The art of good lamp-making

People watching: 
Karin Willems, co-founder of Zenza

About seven years ago the renowned Dutch designer Li Edelkoort helped to kit out a restaurant in Paris' Galeries Lafayette. As part of her scheme, she chose to accent a modern, white space with Middle Eastern flair. Hammered brass lights were hung above the restaurant's tables, casting their shadowy patterns onto the tiled walls. A new trend was born: the lamps were featured in Harper's Bazaar and an explosion of interest followed.

Karin with her husband Hussein
and business partner Yasmina

The company behind those lights is a Dutch producer of handicrafts called Zenza. Last week I interviewed co-founder Karin Willems, who has just launched the company's newest store in Rotterdam. The company prides itself on crafting handmade home accessories, using oriental designs and artisanal techniques. It operates mainly as a wholesaler, but has two other stores in Amsterdam and Maastricht. 

About 18 years ago, Karin spotted the lights in a souk in Egypt - they were traditional lamps with closed bottoms for burning oil. "We made the design cleaner, more modern and easier to use with an electrical system," she says. The company's design mantra is to reinterpret objects of the past, giving them a more contemporary feel. The lamps have been Zenza's best seller ever since. Last year, Heineken even used them in an television advertisement to sell beer.

Zenza's lamps are crafted by hand in Egypt

Karin maintains that her company is not run on conventional lines, using business tools such as strategy and research. "I always follow my heart and rely upon my taste and intuition," she says. "That's who I am and how I do it... and I like having the right people around me." 

Not surprisingly, the company was forged out of a relationship: while Karin was visiting Cairo's souk 18 years ago, she met and married Hussein. At first, he wasn't keen to join Karin's fledgling venture in Amsterdam - he offered to help carry boxes until he found his own way. It turned out he had a gift for dealing with customers so he stayed on. Now he also helps Karin with her designs, often handling the more technical aspects.

The couple have a daughter and moved to Egypt three years ago so that she could grow up in two cultures. Unfortunately, their move coincided with the recent political upheaval. "In the beginning it was very exciting, adapting to a new culture," recalls Karin in a soft voice. "But it is a difficult time now and people are losing their businesses and there is all this sadness around us. Now I admit I am counting the days until we go back to Amsterdam." As an exporter, Zenza is not so affected by Egypt's troubles.

Workshops in India make wares out of old print blocks

The company has its own factory in Cairo and also provides microfinance to various workshops making its goods. "We didn't want to be everyone's boss," explains Karin. The workshops often repay Zenza's loans in six months and are able to hire more staff as required. The company also uses the workshop model in India to produce furniture made out of (sustainable) mango wood. 

Karin is committed to maintaining ethical standards and is "very confident" that Zenza operates on a fairtrade basis in Egypt, providing safe conditions for workers and paying good salaries. With a degree of honesty, she admits that it is harder to achieve such standards in India. "I am sure there is not child labour and I am sure the mango wood is not harvested illegally, but it would cost me so much time to find out more." Despite having an agent in India, keeping tabs on Indian suppliers is one of the challenges Zenza faces.

Zenza's lamps have caught the attention of designers

The company is also, to some extent, a victim of its own success. Demand for its lamps is outstripping its capacity to produce - many of its retailers in the UK are out of stock. Karin is ideologically opposed to mass production, but it can take months to train up new craftspeople. "Good things take time and I don't like it, but this is our reality. We don't want to compromise on quality." 

Remarkably Zenza seems to be weathering the slowdown in consumer spending, even bucking the trend in Rotterdam. Some of the local outlets for Zenza's products have been forced to close down, giving the company a unique opportunity to open its own shopfront without treading on any toes. With all this going on, you wonder how Karin ever gets time to rest. Although Hussein sometimes tells her that he doesn't want to hear about work for a while, she finds it hard to switch off. "Even on vacation, I see a new material, or I find a location for photo shoot," she says, laughing.

On paper, such squeaky clean credentials make for good marketing. During the interview, however, Karin's passion for craft and fair trade come across as genuine. It appears to be a peculiarly female success story: a design-winner bred out of intuition and generosity, rather than hard-nosed business nous.

UK suppliers of Zenza's products include John Lewis and Pomegranate Living with Style. Zenza's lamps also recently featured in Homes & Gardens magazine. Please note that I was not paid or incentivised in any way to write this article.

