Looking for Bob's Tie

I just searched the Paul Smith site looking for ties that remind
me of my father.
Clearly they are not as adventurous as they were in the 1970's.
A brand lives on beyond its designers.
Bob might have worn this tie.

Now that Liberty of London is at Target I doubt he would still wear their line.
I loved his Liberty of London ties. There was a tie rack on the back of the walk-in closet door in Bob and Linda's bedroom. After Bob died Linda gave away his clothes and shoes, but not his ties - not for a very long time. I used to go into the closet and run my fingers through them. Then one day they were gone, but I had already taken the motorcycle tie. I will find it. I still have it, packed away, so that I will never forget. I will always have my father's tie.

I wonder where my email went?

xo,
Bob's Daughter

INBOX

My email INBOX at SUNY New Paltz, where I teach, is a public address. This makes it a public space for people to reach me. It is a conceptual space. Students no longer wait in line during office hours to speak with a professor, they email and hope to either discuss an issue virtually or set up an appointment. This public space is also a place where "others" can email me and expect to find ME. Conceptually this challenges the materiality of a relationship where there has previously (meaning in my experience) been DESIGN. As an instructor I expect myself to wear certain clothing and comport myself in a manner consistent with my role and work. I have depended on the architecture of the university; the library, an office, classrooms, lecture centers, studios. Now the space called INBOX is a free and open access space. I can ignore email, but it requires attention. It is in my space.

Occasionally something unexpected and interesting comes to my INBOX. A search engine, like MyLife.com added my name to a conference invitation list. If I respond I doubt that a person will know who I am and yet, I am interested in their conference. Here is the information. It addresses DESIGN interwoven with anthropology, technology and other areas outside the realm of creating objects or buildings. I am intrigued because concepts have become the spaces that I occupy more than a diverse number of structures. Will someone please design a better INBOX?
Design Conference

Respectfully yours,
Emily Caigan, MFA
(aka) Bob's Daughter

caigane@newpaltz.edu
Women's Studies Program
SUNY New Paltz

And Now It Is Gone

I googled all the names I have for Bob on the internet.
I call him Robert Caigan, Robert A. Caigan and Robert Allen Caigan.

This morning the Cornell University listing was gone.
It only appears if
I go to their site and search for him.

The internet has a memory.
Yet, it does not always tell the same story.
I have to ask at just the right moment...
Sounds too much like a parent to be true.

xoxo,
Bob's Daughter

DESIGN

I emailed Jeff the design and patent information for the chair/carrying case.
Our dinner together two weeks ago was warm, lovely and fun.

He and his partner Larry have become my second
and third set of design eyes.
The pieces they design for their store are art
(but they don't call them that).
Found objects are reclaimed for their patina, shape, luster
and inherent beauty. Then there is the furniture
(think very intimate and specific section of the D&D) and the textiles,
carpets, swatches...it reminds me of my father's office in NYC.

There was a "room" in Dad's office - more like a corridor
with books of fabric, samples of carpet, sheaths of wallpaper
and books of colors - just colors - to look at and consider.
Such were my favorite children's books.

And the Frances books...Bob would say, "Go pick out a story."
I would go to my room and come back to the 'master bedroom',
get on the bed and present my book.
Bob would say, "Oh, I thought you would get Frances!
Why don't you go get Frances?"
and off I would scamper.
Bob loved Frances.

I am writing this while lying in my bed.
There is a lamp on the bedside table.
It arrived two days ago with the contents
of my mother's apartment.
This object was with me when Bob read to me.
It is with me while I write this.
There are pictures on the lamp with people,
flowers and an Asian Temple Dog.
I have considered this lamp at many stages of my life.
Now, it feels out of place and yet
quietly reminds me of Frances,the phone ringing,
the arched ceiling
of my parents’ bedroom on Althea Lane
and now it is tied to the sound of my daughters,
Bob's Grand-daughters, laughing
and playing outside the closed bedroom door.
I can hear my husband Khem
commenting on Gage having put on her coat.
She is almost 17 months old.
She believes that if she collects all the objects
for leaving the house then we will leave.
A collection of objects that mean "go".

Gage is very clear about the meaning of objects.
I am...not.

xoxo,
Bob's Daughter

Cornell University

It's happening,
right now,
in the last two hours
there is a new search result for Robert Caigan.

Suddenly he is visible as part of the Cornell University
graduating class of 1953.

I need to write the class officers because all students
from that class are listed
and there is no way to tell that he died
in 1978.


xoxo,
Bob's Daughter

Linda's obituary was in the NY Times.

