that about this lace; everybody’s work was included.”

Returning the lace to its origin—and establishing its provenance—was obviously very rewarding for Evelyn. But whether it’s an intricately sewn tablecloth or just a patch of colorful embroidery, it’s clear that every piece in her collection sparks joy in her heart.

“I think they are an underrated art form—underrated because we live surrounded by everyday textiles and because they are mostly made by women,” she observes. “For me, textiles, like art, don’t have to do anything or be anything. Their ability to bring joy, beauty, knowledge and interest into our lives is enough.”

Words by Sheri Baer

Draped in a dreamy white dress with flowing sleeves and a plunging back, Aira Bubnelyte glides across the floor in the arms of her partner, Tomas Atkocevicius, impeccably attired in black tux and tails. “This is so Fred and Ginger—I love it!” enthuses the announcer as the couple twirls to the rise and fall of Count Basie’s “One Mint Julep.” “So smooth—the epitome of grace and formality,” the commentary continues. “They are doing the classic essence of ballroom.”

The setting: the PBS-televised Ohio Star Ball in 2005. And it was just one of many stops—or steps—in the extraordinary journey that’s swept Tomas and Aira from their hometown of Kaunas, Lithuania, to the elite ranks of competitive DanceSport, and ultimately to the Peninsula, where they channel their shared aspirations into San Mateo’s Dance Vita Ballroom.

Waltz. Jive. Cha Cha Cha. Salsa. Quickstep. Samba. Whether students opt for competitive, social or fitness dance—group lessons or private—the couple describes the outcome as uplifting, strengthening exercise. “When you dance, every muscle group of the body is working,” notes Aira, “and it’s also really therapeutic. You have to think a lot when you dance—doing the steps, listening to the music—so people forget their daily struggles.”

As lifelong dancers and teachers, Aira and Tomas credit education with playing a vital role in their success. Before they can guide the fast directional changes and staccato movements of the tango or the slow-quick-quick rhythm of the foxtrot, they have to entice feet onto the floor. “People here don’t know about ballroom dancing,” explains Aira. “Dancing with the Stars helped a lot, but that’s also not quite the same. The biggest challenge is for people to find out about it.”

That’s hardly the case in the couple’s home country, where dance is deeply embedded in Lithuanian culture. Dance competitions draw enthusiastic fans, and ballroom dancing is promoted on buses and regularly broadcast on TV. “In Lithuania, ballroom dancing is very popular as a sport,” affirms Aira. “It’s almost right after basketball.”

Aira herself began taking lessons at the age of six and can barely remember a time before dance. “I slowly fell in love with it, and then it became my passion,” she recalls, describing the discipline and training that led to winning major titles including World Youth Ballroom Champion and Amateur World Cup Ballroom Champion. “It’s always a battle inside you to fight with your butterflies,” she shares. “I loved the competing part of it, I loved the travel and I loved the community itself.”

Tomas started dancing at eight, but he admits it was far from love at first step. “My family made the decision, and I went along with it,” he recounts. “I was always at the bottom of the field because I was competing against kids who started at six and seven.” At 13, Tomas got his first taste of winning and finally succumbed to dance’s allure: “When you get a good result, it feels fantastic. It feels very rewarding.” At one point ranked first by the International DanceSport Federation, Tomas became a four-time Lithuanian Amateur Ballroom Champion.

Although they grew up in the same hometown, Tomas and Aira didn’t find themselves in a two-hand-hold position until they were older. At the ages of 26 and 20, they became dance partners—which also led to becoming life partners. “It was very natural because we spent a lot of time together, and our goals were the same. Eventually, we started to develop feelings for each other,” says Tomas. “First, it was just dancing and then little bit by little bit…” smiles Aira. “Even though I said I will never marry a dancer.”

After competing in the World Championships in Miami in 2003, the couple accepted a course-altering invitation to visit a friend in the Bay Area. Struck by “how beautiful life is here,” they envisioned a future for themselves on the Peninsula. “At that time, it was a lot of social dancing here, not a lot of competitive dancing,” Tomas says, “so we felt we could build something.”

Initially competing and teaching in studios all over the Bay Area and beyond, they realized their dream when they opened Dance Vita with two dance friends in 2011 (they are now solo owners) and settled in nearby San Carlos.

With a teaching staff and 7,200 square feet of ballroom space, Dance Vita’s schedule is packed with offerings. West Coast swing, bachata or salsa? Latin cardio? Friday Social Party? Argentine tango? Recognizing how overwhelming the choices can be, the studio offers a free group lesson and a 30-minute private lesson for new students, who range in age “from four years old to 80-something.” “That way, if they don’t know what they want to do, they can come in and try different things,” says Aira. “For people who feel like, ‘I have two left feet,’ I always say, ‘Just come and try.’”

In Ballroom Fitness, instructor Razmik Papian leads students through tango steps to Ed Sheeran’s “Bad Habits.” “Right foot forward, arms up,” he instructs, as the class progresses through basic elements of five ballroom dances. “You don’t partner up. You follow the teacher, the moves, and it’s nonstop,” describes Aira. “It’s mainly for stamina, for cardio, so it’s more like a gym type of workout.” While the fitness classes skew heavily to women, Aira and Tomas were surprised to see group social dancing classes (which rotate partners) filling up with men. “Engineers love to dance,” Aira observes. “In dancing, you have to think about how to do things, figure out the directions, the steps. They feel like they are in their own niche with that.”