Dream catching

What a difference a week makes! Only a few days ago we were about to rent out our house and move to a sunnier clime (possibly Cornwall) to embrace the good life. Now the summer term has started, my husband is back at work and we are once again 'safe' in the old routines. As you might have guessed, we have just returned from a week's holiday: the perennial time for hatching harebrained schemes and entertaining fantasies of jumping off the treadmill.

Anyone for a smoothie in compostible plastic?

Some people, however, do manage to pull it off. During our aforementioned holiday in Cornwall, I was talking to a friend about this - her theory is that we tend not to make any dramatic changes to our lives until we reach rock-bottom. In her case, after a relationship broke down, she skipped England for Kenya, where her life has since blossomed.

Last week, on our pilgrimage to the beach in St Agnes, we happened upon a cafe called Genki (translates as 'health and happiness' in Japanese). It provides a winning combination of lemon drizzle cake, barista coffee and granola, all served up with a cosmopolitan-cum-surfing vibe. Our daily diet of cake and flat whites became a highlight - the "best bit of the holiday", according to our son. Owen and Natalie Lewis, who own the cafe, are relaxed and friendly hosts. With their tousled hair, good looks and rude health, you could well believe they grew up on a surf board down in the bay.

Natalie and Owen Lewis

Imagine the surprise when we discovered that they spent six years pursuing careers in Japan. Natalie taught at the British School in Tokyo, while Owen was an equities sales trader for a US bank. Owen candidly admits that six years of the high life in Tokyo - drinking and eating out - eventually lost its lustre. "You have to ask yourself what's your ideal life," he says. "Some people have their ideal life in a place like Hong Kong, but I realised I was not a city person. I was becoming someone I didn't want to become." These days after work, Owen is more likely to be found surfing or fishing than drinking in a bar.

Japan's 2011 earthquake and tsunami, and subsequent nuclear disaster, also played a part. Nothing like a radiation leak to focus the mind - the couple left behind a beach house in Fukushima, the site of the nuclear power plant that suffered equipment failures in the wake of the tsunami. Health and happiness on Cornwall's breezy shores was a more appealing prospect.

An idyllic life by the sea?

At the end of our holiday, we attended the wedding of an old friend. She is one more example of someone who sought another path. She swapped a flat in London for a house perched on a cliff in St Agnes with wall-to-wall views of the sea. Now she has married a Cornishman and is expecting her first baby in July. 

All of this makes me think it is possible to achieve a dream, if you are determined enough. Perhaps one day we too will down tools and make for the nearest beach! The difficulty is that our nice existence in Oxfordshire is a little too comfortable. There is some solace in that - we obviously haven't hit rock-bottom. So until the quake breaks, we will be sitting tight, dreaming about a new life by the sea... 


Emma Clark Lam is the author of A Sister for Margot. "This was such an enjoyable read and the quality of the writing was what made it so. I could not put it down as the plot was so meaty with so many twists and turns." -- Amazon review

Work in progress

Today I am posting an excerpt from my new novel about a young woman trapped in a ruinous marriage in Jakarta, Indonesia, during the 1970s. 

The sun deserted us within minutes...

The journey ended as the wheels of the aeroplane struck the tarmac with a deafening roar. I stared into the face of an airhostess and decided that Death wore a batik uniform and crimson lipstick. Over our heads, the rain hammered upon the cabin like gunfire, while the wind sucked at the egg-shaped windows. As the plane listed from side to side, I gripped the hands of my two little girls and opened silent negotiations with God. We were three hundred passengers holding our breath, waiting for an engine to blow or smoke to billow out from the wing. My eyes sought out the airhostess once more, scanning her features for any trace of panic. Her mouth remained composed, still fixed in a faint smile, her lips ghoulish in the dimmed light. At last, the plane came to a juddering halt. A hoarse cheer broke out, followed quickly by the snapping of seatbelts. It was all over – we had arrived. My hysteria shrank back down like a defeated genie into its lamp.

It was dusk by the time we staggered across the runway, crumpled and exhausted. We had endured forty-eight hours of travel, with eight pieces of luggage, a pushchair and a wooden crate. I thought I would be used to it by now, but the trip still knocked me for six. There were pustules of vomit on my jeans from where my eldest child had deposited her evening meal and my swollen feet filled up every crevice in my shoes. It was a journey to shake body and soul.