Mr. X wrote from Florida with condolences from he and his wife. He told me about his daughter (my childhood friend) and that she and her husband live 15 minutes from he and his wife - and how "fantastic" that is. That he would like news of Peter and I and that he and his wife miss both our parents.

I felt numb.
The obit asked that people contact Peter
if they would like information about a memorial service.

I used to hate Mr. X's wife.
I have grown to merely dislike her.

One day, when I was 12 or 13 years old,
after Bob had died, I saw Mrs. X in a bakery.
As I was taught to do, I said hello to Mrs. X.
She seemed startled and replied,

"Hello Emily, how are you? Is your mother still living in sin?"
She looked almost as shocked as I did that she had said these words
and publicly. I responded,
"Do you mean, 'Is she living with *** ?' yes, she is."

I left... and I cried. Bitch.
Linda had a boyfriend.

I called Uncle Herbie.
I tell him about the email.

He said, "I'm not going to tell you what to do.
(pause)
I can tell you what I would do..."

I replied,
"I don't want you to tell me what to do, I want an opinion."

"Well in that case, Fuck him, you don't have to email him.
I wouldn't!"

"Thank you Uncle Herbie, I feel much better.
That is just what I needed to hear!"

"Listen, you just can't take all this to heart!
I have to take this call, hold on please...
(beep, beep, beep beep, beep, beep, beep)
Who is this?"

"It's Emily
Uncle Herbie, that was the redial button not the flash button."

I LOVE UNCLE HERBIE.

XOXO,
Bob's Daughter

TRAVEL

Once I submit my mother's obituary to the NY Times
it will inevitably link back to this blog
because the name Robert Caigan will appear.
Perhaps MyLife.com will scan it and realize
that he died in 1978,
but most likely not.
Now I have two parents alive on the internet
according to Mylife.com.

This blog is not "Linda's Daughter".
I think more like my father.
Bob's Daughter
has been taking care of Linda
for a long time.
Linda sometimes mistakenly called her, "mom".

Bob's Daughter is tired.
I feel a little bit lighter.
Embodying different parts of one's self
is a little bit like living in different homes.
Travel between them can be challenging.
I never know what to bring...

xoxo,
Emily

There was a National weather disaster on Sunday
when we buried Linda next to Bob.
A tree fell on the temple.
A tree fell on the house I grew up in.

There was a flood on the NY State Thruway.
There was no electricity in the towns
south of the Tappan Zee Bridge.
An act of Nature.

My brother said,
"There's going to be one hot date in heaven tonight!"
Bob' son is a romantic.

I'm...something else.

Love,
Bob's Daughter

"Robert Caigan is in plot 3 in a series of 4.
I suggest Linda should go in plot 4,
so that we don't break up 1 and 2."

"Wait, where is my uncle?
My father is to the left of my uncle."

"I don't know about that.
It's a different series.
It belongs to someone else.
Let's stay focused."

"OK, no, that's not possible
Bob is to the left of Bud,
so if Mom goes to the right of Bob
we have to know who is to the right of Bud
so that when Amy dies
she can have a plot next to Bud.
Maybe there are two plots to the left of Bud?
That will determine if mom goes in 2 or 4.
I think we own a lot of plots.
Will you please check this out."

"I'll call you back"

This is the worst seating arrangement I have ever had to think about.

The strangest part is that I keep seeing it as if I am looking at a slice from the side inside the the ground, staring at the short end of either empty, already dug out plots or dug out and filled with new coffins.

Perhaps that is just one of the strangest elements.

The Funeral Director calls me back.

"Robert Caigan is in plot three of series xxx
and Bud Cohen is in plot 3 of yyy.
Linda can be buried in plot 4 and Amy can still be buried next to Bud."

"Great, then plot 4." I can barely believe this entire conversation.

Someone has thought about this. There is a design plan.
There must be. Both men are in "plot 3" and the brothers are not next to each other. Is this what has happened to the "nuclear family"?

xoxo,
Bob's Daughter

Brutal

She died this morning.
A doctor I didn't know was the fourth phone call.

He said, "It was very peaceful."
I said, "Do you say that to everyone?"
silence
I said, "Were you there?"
He said, "No, I'm home,
probably the same place you are, in bed"
I said, "I don't think you are the same place I am."
I was lying in bed.

I wonder if MyLife.com will ask me if I want to send her an email?

How much or how little of my life belongs on these pages?
It may be impossible to continue without writing more in detail about the dailiness in life. Not to say the trivial, but how one gets through difficult times.