Another popular offering is Dance Vita’s wedding package, which prepares couples for their first dance. When Aira and Tomas first opened the studio, they didn’t even know that was a thing. “So we said, ‘Okay, let’s start it,’” says Tomas, “and it took off.” In four lessons, couples learn a small routine choreographed to their favorite song. “It feels more special,” adds Aira, “and they don’t feel as awkward with all the guests watching them.” On the competition front, the couple takes pride in Dance Vita’s reputation and what their students achieve. “We have national champions at all categories—from the pre-teen to the senior level,” reports Tomas. “Some of them are world champions or world finalists as well.”

With their six-year-old son Oskar added into the mix, the quickstep has become a way of life for the couple. Some days, they say it can be midnight before they finally find a chance to talk. Despite the breathless pace, they are grateful to be partners in this particular dance. “I love coming to work every day,” reflects Aira. Tomas nods in agreement: “It’s nice to go to work because it doesn’t feel like work. The studio feels like an extension of our home.”

Cha Cha Cha

dancevita.com

Words by Johanna Harlow

What is it about the swell of a symphony that leaves us breathless? “To understand words, our brain has to make sense of what’s being said—but with music, it’s direct,” explains Paul Phillips, who has conducted more than 75 orchestras, opera companies and ballet troupes worldwide—and currently oversees both the Stanford Symphony Orchestra and Stanford Philharmonia. “We listen to a certain piece of music and suddenly we can be crying or feel ecstasy.” The conductor-composer thoughtfully adds, “We don’t even know for sure what came first: singing or speaking. There’s a theory that singing came first. There’s a book about that called The Singing Neanderthals.”

Paul credits a catalytic music festival during his teens for propelling him into classical music. “I was relatively old,” he says. At the mature age of 16, he was already a decade behind many of the masters. “Musical prodigies are giving concerts when they’re five and six years old,” he states with matter-of-factness. But when Paul was swept up in a daring Mozart piano concerto with Stravinsky’s “Firebird” as the triumphant finale, he couldn’t resist the call. “I was trembling at the end. I mean, I couldn’t stop shaking,” Paul recalls. “I just felt this overwhelming need to find out more.”

Although he played trumpet in a jazz band before this pivotal experience, classical music and conducting now consumed him. “This could be a really interesting thing to do with one’s life,” he remembers thinking. Despite his “late start,” Paul amassed considerable hours conducting band and choir performances during his high school years. “If you think of music in terms of colors, symphony orchestra has such a rich variety,” Paul describes. “An orchestra has many different types of sounds…The range is so vast.”

In fact, Paul explains, the complexity of the music is why the conducting role arose in the early 19th century. “It was considered impolite to turn your back on the audience—so the orchestra would follow the conductor from behind, and the conductor would be out there smiling at the audience,” Paul informs with his own smile. “Mendelssohn came along and said, ‘Well, that’s not a great idea.’ So he turned sideways—because he wasn’t gonna turn his back to the audience. He’s a little too polite for that.” It was the irreverent Wagner who first broke etiquette by addressing only his musicians. “It was very controversial,” Paul laughs. “It took decades for that to be considered acceptable.”

Orchestra and Academia

After acting as Director of Orchestras and Chamber Music at Brown University for just under three decades, Paul moved to Palo Alto in 2017 to take his current position conducting both the Stanford Symphony Orchestra (a 115-member group) and Stanford Philharmonia (a 40- to 50-member chamber orchestra).

To a twenty-something Paul, all this would have been news. “Academia was not my plan,” Paul confides. After college, he held positions at the Frankfurt Opera and Stadttheater Lüneburg with the intention of climbing the German opera house ladder. After he won the Exxon Arts Endowment Conductors Program, a conducting position at Greensboro Symphony Orchestra drew him back to the States. Positions at the Savannah and Maryland Symphony Orchestras followed.

Despite his early reservations about taking a collegiate role, Paul has grown to appreciate the enthusiasm of university students. “They’re so eager. They have this incredible passion!” he observes. “They’re trying to make great music happen and everybody’s giving all that they can.”

As his students leave the nest, Paul also finds reward in watching where they land. One of his students, Charlie Alterman, went on to be musical director (and pianist) for several Broadway shows including Godspell, Pippen and Martin Short’s one-man show Fame Becomes Me.

A Lyrical Adventure

When Paul isn’t rallying the orchestral troops with expressive hands and a swift baton, he composes—to date, a number of orchestral works, theater music, an opera and a ballet. Research is his other calling. It so happens that this professor is also a leading expert on the musical ardor of Anthony Burgess, an author most well-known for his novel A Clockwork Orange, which features a sociopath incited to acts of mayhem by classical music. “It wasn’t that he wrote books and wrote music—it’s that he did both and they were completely connected with each other,” expresses Paul. “Burgess said novelists should learn from composers how to structure a novel and suggested that they do this by applying musical form to literary form.” Paul published a hefty book on the subject called A Clockwork Counterpoint.

