Act I: The Task I Love Least (Cue the Swelling Orchestral Underscore)

There are many things I enjoy about being an executive director: dreaming up new programs, bragging about our extraordinary conservators, watching someone fall in love with a clean painting or a newly stabilized treasure. I will happily talk to anyone, students, donors, bewildered people at the grocery store, about the magic of conservation.

But asking for money? Ah. That’s the scene I try to keep on the cutting-room floor. If this were It’s a Wonderful Life, this would be my Clarence moment: slightly awkward, slightly heavenly, necessary for the plot but never my favorite to perform.

Act II: The List, the Gingersnaps, and the Warm Glow of Doing Things by Hand

ICA isn't large enough to use a mail house, and truthfully, even if we were, I wouldn’t use one. A few years ago we started a custom that feels like it slipped right out of a black-and-white holiday film: we do it all ourselves.

We don’t send a mass mailing. Our list is modest and meaningful:

donors who’ve given in the last three years

clients from the past year

And if you were a new client in 2024 but didn’t respond to last year’s appeal? Well… let’s just say I am checking that list twice.

Enter Kate, ICA's ultra-amazing operations person, and one half of the legendary (and tragically under-celebrated) early aughts Northeast Ohio pop/rock/folk duo The Gingersnaps. For the record, I am the other Gingersnap. You probably didn’t see us on MTV, but trust me, we had excellent bangs (I still do).

Kate and I sit together, two retired rock stars turned conservation elves, and plot the annual appeal letter. We choose the theme. We order materials. And then, one afternoon, “the day” arrives.

Act III: Envelopes, Memory, and the Kindness That Never Goes Out of Style

We sit down at the table with pens, envelopes, and a quiet sense of ceremony. Every name and address is handwritten, no shortcuts. And with each envelope, we talk about the person.

Who are they? Were they a client? What did they bring into the lab? What did that object mean to them? How did it feel to help preserve it? And we laugh and occasionally address and envelope upside down, or forget to put the stamped response card in the envelope and then have to sheepishly approach ICA's paper conservator, Kate Passannante, to work her paper magic and open the envelope so we can rectify our mistakes.

In those moments, as snow (real or imagined) falls outside the window, we slow down. We remember each person’s generosity. We appreciate the fact that they cared enough about cultural heritage, about art, history, memory, meaning, to make a gift.

In a world where fewer and fewer people give a damn, we pause to honor the ones who still do.

This is not virtue signaling. This is gratitude. Gratitude for every donor. Gratitude for every preserved object. Gratitude for the rare, sustaining kindness that—like the best holiday films—never goes out of style.

And so, from The Gingersnaps to you: May your season be warm, your memories preserved, and your list, however you check it, filled with good and generous people.