I seem to be craving architecture. A structure for the mind to contain the emotions. How to keep the building standing is one element, but doing so with grace is another.

My mother is dying.
I had to write this to Gideon Loewenstein.
I didn't want to.
In order to continue this blog I must also write it here.
She is fierce.

My husband says that we are all dying.
It's not the same.

Bob Caigan went to work the last time I saw him in 1978.
He wore a blue jacket and a Paul Smith tie
with motorcycles on it.
It looked like a Peter Max print and yes,
I was an 11 year old who knew that.

I remember thinking about starting this project
and what to call it.
BOB'S DAUGHTER came to mind very quickly.
I have often heard that if one does this or that then -
"Bob's your uncle!"
As a kid I would laugh and think, "No, he's my father!"

The last time I saw my grandmother, Bob's mother,
she did not remember me.(I don't remember what she was wearing).
She was 97 years old and had memory loss.
Uncle Herbie and I tried to give her clues to my identity.

Finally I said, "I'm Bob's daughter"
She paused
became agitated
looked me and said,
"Bob's dead."
I said, "Yes, but I am his daughter."
She looked at me.
I said,"I was born before he died."
She looked at me.
Then she said,
"Well you seem like a nice girl, so if you say that
you are my Grand-daughter then I believe you."
End of discussion.

She was very practical.
I'm...something else.

Love,
Bob's Daughter

Understanding Space

Jeff and I are meeting for dinner tomorrow evening.
I am his pretend sister and he is my pretend brother.

Jeff and I have looked at DOZENS of houses together,
either from the MLS sheet or by walking through them.

Khem (my husband) and I decided to sell our 1890,
Carpenter Gothic,Victorian home in Stone Ridge, NY.
We wanted an easier house
and I had a bad feeling about the real estate market.
Jeff sold our home just as the market was starting to crack.
We bought what we call The Tree House.

This is not my father's house.
The last house was so similar to the one my father renovated
for our family in Lakeville CT that my mother commented,
"Your father would have bought this house."
I already knew that.
What I didn't know was how difficult it would be to live in.
After putting two roofs on
and rebuilding the front porch that tried to twist off the house
Jeff helped us move on - into a new home and on with our lives!

Yet, this history of moving through space with Jeff is precious to me.
He was willing to imagine our lives in different configurations
and then advise us.
He understands design in relation to feeling, motion and use.
This is rare.

I will bring the designs/ patents to our dinner
and we will walk through them together.
We may never build them,
but it is entering the museum of my father's creation
with a trusted friend/ chosen brother and wonderful playmate.
In case you haven't gathered from my previous posts,
a good playmate is special.

xoxo,
Bob's Daughter

I open my laptop to check my email
and Google comes up on my home page as it always does,
but today I type in Robert Allen Caigan.
This blog comes up and the engagement announcement to Grace Gabe.
For no obvious reason I then Google Robert A. Caigan
and there is a new patent listed.

I visit the site BOLIVEN Patents.

Outboard Marine Corporation
has a seat based partially on one of my father's patents.
Google just matched it with his name.
Filing Information

* Patent Number: US5913571
* Application Number: US8937686
* Filing date: 09/29/1997
* Issue date: 06/22/1999
* Predicted expiration date: 09/29/2017


* Inventor(s): Daniel R. Dystra · David W. Windstein ·
* Assignee(s): Outboard Marine Corporation · View assignee updates
* Attorney/Agent(s): Jones, Day, Reavis & Pogue ·
* Primary Examiner: Nelson, Jr.; Milton ·

It's very unlikely that any of these people knew Robert A. Caigan.
They have looked at his work.

In order to create a patent and be approved
one must PROVE that there is something unique in an invention.
Therefore, at least one of these people had to step into my father's
design process and determine that the the designs are comparable,
but individually unique.

Intellectual process, not just the product of the seat,
is what I am curious about.
How does one inhabit, save, frame that process?
How do I learn about the ways in which my dead father THOUGHT
about design/ problem solving/ ideas?

I keep thinking about the beauty of a firefly in a jar.
It cannot be contained or it will die.
Perhaps mental process, intellectual ideas are momentary
because they are based in time formulated through variables?
Maybe his designs are how he contained ideas?

Here's a good example of real time variables...

I just interrupted myself by realizing
that I have to start the laundry.
I can't pull this thought back.
Company is coming. The kitchen is a mess.
My own design aesthetic cannot bare it.
I am a feminist and yet I cannot shake my spacial concepts.
I suspect there will be more pondering on this topic.

Until then,
Bob's Daughter