November 18, 1951 – August 5, 2026

The neon and plasma world lost one of its most beloved neon benders, artists, and teachers this month. Jacob Alan Fishman — co-founder of Lightwriters Neon, co-author of The Neon Engineers Notebook, and mentor to more artists than any of us can count — passed away on August 5th, 2026, in Chicago, at 74. His memorial and celebration of life are today, and it feels right to spend some of that time putting into words what he meant, not just to the field, but to me.

I grew up in Bloomington, Illinois, close enough to Chicago that the city never felt foreign, since I have extended family there. It was in 2014, in a class with Patrick Collentine, that I was introduced to neon and plasma — and where I met Ash Williamson, who, along with Joey Dullard soon after, went straight into the craft. It was Ash and Joey who first mentioned Jacob Fishman to me.

I ended up calling Jacob directly to help fill out my plasma work for my undergraduate show. I recall his voice lighting up to hear that I worked with glass, and that he “loved glassblowers” because we love to do everything and anything with glass. But he recommended I work with Ash to help him get more experience. It was through those friendships that I first understood how supportive Jacob was, not just of neon as a craft, but of anyone who showed up asking to learn.

It’s worth saying who he was to the wider world, too. Jacob was born and raised in Chicago by Leonard and Nancy Fishman. He met his future wife Petrie at New Trier West High School, and the two of them built a life and a business together — Lightwriters Neon — after Jacob earned his electrical engineering degree at the University of Arizona and they married in 1977.

What made Jacob unique in this field was that he was never just an artist or just an engineer — he was both, fluently, and he spent fifty years closing the gap between the two. He co-authored The Neon Engineers Notebook, a resource that shaped how a generation of us understand the craft technically as well as artistically. Outside the shop, he played guitar and percussion with Petrie and friends, pursued photography, and served as president of the Northshore Radio Club, where his love of HAM radio brought people together across his hometown and around the world. Everyone who knew him will tell you the same thing first: he was sociable, warm, and always had a joke ready.

That warmth showed up as generosity, in ways big and small, constant and quiet. He gave to institutions — Pittsburgh Glass Center among them, where his gifts and donations of spare parts were significant in helping bring neon to Pittsburgh as it exists today. He gave to individuals — artists and colleagues who called on him for advice, referrals, and repair work, trusting that Jacob would either know the answer or know exactly who did.

He and his daughter Zoelle made a yearly trip to Pittsburgh, working on neon repairs — both glass and electrical — for the Carnegie Museum of Art, since Jacob was one of the few people in the world to have the privilege of producing and maintaining neon for the artist Bruce Nauman. I’ve had the privilege of becoming friends with Zoelle through those visits, connecting her with opportunities to teach at PGC and to expand her work in plasma. That, too, is part of what Jacob built: not just a body of work, but a lineage of people who keep showing up for each other.

I felt that generosity myself, directly. Jacob made asking for help easy. I could call, text, or email him with whatever I was stuck on — bending, bombarding, equipment problems, questions about my own solo exhibition — and he made room for it. I didn’t reach out constantly, but every time I did, I felt heard. More than that, I felt supported, and I’d even say empowered — by his acknowledgment, and by our relationship, to push for the changes I believed in at Pittsburgh Glass Center. That kind of quiet, consistent backing from someone you respect changes what you’re willing to attempt.

There’s one thing I regret, and I want to say it plainly rather than bury it. A year or two ago, I recorded an interview with Jacob for the podcast. I never published it. At the time, I felt like the questions weren’t good enough — that they didn’t round out who he was, the full scope of his impact, or the legacy he was building. I kept thinking I’d go back, ask better questions, do it properly. It was meant to be a companion episode to one with Morgan Crook, Jacob’s longtime friend and co-author on The Neon Engineers Notebook.

I don’t have the interview I wish I’d recorded. I have the one I did record. I’m going to edit it and release it this year, imperfect questions and all, because it’s what I have of his voice, and it deserves to be heard rather than sitting unfinished in a folder. That’s the lesson in the regret: don’t wait for the better version of the thing you already have in hand.

To Petrie, the family, and everyone who carries Lightwriters Neon Chicago forward — it is a generational gift to the world of neon light. The science nerd in me wants to say it plainly: light reflects off the world so that we can see and be seen. It is absorbed so that it can be held and understood. It is transmitted so that it can be shared with others. No matter how late, it always feels too early to turn off the lights.

We’ll see the everlasting of you and your family in this world. Thank you.

Rest in peace, Jacob Fishman. The light you bent, and the light you taught the rest of us to bend, isn’t going out.