Paul shares that it was the author’s obituary that launched him on this investigatory path. It began with a quote: “I wish people would think of me as a musician who writes novels, instead of a novelist who writes music on the side.” Paul thought, “‘Wow, that’s a strong statement. What is this music?’” Swept up on a quest for answers, Paul wound up in Monte Carlo, cataloging Burgess’ musical scores for the author’s widow. “I couldn’t believe how much of it there was and how good the quality of it was!” he recounts. Paul later performed these pieces live and created the first-ever recording of the author’s music.

Above all, for Paul—whether he’s setting tempo with his baton or uncovering unpublished gems—it’s music’s emotion that continues to strike the deepest chord. “You can feel love and you can feel regret and you can feel joy,” he rhapsodizes, “and all these things just by the way the music enters your ears and resonates with your body.”

Words by Sophia Markoulakis

An idyllic family-friendly oasis, San Mateo’s Baywood neighborhood presents a distinctive composition of Spanish revival, Tudor and colonial-style homes. Front yards are meticulously maintained, and sidewalks are wide enough to push a stroller or tag behind a toddler’s first attempt at training wheels. With meandering roads that gently bend to the area’s topography, this coveted series of several blocks are filled with children playing outdoors and neighbors congregating with a glass of wine on a warm evening. It’s exactly that kind of hard-to-find character that Lauren Rilliet and her family were seeking 12 years ago when they decided to leave San Francisco. When a Baywood property came on the market, they jumped on it.

Pregnant with her second of three children, Lauren knew the move would signify a new phase in life. Not long after, she left her career at the brand, Gap Inc., where she had worked for 16 years. When she began remodeling her Spanish revival home, she often referred back to her experiences at Banana Republic where she was a fashion director and built out stores.

Knowing how to create retail spaces and style a collection of clothing came in handy. Today, she implements that knowledge as an interior designer for her firm Lauren Rilliet Design. “Putting together a home is not that much different than putting together a fully-styled outfit,” she observes. “It seemed like a logical progression to go from fashion to interiors.”
Lauren’s home, with its classic Spanish Mediterranean charm, needed a new kitchen and bathrooms. Right around the time she was wrapping up her last bathroom remodel, a neighbor asked if she could assist with hers. Six years later, Lauren has helped facilitate dozens of small and large home makeovers including more than 10 in the Baywood neighborhood.

For a recent project, a stately Parrott Drive colonial, Lauren teamed with Jeanne Davis of Davis Architecture to transition the interior’s Hollywood regency glam into a more authentic, laid-back space. One of the main tasks was to open up the home to more light and infuse a sense of comfy intimacy. “We lightened up the wood floors, added white oak for warmth and changed out fixtures,” she says. “We actually lowered the ceiling in the main living space to accommodate lighting and create a cozier feel. The wood beams were added to achieve that as well.”

By adding a wall, Davis Architecture also achieved a more welcoming entryway and improved the flow to the rest of the house. Lauren opted for a modern light fixture to juxtapose the antique rug. “We mixed in antiques with cleaner lines,” she notes.

The home’s boho-styled powder room speaks to Lauren’s preferred design aesthetic. “We were looking for a ‘wow’ moment there,” she further elaborates. “The family travels frequently, and we wanted to reference that with the wallpaper’s rich color palette.” The bamboo Chippendale mirror and mix of finishes on fixtures amplify the desired look.

Given Lauren’s personal connection to Baywood, her design projects focus on keeping close tabs on the architectural integrity of the homes she updates. “My style aligns with these homes, especially the Spanish revivals with their hand-painted terra cotta tiles. My clients are respectful of their home’s architecture and the original intent of the house,” she explains.

In Lauren’s own home, the arched leaded glass windows and wood beams speak to the home’s Spanish revival provenance. Unlike her client’s colonial on Parrott Drive, she darkened the wood floors so that they would better ground the family’s heirlooms and antique rugs. Many of the heirlooms—like the antique Chinese pottery and antique clock—come from her husband’s family. It’s an eclectic style that aligns perfectly with her home and the Baywood neighborhood—a charming community striving to remain close to its original design and intention.

Additional Design Credits

Architect: Jeanne Davis / Davis Architecture

Builder: Victor Perez / VP Construction

Landscape: Jim Redman / Elements Landscape

Historic Flavor

laurenrillietdesign.com

davis-arch.com

Words by Sophia Markoulakis

Keith Quiggins doesn’t like the word “trend” when referring to interior design. “I prefer the term ‘direction’ because trend tells me, ‘OK, this is going to be here for a hot minute,’” he explains. “Direction infers that this is where design is going.” Keith, owner of the luxury kitchen and bath design firm Rococo & Taupe, had just returned from Paris Design Week when we chatted, and since it takes a couple of years for European design trends to make their way here, he should know how the future looks.

Keith stresses that international shows like Paris Design Week and Milan’s Salone del Mobile are intentionally avant and meant to push boundaries. His Menlo Park showroom on Santa Cruz Avenue is where he captures his stylistic impressions through kitchen vignettes and samples of the latest appliances, cabinet hardware, plumbing fixtures and surface materials. Undoubtedly, his clients depend on him to prognosticate design thinking. “When you have a showroom, you have to keep your finger on the pulse of what people are asking for and still be inspirational. People will walk in and say, ‘Oh my, I’ve never seen this anywhere else,’ and I’ll say, ‘Well, yes, because I just saw it two months ago in Milan.’”

