Founder Madame Rigamarole has never been one for real world rigamarole (or resumes)—y’know, the psychobabble, the gobbledygook. She finds small talk and polite talk intensely unstimulating, and all things traditionally pretty and popular poop her out. No, she doesn’t dye her hair sea foam green or wear her handstitched Halloween costumes year-round—she doesn’t kick box her own shadow or eat bats’ heads on stage, but she has always sought out those who skip the prescribed playgrounds.
In her youth and growing up, Mme. Rigamarole’s penchant for people who danced to different drummers and her quest for the authentic often left her feeling very alone. Everywhere she went, it seemed the majority of the people were all, like, y’know:
Thinking she could only find happiness through fiction, because fiction is always stranger than real life, Mme. Rigamarole retreated, at a certain age, to some thick dark woods on a remote and rain-shadowy peninsula. Sure, she wandered out—foraging at the Farmers’ Market and sipping local ambrosias. She partied with poets and played ball, but mostly, she read and wrote and refined her hermitude.
Until one fine day, when walking her unicorns (which were in fact her dogs), she stumbled upon a Wild Man, and he breathed a certain wild fire back into her. (FTR: Madame Rigamarole does not like traditional love stories, rom coms, or clichés such as “love conquers all.”) But, sometimes love wakes you up and lifts you up where… no… sometimes love reminds you that the world of non-fiction is fabulous. Interesting freaky people abound. Kindness lives. Possibility, creation, and laughter are all you need.
Madame Rigamarole has had her knocks and doubts, but she has never given up. Stories need to be told, and since Mme. Rigamarole has been telling stories her whole long life—mostly with words on paper—she would now like to add a new tool to her belt. She wants to walk more often in the visual dimension, and to keep (re)-inventing and spreading funny and fruitful fires everywhere.