What lights me up when everything feels heavy?I'm in a caregiving season right now. My niece Naomi is 45, living with an intellectual disability while facing metastatic breast cancer. I'm her person. My mom, Janet, is 90, sharp as ever, and we live together. My days...
Lights, Camera, Connection
Lights, Camera, Connection
Lights, Camera, Connection
Before social media. Before online communities. Actually, before the Internet.
Before anyone talked about “community building” as a profession.
Back in the early 1990s at the Minnesota Film Board, Randy and I found ourselves with a challenge.
We were running the only nonprofit state film commission in the country—a fancy way of saying we had heart, hustle, and not much else. We also had one of the smallest film commission budgets in America.
Our job was simple: get Hollywood’s attention and convince productions to come to Minnesota.
The budget said we couldn’t compete.
We didn’t listen.
What we figured out instead was something I’ve spent the rest of my life rediscovering in different forms:
You don’t always need a bigger budget if you have better relationships.
So we started calling people we knew who had left Minnesota for Los Angeles and were working in the film industry. Producers, crew members, actors, location scouts. Minnesotans scattered across Southern California.
It turned out a handful of them were already gathering on Sundays at a bar in the Valley to watch Vikings football.
Homesick people doing what homesick people do.
We leaned into it.
We started reaching out, sharing what was happening back home, telling them we were actively looking for projects to bring to Minnesota, and inviting them into the conversation.
Eventually we gave the whole thing a name:
The Ice Pack.
At the same time, back home in Minnesota, I was building what became my baby—the Minnesota Production Guide.
Before each year’s Association of Film Commissioners International Locations Expo, we’d host what we called the Listing Party. Production professionals from across the state would come together, fill out their information, share what they did, reconnect with colleagues, and meet people they didn’t know.
I would gather all of that information and turn it into something tangible: a production guide that showcased Minnesota’s talent and resources.
At least that’s what I thought I was doing.
Looking back, I can see that the guide was only part of the story.
The Listing Party gave people a reason to gather.
The guide was simply the artifact that emerged from that gathering.
Then we’d head to Los Angeles for the Locations Expo and host the Ice Pack Party—a reunion of sorts. A once-a-year opportunity for Minnesotans working in the industry to reconnect with home and with each other.
What we were actually doing was gathering people who had something in common and giving that connection a name, a rhythm, and a reason to continue.
The Ice Pack became the name that turned strangers into a “we.”
The annual gathering became the cadence.
The production guide became proof that something useful could emerge from people coming together.
Of course, none of us would have described it that way at the time.
Randy and I weren’t sitting around talking about community design.
We weren’t discussing belonging.
We certainly weren’t using phrases like social architecture.
We were simply trying to solve a budget problem with relationships instead of money.
And somehow, it worked.
- Projects came to Minnesota.
- Connections were made.
- People found collaborators.
- Friendships formed.
- A sense of shared identity grew stronger.
What strikes me now is how little any of it had to do with film.
Film was the excuse.
The real story was belonging.
A group of Minnesotans living far from home found comfort in gathering around something familiar. We gave that gathering a name. Then we gave it a rhythm. Then we gave it a reason to keep showing up.
The same thing was happening back home. The Listing Party wasn’t really about collecting information. It was about creating a place where people could see themselves as part of something larger than their individual projects.
The production guide was the artifact.
The community was the point.
I didn’t have language for any of this then.
I didn’t know words like belonging, community design, or People Magic. I wasn’t thinking about member journeys, gathering places, rituals, or engagement.
I was simply witnessing something I’ve spent the rest of my life witnessing over and over again:
People want to find their people.
And when they do, they create things together that would never have existed otherwise.
Looking back, I can see that Athena Village didn’t begin when I launched an online community.
It began decades earlier—in a room full of film people filling out forms for a production guide and in a sports bar in the San Fernando Valley where a handful of Minnesotans gathered to cheer for a team that still felt like home.
The tools have changed.
The technology has changed.
The human need hasn’t.
Lights.
Camera.
And somewhere in between, connection.

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My last question for today…