When Keith opened his kitchen and bath showroom almost 10 years ago, he picked Menlo Park, in part because of its proximity to high-end homes and construction projects, and he notes that 75% percent of his clientele reside within a five-mile radius of the showroom. Being a Mountain View resident, he could have established his business farther south in Saratoga, but admits that Menlo Park ultimately won out simply because there were no other design showrooms on the street at the time. Today, he is a founding member of the Menlo Park Design District, a one-stop community of over 20 downtown shops, galleries and designers.

In June, Keith is planning a 10-year anniversary party for his showroom, but the milestone is just the latest for this designer who has worked in the home design and construction field for more than 30 years. “We do whole-house remodels, but our main focus with the showroom is kitchens and baths—the two rooms that people think are the most important in the house.” Since the pandemic, Keith points to another growing category: cabinetry for home offices, entertainment centers and wine rooms. “Outdoor kitchens have also been very popular as people continue to split their time between work and home,” he adds. “I’ve done more outdoor kitchens in the last two years than I did in the previous seven.”

The name Rococo & Taupe refers to Keith’s aptitude for working with a wide range of styles. “I display multiple styles in the showroom, and I wanted a name that speaks to that. Rococo references the 18th-century ornate French style and taupe is a very modern and versatile color. Many people come in and say, ‘I totally get it.’”

As an avid cook, Keith is drawn to kitchen design. He switches up the display kitchens in his showroom about once a year and each reflects his talent for blending high-end materials and appliances with efficient workspaces that are meant to be used and not just admired. One of his favorite workhorses in the kitchen is a galley sink that functions not only for cleanup but also for prep work. For cooking, he’s not a fan of double ovens, preferring convection and steam instead. “There’s nothing better for a loaf of French bread than a minute or two in a steam oven to freshen up its crust,” he quips.

Keith is also very excited about invisible cooktops powered by induction technology. Installed underneath a solid surface such as granite, you’d never know a cooktop was there until you place your pan on that exact spot and start cooking. “It creates a cohesive, easy-to-clean surface and maximizes counter space,” he says.
The showroom also presents bathroom vignettes as luxe and modern as their kitchen counterparts. “The primary bath is an oasis away from the kids,” Keith observes.

According to a recent Pinterest Predicts report, oversized walk-in spa-like showers are in and built-in bathtubs are out. Keith concurs and says, “I still do a lot of freestanding tubs, but I’ve taken out more drop-in tubs than I’ve ever put in.” He explains that he’s also doing a lot of bathrooms that reflect the client’s desire to age in place. “Often, we’ll drop the floor in a shower, so there’s a curbless entry and add a bench inside,” he says. “We also do an extra-deep medicine cabinet with hidden outlets inside for personal care appliances.”

What you won’t see in Keith’s showroom are any white kitchen vignettes. He admits that it can be a little risky in his line of work to forgo the ever-popular white Shaker look, but it’s not what he does. “I want to create spaces that are unique while addressing the client’s aesthetic,” he says. Right now, he’s drawn to rich, saturated colors like terra cotta, wine, emerald green and navy blue that play nicely with warm neutrals like, well, taupe. The colors work really well with highly-veined statement slabs that are not only installed on countertops but also function as a backsplash. As Keith sums up, “Our clients don’t want to come in here and see anything that they might have seen when they were running through Home Depot looking for a toilet lever.”

As Palo Alto’s Ashly Edwards Huntington walked through Atherton after a recent splash of rain, she recalls being overwhelmed by how vibrant everything looked and how wonderful everything smelled. “And then…” she notes, “I stepped into this massive puddle! When I looked past my soaked jeans, I was pleasantly surprised by a gorgeous reflection of the sky.” Capturing this Perfect Shot reminded Ashly that even frustrating mishaps can lead to delightful discoveries.

Image by Ashly Edwards Huntington / @aehgallery

Calling all Shutterbugs: If you’ve captured a unique perspective of the Peninsula, we’d love to see your Perfect Shot. Email us at hello@punchmonthly.com to be considered for publication.

Words by Sheri Baer

Colorful boats perfectly reflected along a canal in Burano, Italy. Tannery workers processing leather in dye pits in Fez, Morocco. A pair of Gentoo penguins squawking in Antarctica. Each image teleports you to a distinct, far-off place, prompting curiosity and careful study.

“For me, photography is really a treasure hunt,” remarks Bill Scull, a Los Altos tech executive who successfully merges art with a lifelong passion for travel. “I love trying to capture images that tell the whole story in one image—about a culture, about a person, about a scene.”

In Bill’s case, it’s a creative quest that’s taken him all over the planet—nearly 100 countries to date—from Cuba to Croatia, Ghana to the Galapagos Islands, Patagonia to the South Pacific. Originally from the East Coast (with a childhood that included extended stays in the Marshall Islands), Bill first embraced photography as an engineering major at MIT. “I needed a creative outlet to balance out the highly intense engineering curriculum,” he recalls. “I love the act of photography because it causes me to be very tuned into my environment.”

Stanford Business School brought Bill west and the “spectacularly better weather” and business culture kept him here. In 1984, he settled with his family in Los Altos, eventually pivoting from a career in tech marketing and strategy into executive coaching, which includes mentoring social entrepreneurs and business founders in Africa and South Asia.

