This article originally appeared in our June/July 2016 print issue.

Illustration by Jan Šabach

The popularity of ceramics is on the rise. Both established artists and novices “discovering” the medium are popping up all over the place, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. For one, clay is the original open-source media: it is a viscous lump of mud with which anyone can record action, express creativity, and tell their story. For two, ceramics is old, really old: the first known fired clay object—the Venus of Dolní Věstonice, a 4½-inch-tall female figure discovered in Moravia (Czech Republic)—is about 32,000 years old.

In North America, people have been firing clay pots for over 20,000 years, but what we picture when we think about American ceramics, particularly in New England, is probably something European-influenced and less than 300 years old. Maybe you’ve seen a beige stoneware jug donning a swiftly painted cobalt-blue flower, or a statuesque vase covered in a thick, matte, “Gruby-green” glaze, or that collection of commemorative plates hanging on the wall in your grandmother’s house? Each of these examples is part of a historical lineage of skill, knowledge, and cultural signifiers that has been passed along from generation to generation and traded across cultures since Ms. Věstonice was formed.

Roberto Lugo, Ol’ Dirty Bastard (ODB), 2015, porcelian, glaze, china paint, 11.5 x 11.5 x 21.5 in | Photo by Kenek Photography, courtesy of Wexler Gallery

Today, ceramicists use the medium’s rich history and versatility to design both functional wares—everything from piggy banks to pendant lamps—and sculptural works of art, the most intriguing of which challenge our understanding of what “ceramics” is. Thus, they continue to build on a common, ancient language of materials and techniques, writing new chapters in the story of us. By “us” I don’t just mean the contemporary artists you’ll meet in the next few pages and their kin, I mean ALL of us—humankind.

Michael Boroniec

Molly Hatch

Hideaki Miyamura

Robert Lugo

Top photo detail from Illume, 2016 by Molly Hatch | Photo by John Polak

The post Kilnfolk appeared first on Take Magazine.

Beauty and inspiration are often found in the most unsuspecting places. Though if that unsuspecting location is within the birth town of such artists as Jack Kerouac and Bette Davis, is it really all that surprising? Lowell is, as developer Jim Lichoulas would put it, the city of “untapped potential,” and Mill No. 5 is the culmination of everything it has been and everything it has the potential to be.

At its heart, Mill No. 5 is whatever you want it to be. Within this 1870s-era brick edifice, through the rusted steel gates, and up a clunky elevator to the fourth floor, you’ll find the Farm Market, stocked with Q’s Chocolate Lavender Nuts; a nostalgic box of David Bowie records at Vinyl Destination; an afternoon showing of Singin’ in the Rain at Luna Theater; a dangerously delicious bacon and apple grilled cheese from Coffee and Cotton; or vintage-keyboard lessons at the Tone Loft.

Courtesy Mill No. 5

Beneath the complex of diverse vendors, Mill No. 5 is really a solution to the problem Lowell has had for the last decade, and every proprietor within the building is playing a key part in contributing to a solution.

“Enough of the pieces are here for Lowell to become very desirable, but we are still lacking a unifying force to align interests,” says Lichoulas, the creative mind behind Mill No. 5. “I’m a big believer that a rising tide lifts all boats. There are things that I can do that cost Mill No. 5 very little but can help other organizations greatly, and vice versa. It is that lack of mindfulness of finding ways to help each other that holds us back.”

Jennifer Howell, one of the first proprietors to partner with Lichoulas and Mill No. 5, is implementing that mindfulness in her yoga fusion classes at Sutra Studio. With Howell’s Karma Card program, patrons who can afford to have the opportunity to buy drop-in classes for those who have fallen on hard times, effectively paying it forward.

And that’s what Mill No. 5 is all about. Here you will quickly realize that behind this place, with all of its potential, is a group of passionate people with the desire to prove that, as Lichoulas says, “It does not take big companies and tax incentives to make a place desirable. It takes vision and grass-rooted cooperation to change a city.”

Keep up with what’s happening at Mill No. 5 with twitter, facebook, and instagram.

This article originally ran in our June/July 2016 print edition.

Top photo by Tory Germann

The post Take Place: Long Live Mill City appeared first on Take Magazine.

Chef Charles Draghi opened Boston’s acclaimed Erbaluce in 2008. His cooking is inspired by the uniquely flavorful cuisine of northern Italy’s Piedmont region, where his family is from. His partner, Joan Johnson, presides over the front of the house and the all-Italian wine list. MC Slim JB is a Boston-based food writer with over 350 published articles and is the restaurant critic for the Improper Bostonian. During a recent conversation, the restaurateurs and the critic discussed food and wine, reviews and social media, and those fucking Yelpers.

On customers’ reaction to Erbaluce’s unusual cuisine and wines

Charles Draghi: We have a roasted cauliflower dish on the menu. It’s roasted cauliflower with a fondue of Robiola cheese on top and a dressing made with a little anchovies, some capers, and roasted garlic. When people try it they say, ‘This is Italian?’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah, actually it is.”

MC Slim JB: I would expect a lot of Bostonians would be sort of puzzled or nonplussed when they come in and look at your menu.