Within minutes of arriving, the sun deserted us, tunnelling down to another part of the world. I inhaled the soupy air and straightened my spine. It was a reflex – partly a reaction to the cramped cabin, but also a stiffening of resolve. Jakarta, we have returned! That said with defiance and weariness. After a summer away in Sussex, expatriate life was about to resume. While we swung croquet mallets in an English garden and caught up with the relatives, it was like someone had lifted the needle off the record player. Now, with a little crackle, the music would begin again.

When we reached the baggage hall, Simon disappeared into the rabble by the carousel, to collect the suitcases, while I ushered our girls over to a bank of seats. Two flights had arrived at once and there was general confusion as to whose baggage would materialise first. Outside the window, our jumbo jet melted away into a twinkle of lights, which swam in fluorescent waves as my eyes struggled to focus. A muscle in my left lid went into spasm. The urge to close my eyes was overpowering. Everyone had managed to sleep on the plane apart from me – the girls sprawled on the floor at our feet, Simon swathed in blankets. Ever watchful, I sat condemned to a numb kind of wakefulness, queasily aware of the body odour drifting over from across the aisle. Now sleep was calling me. The babble of the baggage hall was oddly soothing and I felt myself falling gently off a cliff… until a small jab on my forearm brought me back round.

“Mummy! Katie won’t let me have any of her water,” complained a voice by my side.

Slowly, automatically, I reached into my hand luggage for a flask to give to Hannah, my youngest. She took one swig and then flew back to her sister, invigorated. Both of them had been fractious and tearful when we left the plane, but now the excitement of arriving had given them a jolt of energy.

“Katie! Hannah! Please! Calm down,” I called after them. My glance flickered between Simon’s head, now floating above the crowd at the conveyor belt, and the girls in mid-flight. “Shush now, Daddy will be cross.”

After a while – I lost track of time – Simon and a porter returned with our luggage piled high on a trolley. I was too tired even to check the cases, an unusual omission for me.

“For God’s sake, try to get the girls to behave,” Simon snapped, before heading off to sort out the paperwork for the new dog.

During our summer in England, my husband had finally relented and allowed the girls to adopt a russet cocker spaniel called Dixie. For too many hours the poor animal had been holed up in a crate, two rows behind us on the plane, whining for her freedom. When we stopped in Bahrain to re-fuel, I watched out of the window as Simon gingerly led her around the plane. She eventually peed beside the wheel of a nearby truck as impassive soldiers looked on, cradling their machine guns. After Simon returned to his seat, he looked at me as if to say, this was all your bright idea.

More minutes ticked by in the baggage hall. I felt a dull ache rolling through my body – I was thirsting for a cigarette! With some sort of sensory memory, my fingers began twitching in my lap. The girls clambered across the floor, pretending to be donkeys. Where in the world had Simon got to? Girls please! Get up off the floor, it’s dirty. I gazed out across the marbled tiles and spotted my husband in the distance, arguing with an official in a blue uniform. Simon’s head was jutting forward, shooting words into the space between them. Something was wrong. Hauling myself to my feet, I tottered over in my sick-spattered trousers, trailing small girls, a porter and a squeaking trolley in my wake.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the bloody dog,” said my husband tersely. “There’s an issue with the paperwork.”

That was Simon to a tee – controlling, aggressive, persuasive. He turned his back on me to continue his negotiations.

“Selamat datang,” the customs man said, ignoring Simon and beaming across at me. “Welcome to Indonesia, Nyonya!”

Despite my malaise, despite the ache in my head, despite bloody everything, I smiled back. It seemed the thing to do. For the dog’s sake.

“How can we resolve this?” Simon cut in, his voice officious.

“I am sorry sir,” said the man with another oily smile, “but you are not permitted to bring this dog into Indonesia. It is against our regulations. Your paperwork is not in order.”

He jabbed his finger accusingly at the documents on the table in front of us.

The pulse in Simon’s jaw started to throb. His fury was like ice in my veins. I almost pitied the customs official – he had no idea who he was dealing with, poor soul. Dixie whined pathetically in the background, scrabbling at the door of her wooden crate. I held out my hand to her through the mesh window. There, there, little one. It will soon be over. One of the girls started to cry again – Hannah – she had a knack for tuning into emotional static. Katie leaned despondently on the crate with her arms hanging by her side.