Balancing family and career with excursions, travel lectures and commercial assignments, Bill continues to click away. As to what catches his eye, what triggers the snap of the shutter? “A face could be amazing or a reflection. There’s the way colors work. I’m very attracted to human artifacts, human clutter,” he says. “Clothes on the line, shoes at the doorstep, coats on the rack, pots and pans in the kitchen.”

That shared human experience is the basis for connection, he explains. And the act of travel—engaging with different places and cultures—is what makes headlines from distant parts of the world feel less abstract. “When you’ve been there, it’s even more personal,” Bill points out. “The reason I like to take pictures in unfamiliar cultures is that it’s such a discovery for me. If you pay attention and are quick, you can capture those magical moments, those perfect moments—and pass along what it is that was there.”

Bill’s Travel Photo Tips

• Always be looking for shots. When you really look around, you’ll notice things consciously and subconsciously that tickle your imagination: shapes, lighting, leading lines, shadows, reflections, colors, people, markets, street vendors. Experiment!
• Tell a story. Use your photos to tell a story about the place and people you are visiting. Identify what is unique about their lives and create images that capture that sense of place.
• Ask permission. Before capturing street portraits, ask permission. How would you feel if someone popped up in your supermarket and repeatedly snapped your picture?

• Plan ahead. Research your destination, read about its history and search for images. That will spark your imagination and inspire a shot list. Refer to the shot list as you plan your daily adventures.
• Take lots of pictures. The only way to improve is to take lots of photos. Take multiple shots of the same scene using different exposures, angles or framing—then choose the best to edit.
• Keep it simple. Less is more. Discern the primary subject and spend a few seconds just before you press the shutter to tidy up the framing, excluding distracting elements and including important ones. Make sure the space around the primary subject is balanced.

Elevate Art Menlo Park Exhibit

Walgreens Storefront • 643 Santa Cruz Avenue
A collection of Bill Scull’s photography curated to encourage passersby to stop and learn how engaging images are created. elevateartmp.org

Broaden Your World

scull.smugmug.com

Words by Johanna Harlow

Immigrant, chef, author. For Menlo Park’s Donia Bijan, these first two identity markers weave intrinsically into the third. The Last Days of Café Leila—Donia’s novel about a woman named Noor and her return to her family’s restaurant in the beautiful but brutal city of Tehran after spending most of her adult life in the Bay Area—is flavored by Donia’s own experiences leaving her birth country on the eve of the Iranian Revolution as well as her culinary education and decade-long run heading Palo Alto restaurant L’Amie Donia.

Like your character Noor, you moved to the U.S. as a student. Can you tell me about that experience?
I came to America in 1978, on the cusp of turning 16. When you’re that young, you’re more resilient. But later, when my parents immigrated, I never stopped to ask them, “What was it like to lose your homeland?” At 16, I was self-involved and thinking, “Do I have the right jeans?” So in my writing, I’m asking the questions I wish I’d asked: “What was it like to start from nothing?” “What was it like to build a whole new life in a new place?” I will probably always write about exile and homesickness in different contexts because those questions are not resolved. I want to keep exploring them.

How was working in the restaurant industry?
Restaurant work is like war. You’re always on, you are likely to get wounded and you’re under tremendous pressure all the time. You run from fire to fire. There is very little contact with the world outside the restaurant. My husband always teases me: “Oh yeah, this song came out when you were in ‘The Cave.’” I have no idea about pop culture between 1986 to 2004 (when I closed L’Amie Donia). I was sucked into the vacuum of the restaurant world.

So what kept you coming back?
Oh, I was in love with it. The intensity. The pressure. Ultimately, you fall in love with what you’re cooking. You have this love affair with the dish. Each time you make it, it’s the first time. It’s a high because when you fall in love, you’re swept off your feet—but then you have to say goodbye. It’s like a Casablanca moment because that dish belongs to somebody else who’s paid for it, and you send it away and you’re left longing for someone else to order it. And it happens again and again and again. It’s indescribable.

You returned to France later in your career to further hone your culinary skills. How was that?
I worked for three months at different Michelin restaurants. After a few weeks, the chef would say, “All right, you’ve seen everything here. Do you want to go work for so-and-so? He’s near Provence.” Or, “He’s in Milan.” And I would get on a train with my knives and show up. At one stop, I remember the owner of a laundromat loaned me an iron for my uniforms. Until then, I’d been putting them under the mattress to smooth them out. Every night, after service, as if in prayer, I knelt by my bed and ironed my chef’s coat and trousers. Those are the memories that really stick with me because it felt like I was having a religious experience. I was a monk, and this was what I had to do to reach the next level.

In the past, you’ve compared making menus to poetry. Can you unpack those similarities?
Composing menus combined my love of writing with my love of food. The idea for a dish would come to me from one ingredient. I waited for it, and it arrived in the form of a sprig of lavender or an apple. I used the analogy of poetry because poems distill an experience. One dish can capture the essence of fall. And so I saw each dish as a little haiku, that would sort of transport you into the season. You’d be like, “Concord grapes… October… Of course!”