Photograph by Wayne E. Chinnock

Draghi: What’s funny is there are a lot of Italians who live in Boston. They get very disappointed in what [many locals] call “Italian food.” So we get a lot of Italians here. They look at the same dish that an American would look at and say ‘I’ve never heard of that before,’ but the Italians go, ‘Oh I know that dish.’ A good example in the winter time is Pizzoccheri—noodles kind of like pappardelle, but shorter, made from buckwheat. And they’re served with cabbage that’s braised with duck fat and white wine, and then some boiled potatoes. And then you grate Bitto cheese on top of that.

MC Slim JB: That’s almost Eastern European.

Draghi: Yeah it’s very Alpine, you know? Italians all over Italy know Pizzoccheri because it’s served in the skiing areas.

MC Slim JB: I’m always seeing something that’s quite unfamiliar to me every time I come in. Which kind of brings me to the notion of what you’re doing with the wine list.

Joan Johnson: It’s fun to find those little obscure winemakers and wineries that make unusual things, and that’s what we try to find. I train the staff to ask people very closely what it is they like to drink. [If] someone says sauvignon blanc, I ask them if it’s California sauvignon blanc or if it’s a Sancerre. California wine drinkers can be tough, because there’s not really equivalent [wines on the menu]. But there are things you can give them they’ll like.

Draghi: The core of the list is from this area of northern Lombardy called Valtellina. There’s a wine from this region called Sforzato. Basically what they’re doing is [the] Amarone process using nebbiolo, which is one of the greatest grapes, and what you wind up with is a wine that is like an aged merlot crossed with a nuanced Amarone. It’s one of the best wines in Italy.

On what restaurateurs think about Yelp

Draghi: It’s like when you have a busy night at the restaurant and you have two problem tables. You’ve had essentially four people that are causing a problem, but you’ve done 150 people who were great.

MC Slim JB: You can use the expression ‘fucking yelpers.’

Johnson: Yeah, fucking yelpers—Yelp is a very negative site. But also Yelp in particular blackmails you. They deny doing fake bad reviews, but they do them, and they admit doing fake good reviews for people who pay up.

Draghi: I think my interaction with them was something on the lines of, ‘You’re trying to extort me? I’m Italian. We fucking invented that.’

Chef Charles Draghi | Photo courtesy Erbaluce

On professional reviews versus social media

Draghi: With professional reviewers we do pretty well. But it’s hard in the new-media age to try to figure out who’s got a reliable opinion. And then you have to take into account all the things like Facebook. If I put a dish [on Facebook], we get more customers coming in for it then I would [after] a positive review in a local magazine or something. The larger media, the conventional media with real professional food writers is more of a long-term thing. You may not see an impact immediately, but your name is out there.

Johnson: [MC Slim JB], when you are out and about in restaurants and you’re writing reviews, do you ever have a situation where it’s really awful and you decline to write something?

MC Slim JB: I have written some pretty harsh reviews, but that’s usually a failure of reconnaissance. I’d frankly much rather draw attention to places that I like than to steer people away from places that didn’t impress me. I figure that mediocre places or places that I think are not good … tend to go away by themselves. Or they serve a niche that probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my opinion anyway.

THIS PIECE FIRST APPEARED OUR JUNE/JULY 2016 PRINT ISSUE AVAILABLE HERE

Erbaluce
69 Church St, Boston, MA
Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram

MC Slim JB
Facebook, Twitter

Top photo courtesy Erbaluce

The post Insider’s Take: This is Italian? appeared first on Take Magazine.

Like a rogue wave, New England swept upon me suddenly. One moment I was holed up in my Pittsburgh house, writing, and the next I was a sorta-kinda Bostonian.  Or so it seemed.

I had never once considered relocating to “God’s country,” as my then Pittsburgh auto mechanic referred to New England, and I had no idea, some thirty-three years ago, how profoundly the place would rewrite my worldview.

Looking back, I imagine the initiating moment as a scene in a B-level film.

FADE IN: Another gray autumn afternoon in western Pennsylvania, where I have been a magazine writer for some years. I’m tapping away on a portable computer. The phone rings. It’s a New York editor with a startling proposition: Would I like to be People magazine’s bureau chief in Boston? “What?! I’ve never even been to Boston,” I blurt. “Then go visit,” she says. “This weekend.” FADE TO BLACK.

Days later, I landed at Logan and cabbed it to Newbury Street. A brutish fellow and his bulbous pet rat were amusing passersby at an intersection. Fluttering pennants promoted exhibitions and events around town. “Whoa!,” I said to myself. How could anyone possibly resist Boston?

I didn’t. For nearly eight years it served as an ideal base for my ascendant career as a journalist. Eventually I moved on, to posts in Los Angeles and New York City (where I mainly covered the entertainment industry), but only because my employer, Time Inc., asked me to go.

When I flew out of Boston for the last time, mid-summer of 1990, the glitter of L.A. beckoned. It was an exciting moment, but I recognized too that New England’s subtle and decidedly unglamorous charms, the very language of the place, had left an indelible mark. I had a clearer view of what really mattered: things that endure.