“Give me your gun then,” Simon said.

“Sorry sir?”

“You heard me. Give me your gun.” Simon gestured towards the man’s holster. “If I can’t bring this dog into your country, I will have to shoot her with your gun.”

The breath was sucked out of me, my fingers snagged on the mesh. Katie gave a yelp of dismay. “No Daddy, please!”

The man gaped at Simon, his mouth hanging open, revealing an array of yellowing teeth. “One moment please,” he said and disappeared into an office by the side of us.

Inside my head I began to scream. No one deserved to die. Not yet, anyway.

Then the official came back. “Go, go!” he said, waving us through with a dismissive hand.

Emma Clark Lam is the author of A Sister for Margot. 

"This was such an enjoyable read and the quality of the writing was what made it so. I could not put it down as the plot was so meaty with so many twists and turns." 
-- Amazon review

Portrait of a Lady

Some of you may know my darkest secret: I attended a boarding school known as The Cheltenham Ladies' College. For years, during parties and introductions, I have skated over this inconvenient fact. I have been reluctant to own up to my association with this venerable institution, mainly because I feared it would typecast me, or worse still arouse antipathy in my listener. We all make judgements and a school with that much baggage is bound to inspire some prejudice.

The original lady: corsets and decorum 
© Artefy | Dreamstime.com

Last night the school inevitably featured in Rachel Johnson's BBC Four Timeshift programme on How To Be A Lady. Rachel's grandmother attended the school and Rachel admits that she resisted her own father's attempts to enroll her simply because of the name.

It seems that in our economically straitened times the term lady is undergoing something of a revival. Young women are re-discovering (and even studying) ladylike ways in an attempt to develop their social confidence and also their professional presence. Drunken antics, Page 3 models and even the ladette excesses of the 1990s have had their day, apparently. 

Rachel even interviewed a modern feminist - the writer and critic Bidisha - who was keen to extoll the virtues of a ladylike demeanour. "It's about bringing a kind of formality and elegance back into a culture which is really quite vulgar," she says. We can redefine our concept of the lady, Bidisha believes, by divorcing it from notions of class and associating it with being a "brilliant, strong, sisterly woman".

Nevertheless, by the end of the programme, Rachel is still not convinced that we should all re-embrace ladyhood - and I am inclined to agree. We are who we are. What a dull place the world would be if every woman was schooled to be a lady! I will admit that my education, augmented by my mother's discipline, has turned me into a creature of decorum (for the most part). However, although this forms part of my identity, I hope that over the years I have managed to add a few more layers. 

More notably, I have my school to thank for my conviction that women are intellectually equal to men - an obvious point, perhaps, but still in contention the world over. In the late 19th century, Cheltenham Ladies' College was in fact a radical exponent of education for girls. The second principal, Dorothea Beale, believed that girls should lay their needlework aside and be as highly educated as boys. 

During my time in Cheltenham, we were taught to believe that we could achieve anything we wanted. We had a right to a career, the same as any boy. Sadly not all girls' schools were so progressive, even as recently as the 1980s. Former pupils of the college are undoubtedly privileged but also broad-minded. Some of my peers are now teaching in state schools, working in the city, writing children's books, mothering children and running their own businesses. There! My secret is out. Just don't tell anyone, please...


Next week, I will post a sample from my new novel, set in the 1970s. The main character, Maggie, has been brought up in the mould of a lady, just at a time when the world is changing its view on a woman's place. Imprisoned by her own femininity, Maggie battles with an unhappy marriage and low self-esteem. A chance meeting with Louise - a free spirit and a creature of the moment - opens Maggie's mind to other possibilities. 

Eleven random facts

Dear readers, last week I received a Liebster Award from fellow blogger Seven Year Hitch. Before we all get too excited, it is not really a proper award, but more of a cross between a chain letter and a blogging badge of honour. Conveniently it has provided me with some inspiration this week just when I was running dry.

As part of the award, Vanessa Holburn, the writer behind Seven Year Hitch, has set me eleven questions, which I shall attempt to answer below. The idea is that I go on to nominate eleven more bloggers, whom I happen to admire, and then devise another eleven questions of my own. I also have to provide eleven random facts about myself. Thus, oiled by our mutual enthusiasm, the Liebster wheels keep on rolling, with Q&As bouncing around the blogosphere. 