It reminds me of character development—the inkling of an idea and how it expands.
I never thought of it that way, but you’re right! So often someone will stop me on the street and say, “Rabbit! I always ordered that rabbit dish.” It was like they were talking about a person they looked forward to seeing every time they came in. And how each time it was a little different, but essentially the same. I closed L’Amie Donia in 2004, and people still stop to tell me how much they miss a certain dish.

How is restaurant work in contrast to writing?
I thought I was a hard worker and a very disciplined person.But writing—sitting down at a desk and being still and stringing words together—is so much harder than cooking for 200 to 300 people a night! A good day is when I can feel the characters in the room with me and we’re writing this story together. They’re guiding me and saying, “Do this. Don’t do that.” “I want to go here, not there.” And my job is to listen. A bad day is when they don’t show up and the silence is deafening.

In your book, food is linked with family as well as culture, community and memory. Why is that?
In my world, they’re inseparable. I think in many homes, the kitchen is sort of the epicenter, the heartbeat. I loved spending time with my mom in the kitchen. A lot happens there. You’re being nourished in so many other ways than just with food. The word in Farsi for stomach and heart is the same. Maybe that’s a subliminal thing in my head. They’re always connected.

How did you create the characters of Café Leila?
I had these three people—the father, the daughter and the granddaughter—as this triangle in my head for a good two or three years. I would hear the three of them knocking on my window. “We’re still here! What are you gonna do with us? We’re still interested in this project.” And I would be like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then I opened the door an inch and let one of them in. They were almost fully formed! To this day, I wonder where they came from.

Do you have a good support system backing you?
It was my husband [the artist Mitchell Johnson] who encouraged me to submit my writing. He has been a champion believer from day one. Each day, his parting words as he walks out the door to go to his studio are, “I can’t wait to read your book.” Every writer should be so lucky.

I know you’re working on a new novel. How have you seen your writing evolve?
I learned that a novel has the potential to feel like a home. When someone comes to your house, you don’t leave them standing on your doorstep. You invite them in for tea! Early in my writing, I wasn’t letting readers inside. You’ve got to let them see the raw emotion. It’s okay if the pillows aren’t arranged perfectly on the couch or the flowers in the vase are half-dead. A real person lives here. So open your heart and let ‘em in!

Words by Lotus Abrams

The first thing visitors tend to notice when they arrive at a new home tucked into a cul-de-sac in a 1950s neighborhood of Hillsborough is that there’s something different about the walls. Minimalist and dense like concrete yet softer and more organic in appearance, the distinctive walls are crafted from rammed earth, a method that has been employed for thousands of years (the Great Wall of China was built using this technique) and is seeing a resurgence in modern, eco-friendly construction. The home is the first rammed-earth project for San Mateo-based TRG Architecture + Interior Design, owned by architect Randy Grange and interior designer Leslie Lamarre, a husband-and-wife team who utilize many organic, natural and sustainable elements in their projects.

TRG’s client was motivated to purchase the Hillsborough property because of its proximity to the homes of some of his close friends, but the original house was inefficiently sited and would have been difficult to remodel to achieve his desired indoor-outdoor aesthetic. Instead, he opted to build his dream home—a calming antidote to busy life. TRG helped him realize his vision.

“The client came to me with some images of houses that he liked with concrete walls that are inside-outside, and also some masonry walls where the wall goes from the outside to the inside and becomes an interior finish,” recounts Randy. “I suggested the rammed earth because it provides the same effect yet is warmer, earthier and more environmentally friendly.”
Rammed-earth walls are made from soil pounded or “rammed” at very high pressure. The material is eco-friendly, as dirt is a renewable resource, while cement produces high amounts of CO2 during the manufacturing process. The high thermal mass of rammed-earth walls also effectively slows down heat transfer between the inside and the outside, keeping interior temperatures stable.

Prior to this home, there had only been one other rammed-earth project in Hillsborough, but TRG sailed through the approval process. “The design review board loved it, and the building department was so cool about it, so it wasn’t the challenge I thought it was going to be,” remarks Randy, who teamed with CBW Construction on the project. TRG also relied on an engineer and a rammed-earth specialist in Sonoma to ensure everything went as planned during construction. “The rammed-earth walls were the first thing that went up,” Randy says. “It took a couple months more than you would normally spend upfront, but then the house went together just like any other house.”

The new 5,270-square-foot, four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath home features 18- to 24-inch-thick walls (versus the typical 10 to 12 inches for cement), which not only make the home structurally sound, but also create a dramatic contrast to the glass window walls. The house takes full advantage of the site, too, with a staggered footprint that follows the curve of the road, and the design employs horizontal lines that complement the neighborhood’s existing ranch homes.

Adding a soothing element to the design, a series of intimate Zen gardens designed by Keith Willig Landscape Architecture are strategically placed outside the home. “When you walk through the house, you’re always in contact with one of the rammed-earth walls that are coming in from outside as well as glass, so it created space for these little Zen gardens,” Randy notes. “You really don’t walk more than 10 or 15 feet inside the house without seeing another one of the gardens.”

In addition, the home’s entrance features a raised ipe wood bridge over a Japanese rock garden punctuated by an ancient olive tree. The rest of the property and the pool are surrounded by gentle berms created from dirt excavated during the construction process and filled with native grasses and drought-tolerant plants. The home is also equipped with solar panels discreetly located out of view.

