While rereading “Stages of Support,” the May/June Design Culture column, I couldn’t help but notice an aspect of support that Wendy omitted.

It is another kind of support, one that is not defined by the stage of one’s career or the role of its source. It is not necessarily even given by someone one works with, although its essence is work-related.

The kind of support I am talking about comes from a long-term connection with someone who cares about you. It might be a colleague, but it could also be a relative or a friend. It follows you, threading through each stage of your career. It evolves as you do, and it accumulates strength with the passage of time.

I’m not talking about the I’m-great-you’re-great or the don’t-worry-it-will-all-be-fine kind of support. I’m talking about the real deal: exchanges that emerge from profound understanding, that dig to the core of who you are; exchanges that enlighten and guide in surprising and subtle ways; exchanges that could not occur in any other relationship.

I know this kind of support because I am fortunate enough to have it. And so does Wendy. It is epitomized by our 35-year friendship.

Cornerstone
The first time Wendy and I interacted professionally—after ten years of solidifying our friendship—we confronted underlying differences in the way we approached our work. We had each received a National Endowment for the Arts grant to create pieces for a Videotex gallery (Videotex was an early precursor to the Web). We decided to jointly submit an article, about the work we’d done, to an upcoming publication.

For several days, we planned, discussed, wrote and rewrote the piece. It was before the days of ubiquitous personal computers, and we were using a typewriter.

By midnight of the fourth day—the night before our deadline—we were finished and drained. “That’s it,” I announced. “We did it!” I started packing up to go home.

Wendy was looking over the final document. “You know,” she said, “the way we’ve laid this out is confusing. We should fix it.”

In that instant, our working styles clashed. My efficient, get-it-done attitude came face-to-face with Wendy’s studied perfectionism. For me, enough was enough. For Wendy, the possibility of improvement was impossible to ignore. We retyped the article.

When it was accepted and published, we both were proud. “Thanks to your insistence,” I told her, “we made a better piece.”

“What?” she said. “If it weren’t for you, we’d never have written it in the first place. And I almost made us miss the deadline!”

With that, a cornerstone was laid. We had faced our differences in action, but rather than judging them, or worse, dismissing them, we recognized the value of each other’s approach. What we didn’t realize then was that we were setting the stage for what would become a lifelong source of invaluable and incomparable work-related support. This support is possible because of three important ingredients: observation, the sharing of information and unquestioned mutual trust.

Intentional observation
Wendy is a visual artist, columnist and educator; she is now preparing work for an upcoming museum show. I am a writer and editor, currently working on a memoir. As our Videotex encounter illustrated, I tend to work in a linear and product-oriented manner. I schedule and outline and search for structure. Wendy, in contrast, meanders, scrutinizes and questions. She persists in the pursuit of more. In her process, time is dictated by truth and precision; I aim for goals and am motivated by completion.

Since that initial collaboration, we’ve had many occasions to consider each other’s work. Completing our Videotex project, our observations, though significant, were unconscious. Since then, they have become more intentional.

We watch each other to understand and to learn, particularly in more recent years. Since we’ve each reached a point in our careers where we’re focusing more on personal projects, we sense that the other’s method might hold a clue to what could be missing in our own.

One of the most important traits I’ve witnessed in Wendy is the value she places on enjoyment. “It’s hard,” she says of her artwork. “It’s torture sometimes, but the process has to be joyous.” Now this is a concept that would never have occurred to me, and one I find foreign but at the same time lovely. When I become lost in the scrabble of details and deadlines, I remind myself of Wendy’s insistence on joy and try to find a piece of it for myself.