Here are the eleven questions posed by Vanessa: 

1.    What did you have for tea last night?

My husband Will, who usually cooks my evening meal, is away in Hong Kong so I was forced to put a packet meal in the microwave - red Thai curry with prawns. It was surprisingly tasty and only took four minutes. I still prefer his cooking though - and his conversation.

2.    What was your favourite item of clothing as a teenager?

A torn, suede jacket I bought from a secondhand clothing shop on the King's Road. It made me feel like I was part of the cool crowd, which of course was an illusion. Sadly, it suited my little brother better, who was part of the cool crowd.

3.    Cats or dogs?

Instinctively I would say dogs because I grew up with them. However, when I worked in London, we acquired a tortoiseshell kitten called Daisy (a dog would have been too high-maintenance) and she is still with us today. Over the years, she has bitten the children, been sick on the carpet, brought in mice and played havoc with my sinuses, but she is part of the family. Maybe one day she will be joined by a dog-sibling.

4.    Congratulations, you’ve been canonized – but what are you the patron saint of?

Gosh, wouldn't I love to be the Patron Saint of Motherhood or Struggling Writers, but I am more likely to be canonized for my organisational skills. People will pray to me for help with their Christmas shopping and holiday-packing. My best friend Shauna has been known to borrow my prototype packing list.

5.    Do you owe anyone an apology?

Years ago one of my former boyfriends wrote to me when his father was ill. The letter I returned was not the same letter I would write today. If I ever saw him again, I would try to explain and say sorry.

6.    A new government policy says we must all open a shop – what will yours sell?

Jewellery. As many of my friends know, I adore trinkets and I would use my shop as a justification for touring round Asia and the Middle East in search of stock. I might sell the odd book too - a few first editions and tattered hardbacks.

7.    What is the worst way to spend a Sunday?

Doing chores, changing the bedsheets and having an argument with my eldest over maths homework.

8.    Name and shame the first/only person to break your heart

I don't think I have ever had my heart broken (yet). Instinctively I am a pragmatist - I don't get too emotionally involved until I am confident of a return in affection.

9.    If you could choose your own name, what would it be?

I did, and it is 'Emma Clark Lam'. I was born 'Emma Clark' which was not quite so unique.

10. Who decides where you go on holiday?

Oddly enough we don't tend to choose. Holidays just seem to happen - invitations by friends or trips that tie in with other events. The last time we actively sought a holiday was when we went to Oman in early 2012. I suppose I chose that holiday because I used to live in Muscat as a teenager and was curious to go back. Usually, however, it is my husband who actually books the holidays.

11. What annoying song can you NOT get out of your head?

Gangnam Style. My kids love it and sing various versions of it on a daily basis. My husband covers Korean stocks for his job so we discovered PSY even before his song became a stratospheric hit. I have been living with 'Hey sexy lady' for a very long time. And it still doesn't sound right coming out of the mouth of a six-year old.



Eleven random facts about me:

• After 30 years I have finally learnt how to style (my) curly hair
• I was sent off to boarding school at nine years old
• I studied Russian for more than five years at school but can hardly speak a word now
• As a child I detested vegetables, but now I eat them all the time
• I have lived in eight different countries
• I can't get to sleep at night if I haven't had a hot shower or a bath
• Nothing absorbs me more than a computer-related problem
• My favourite author is Jane Austen
• Quite randomly my best friend and my husband are both half-Chinese
• My daughter shares a birthday with her dad
• I love swimming: show me some water and I can rarely resist getting in

Eleven nominated bloggers:

Absolutely Write

Alison Mercer 

Amanda Jennings
Duolit
Fiona Torsch 
The Joy of Slow Communication
Rachel Monte
Ruth Mancini
Peggy Riley
Sara Bran's Notes From the Edge of Motherhood
The Musings & Artful Blunders of Scott D. Southard


Finally, eleven new questions for my eleven bloggers:

What did you dream of becoming when you were a child?

If you had to act in a Shakespeare play, which character would you choose to play?

You have won a dream holiday to anywhere in the world. Where would you go?

If you were stuck in a lift/elevator for four hours, who would be your ideal companion?