Now, I live in ever-changing South Florida. I still write. And yes, as I had expected, I miss most everything about New England — the landscape, the crispness of its autumn air, the people.

Photograph by Henry Amistadi

It was just the other day, actually, that the mail brought a signed book from newly minted author and brewmaster extraordinaire Jim Koch. Jim just wanted to say thanks for helping put his now-ubiquitous Samuel Adams beer “on the map,” as he scribbled on the title page of his autobiography. Koch is illustrative of the extraordinary New Englanders about whom I often wrote during my tenure there: wickedly brilliant, real, quirky, modest.

That was particularly true of the literary set. I have long believed that the region’s core identity is framed by its abundance of remarkable writers, nurtured across generations. Fortunately, as a magazine journalist, I had extraordinary access to these talents.

Stephen King once allowed me to hang in his Bangor office as he wrote (two books simultaneously — of course!). William Shirer, the famed World War II historian, took me to his favorite lunch hangout. William Kotzwinkle, who novelized E.T. – the Extraterrestrial, demonstrated proper technique for howling beneath a full moon. Annie Dillard, the Pulitzer Prize-winning essayist, walked me through the woods to her writing shed in Wellfleet. And on and on. Only Sue Miller, the bestselling novelist, refused me the privilege of visiting her work space, in Cambridge.

Once, I had been scheduled to interview Norman Mailer in his Provincetown home. Something went suddenly amiss, however, and the meeting was scrubbed — a huge relief to me. That was a figure who intimidated.

These days, people likely know me best for my editorial stints in Los Angeles and New York.  When they learn I once lived in Boston, they sometimes ask, “How do you compare those cities?”

You can’t. Maybe you shouldn’t. But I try. In most of New England, I found, folks respectfully decline to make a fuss over anything, not even their internationally celebrated authors. In L.A., people make a fuss over everything, including second-rate sitcom writers. And in New York, there’s little use making a fuss because no one will give a damn.

I would venture a guess that there were more “celebrities” in my L.A. neighborhood than reside in all of Greater Boston (even now). Fortunately, and while it may be a well-kept secret, most Angelenos, deep in their vain little hearts, understand that fame is fizz. It’s just that they love fizz.

In New England, on the other hand, whatever matters — lighthouses, the Red Sox, the architecture, and of course the writers — has formidable staying power, in the style of a novel that gathers import as it rolls along.

In hindsight, what I think now, and what I am grateful for, is that New England is fundamentally, artfully, everlastingly about what’s writ small, yet lingers.

Photograph by Henry Amistadi

Photographs by Henry Amistadi

The post Notes from an Expat: Cable Neuhaus appeared first on Take Magazine.

Even if you’ve never ridden a motorcycle, you find yourself wanting to pick up this gorgeous, independent magazine on vintage-bike culture. As you leaf through enticingly photographed articles about treks through Indonesia, handmade leather boots, or an adman-turned-microdistiller, you might wonder where this bookshelf-worthy journal in your hands comes from. London? Los Angeles? Nope. Manchester, New Hampshire.

Granite State native Brett Houle launched Iron & Air in 2012 after selling his email marketing company, SendLabs. The concept started out as an Instagram feed, then a Facebook page that attracted thousands of likes. Before long, Houle, editor-in-chief Adam Fitzgerald, and digital director Greg Moore were responding to their followers’ demand for a magazine dedicated to the concept they were cultivating on social media. Issues 1 through 3 were digital. With issue 4, the print publication was born.
“They want something in tangible form,” Fitzgerald says of Iron & Air’s audience. “They work with their hands. They’re craftspeople and motorsports enthusiasts. They care about where their stuff comes from, how it’s made.”

The quarterly has tapped into the international revival of “café racer” culture centered on “motorcycles that look like something out of an old Steve McQueen movie,” as Popular Mechanics recently put it. “These bikes revive the 1960s café-racer look made popular when European kids stripped down their small-displacement bikes to zip from one café hangout to another.”

“We don’t like to think of ourselves as a motorcycle magazine,” says Fitzgerald. “It’s about the motorcycle and the places it takes us—the adventures, the trips, the people you meet, the clothes you wear when you’re on the road.” Indeed, the name of the magazine came from Houle’s desire to describe his favorite things, motorcycles and mountains, in more evocative terms.

The editorial team has lit upon non-motorcycle topics that strike a chord with Iron & Air readers as the publication has “matured,” says Fitzgerald, chuckling as Moore winces over a word that is about as attractive to a biker as “minivan.” A recent feature, for example, looked at an exhibit of obscure photographs by the film director Stanley Kubrick. Issue 22, which came out this spring, is entirely devoted to the gritty romance of a 10,000-mile trip around the American West on Russian-made Ural sidecar motorbikes.

“We take advantage of the fact that we are an independent publication,” says Fitzgerald. “We push boundaries. Who’s going to stop us?

THIS PIECE FIRST APPEARED OUR JUNE/JULY 2016 PRINT ISSUE AVAILABLE HERE

Images courtesy of Iron & Air

The post Live to Ride appeared first on Take Magazine.