Inside, the rammed-earth walls set the tone for the interior design, and Leslie worked with the client’s own interior designer to ensure everything came together. “The home has a quiet palette so as not to take away from the predominant element of interest, which is the rammed-earth walls,” she says. Wide-plank timber flooring is used throughout, and the second-floor office captures a small view of the Bay. The gourmet kitchen features Henrybuilt cabinets, and a modern chandelier from Stickbulb hangs above the dining room table. “It’s minimalist with a flare,” summarizes Leslie.
Now solidly grounded in his new neighborhood, the client is thrilled with the result. “He had a vision about what he was looking for,” Randy affirms. “He especially loves the heaviness of the walls.”

Realize a Vision: trgarch.com

Words by Kate Daly

As a young girl, Katie Anderson remembers eyeing an aquarium in a pet store and being way more interested in the bejeweled treasure chest resting in the gravel than the colorful fish. Decades later, her own family has three dogs, some chickens, turtles and a guinea pig running around in Atherton, the same town where she grew up, but she is still drawn to jewels, as the name of her business confirms: Katie Anderson Diamonds.

“I have always loved jewelry, the design element, the sparkle element,” she says. “I come from a family of entrepreneurs and venture capitalists, so I wanted to create something of value.”

Katie chose diamonds, thinking they would appreciate and people would appreciate them. After selling about 10,000 pieces to date, she figures she has brought a lot of sparkle into people’s lives.

“I want to be your village jeweler,” she explains, and yet the texting that takes place during her design process enables her to have clients all over the world. Some customers even buy for the year: Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, birthday, anniversary and holiday gifts.

Katie started taking orders for Valentine’s Day back in November. The most popular requests were tennis bracelets, tennis necklaces, earrings and monograms in a style she describes as “timeless, clean, traditional and elegant.” A recent inquiry led to the unique ring she fashioned around a black opal she sourced in Australia.

Katie smiles when she recalls creating her very first piece: a simple diamond pendant that inspired friends and family in the community to place orders with an 18-year-old.

At the time, she was a senior at Menlo School and headed to Stanford when she won a $10,000 award from a national dyslexia association. Using the check as seed money, she walked into the jewelry mart in San Francisco and found “a wonderful man who must have been bored,” because he spent a lot of time sharing his knowledge. Today, almost 20 years later, she says, “He’s one of my buyers; we buy directly from families who have been in the diamond business for hundreds of years.”

For her metals, Katie buys directly from her “magical team of manufacturers in LA,” and only sells stones certified by the Gemological Institute of America, which numbers gems and tracks chains of custody. She sells all organic diamonds, nothing grown in a laboratory. Katie also doesn’t see the necessity of paying the high prices that flawless D diamonds command when those rated E, F and G provide “enough quality” for rings, and H diamonds with some inclusions or characteristics can work well for earrings.

Buying direct allows Katie to offer a unique business model—selling pieces at cost. “There’s no middle man,” she shares. “I don’t take an income and make no profit. We pay for labor and materials and then taxes. Everything is made in California.”

A few years ago, Katie started her Brilliant Heroes program after a retired Navy Seal asked her to design a $500 engagement ring. Having family members of her own in the Navy, she was moved to offer him more than a band with a small stone. “We’re going to get you two carats, and I’m going to cover this,” she told him. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for your service.”

That decision led to a system whereby clients who can pay a suggested 10% more than cost end up donating it to help fund the 10% discount she gives to service members, first responders, nurses and teachers.

Since Katie doesn’t advertise, most clients find her via word-of-mouth and contact her through her website, katieandersondiamonds.com. It serves as a lookbook, not a shopping site. She keeps little inventory on hand and might create a limited edition of 10 pieces; otherwise, she designs on demand.
For an engagement ring, for example, Katie will ask her client about diamond shape, cut and color preferences, metal choices, ring size, timeline and budget. She probes to find out how involved the bride wants to be. “Young people need to remember a proposal is about a marriage and not the ring,” she underscores.

The design process begins with exchanging sketches, photos and CAD (computer-aided design) drawings back and forth. The next step could be using a 3-D printer to make a mockup in wax so the bride can try on the piece to see how it looks, fits and feels. Katie takes pride in designs that “use as little metal as possible to make the stones sparkle.”
She views diamonds as dazzling gems that can be worn every day. Her own diamond wedding band features one pink, one yellow and one blue diamond to honor her three young children. She currently has no engagement ring, she admits, because she keeps upgrading and selling it.

Meanwhile, Katie has started a new venture on the side. When things quieted down in 2020 and she found herself at home in June with her venture capitalist husband and kids, the little ones asked for a bedtime story about Christmas. Katie turned it into the recently published children’s book, Holly Holiday and the Christmas Forest. And she has another one, Happy Birthday Holly Holiday, coming out this spring. Spoiler alert: it’s not about the diamond tiara Katie once designed for a 16-year-old’s birthday. That’s a whole other story.

The Art of sparkle: katieandersondiamonds.com

Words by Sheryl Nonnenberg

In 2012, Caroline Mustard’s son bought her an iPad for her birthday and suggested she use it to return to drawing. A native of Cornwall, England, Caroline holds degrees in Fine Art from the University of Brighton and had a career in art direction and scenic painting in Hollywood in the 1980s. She took a break from creative endeavors after moving to the Bay Area, but the gift of the iPad proved to be a pivotal event in her art journey.