Who do you most admire: Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Sarah Brown or Cherie Blair? 

If you could erase once incident from your past, what would it be?

Do you prefer reading an ebook or a paperback?

If your home was burning down, which possession would you grab first?

Name two positive things that have happened to you today.

If you were forced to read any book three times, which book would you choose?

Why have you chosen to write a blog?


Thanks to Vanessa Holburn for nominating me - this was surprisingly fun! 

Brother vs. sister

Hermaphrodite Mum
Three kids and a single mother

Upstairs I can hear angry voices bouncing off the walls, punctuated by the banging of a door - twice. 

"I hate you! You are never borrowing my Nintendo, ever again." Slam.

"I don't care, you are just a poo-poo brain." Slam.

Best of friends and the worst of enemies 
© Cheryl Casey | Dreamstime.com

I feel obliged to join the debate. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell: "Don't slam the door! How many times have I told you?"

In the kitchen behind me, Non-walking Toddler (NwT) starts calling, "Ma! Ma!" She has been unsettled by my sudden exit.

"It's okay darling." I return to spooning Petits Filous into her baby-bird mouth. "More!" she tells me, pointing at the fridge. 

While I peel the film off a second yoghurt, Middle Child and Quiet One (my eldest) burst into the kitchen seeking adjudication. I listen to their account of what happened - there is injustice on both sides and I am hard-pressed to identify a culprit.

"Look," I reason, "I am busy trying to feed NwT. Why can't you just sort it out between you?"

They turn to each other, hot-cheeked and indignant. "That's enough," I shout over the ensuing argument. "The Nintendo goes on top of the cupboard until you manage to reach an agreement."

"That's not fair," cries Quiet One, "You always take his side!" And she flounces out, batting Middle Child on the head for good measure.

"YOU NEVER WANT TO PLAY WITH ME!" rages Middle Child. I wedge the kitchen door open with my foot before he can reach it to reinforce his point.

There is a jealous gene in our family - it runs through the generations, flaring with intensity in certain characters. In Middle Child, it combines powerfully with maleness and the need to compete. Whenever I hug one of his sisters, he's there within seconds to claim his share of my affection. As a toddler he would plant himself in my lap to prevent me picking up NwT when she cried.

Just recently, Quiet One has also been displaying signs of jealousy. It seems that Middle Child has fostered a sense of rivalry between them. They are the best of friends and the worst of enemies, capable of switching seamlessly between amity and conflict several times a day.

I know from my own childhood that such sibling rivalry is natural and I do my best to contain it by distributing my favours equally. However, the odds are stacked against me: I have three children competing for one parent's attention. 

In the past, my mother has consoled me: "Don't worry they are learning their way in the world and where they belong. They will find their own harmony." 

Halfway through NwT's third yoghurt, she grabs the spoon from me and shakes it at Middle Child, who is glowering in the corner.

"I think she wants you to feed her," I say.

Reluctantly he takes the spoon and begins to heap yoghurt into her mouth. She starts to choke on the third spoonful, but recovers and gamely continues. Middle Child starts to smile in spite of himself, his tongue rolling into his cheek.

"Hey, look at this!" I call out to Quiet One. She slides back into the kitchen to take a peek.

NwT immediately takes the spoon and hands it to Quiet One. After a tentative glance in my direction, Quiet One carefully loads the spoon and pops it into NwT's mouth. Middle Child watches but doesn't protest. After that, my baby diplomat scrupulously alternates the spoon between her siblings. 

"I'm sorry," mumbles Quiet One without looking at her brother. He doesn't reply but his spirits lift and before too long he is trying to dance around the kitchen, his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Let's go and play with your Furbie," he suggests when the feeding frenzy is over.

The truce holds. I know Quiet One will always be the child who says sorry first, but I also know that Middle Child has his own gift. In an attempt to get along with his sisters, he adapts to their tastes even though they differ from his own. After all, the flip-side of jealousy is wanting to fit in and be loved. For a few minutes peace reigns... until NwT starts to howl because I won't allow her a fourth yoghurt. At least she is too small to slam doors.

Hermaphrodite Mum is a fictional creation of Emma Clark Lam

Previous posts by Hermaphrodite Mum:

Growing Pains
Favoured chicks

Prehistoric parenting