It’s not hard to imagine how revelatory the iPad was to the former painter. Here was a device that could answer any question, play music, translate languages and map a destination. Opening an app called Paper, Caroline drew a zebra and became hooked. “I was so excited—I showed it to everyone,” she recalls. “I have always loved anything to do with computers, and soon I became obsessed with making art on my iPad and iPhone.”

Little did she know that what began as experimentation would result in a second career as a digital artist. In 2013, Caroline’s zeal for creating art using technology motivated her to co-found the Mobile Art Academy, a hub for artists using the medium. She also discovered a passion for teaching and has become well known for her classes at Palo Alto’s Pacific Art League and, since the pandemic, on Zoom. Her motto is a call to arms for anyone who has toyed with the idea of making art: “Digital is democratic—everyone can be creative.”

Sitting down with Caroline in the office of the Atherton Art Foundation, it’s easy to see why her classes are so popular. She exudes a joy and enthusiasm for art and art history that is positively contagious. As she shares tales from her artistic past, she refers to examples of her art on her phone, visually documenting the journey of how her personal style has evolved. From that first zebra to complicated layering of photography and drawing, using ever more sophisticated applications, Caroline is always learning.

What she did not foresee is how much she would love teaching. She explains that she began teaching children to use their iPads for making art at the Los Altos Christian School. From there, she launched into providing instruction for various municipal recreation programs in Menlo Park and Los Altos. She found her way to the Pacific Art League, which was initially interested but not sure if a digital art class would garner enrollment. But a major exhibition of iPad art by British artist David Hockney at the de Young Museum in 2013 soon changed that perception.

For Caroline, the exhibition was a transformative experience. “Hockney is my go-to artist,” she explains. “I have loved him since the ‘60s because he is always exploring and he loves the history of art. I agree with everything he says.” Seeing the large-scale work that Hockney had done in his native Yorkshire, Caroline recognized the potential of the digital medium—and what it would require to master it. “I saw that I needed to work hard and get my art out there,” she says.

Caroline created a website and her digital art began to attract interest. Following a show at the Pacific Art League, she participated in a group show at Art Ventures Gallery in Menlo Park and a large-scale solo show at the Jewish Community Center in Palo Alto. She is quick to explain, however, that courting gallery affiliations was never a priority for her. Sharing her passion for digital art with others is her main motivation. “Teaching is symbiotic for me: I can earn money and I love to teach,” she says. “I get inspired by teaching and I have to stay ahead of my students. It makes me work!”

Caroline’s teaching—and her conversation—is peppered with quotes from famous artists whom she admires. “All of my classes are steeped in art history,” she laughs. Discounting the old adage about how art teachers are failed artists, she cites Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky, both of whom were teachers. When asked if she has encountered any prejudice against digital art, she nods but then quotes Picasso: “Artists break rules.” And as to how working on her iPhone and iPad has kept her work vital and innovative, she cites another favorite artist, Wayne Thiebaud. “He said, ‘I think of myself as a beginner. Sometimes that’s the whole joy. If you could just do it, there’d be no point in doing it.’”

One thing Caroline has noticed while teaching adults is the lack of ability to draw. She attributes this to the lamentable demise of art education in schools and also the trend of not teaching basic drawing skills to art students. This is integral, she believes, in making art because “drawing is looking.” The good news, however, is that it is a skill that can be honed through practice on a ubiquitous device: the iPhone. “Digital is drawing, you are just using different tools,” Caroline says, adding that she sketches all the time, using Procreate Pocket on her iPhone. Whether on a bus, in a park or at a café, she is constantly observing and drawing. Has anyone ever noticed her attentive regard? “Never!” she exclaims. “I call it ‘stealth drawing’ because people don’t even know I am doing it.”

Perusing the iPhone work on her website carolinemustard.com, one can see a variety of subject matter, from autumn leaves to a still life of fruit to a cellist holding his instrument. These sketches, created using her finger as a tool, sometimes make their way into paintings and always are boldly and brightly colored. “Color is my passion, and I could never understand it as well without digital,” she explains. With the mobility provided by the iPhone, Caroline has the ability to record everything—and anything—around her. While living in Mountain View, she was inspired by the many bicycles she saw on the Google campus. Google Bikes is a fascinating study of color and line, capturing motion in the style of the Italian futurists. It was purchased by the interior design department of the company and now hangs in their bicycle building. “Capturing what I see, that is what my art is about—memory,” she muses.

Caroline is now working on a series about San Francisco, which began with an iPhone sketch of an empty storefront near Russian Hill. This work will entail what she refers to as “drawing fusion,” using both traditional media and digital. Clearly a proponent of the idea that art is around us, everywhere, Caroline also feels strongly that “our phones let us see things we can’t see otherwise.”

The advent of digital technology rekindled Caroline Mustard’s love for art, and by sharing her knowledge and talents with others, she finds fulfillment. “I can get people to create art who never thought they could,” she reflects with wonder.

To purchase books and find more information about online and in-person workshops, visit thejoyofdrawing.org