.

What the Tide Brought In

2012-02-02T11:45:00.000-08:00

Last month Puget Sound experienced two, count 'em two, King Tides, and we've just had a windstorm and lots of rain, so that calls for a bit of beachcombing. And I'm inspired: reading Flotsametrics and the Floating World, How One Man's Obsession With Runaway Sneakers and Rubber Ducks Revolutionized Ocean Science, by Curtis Ebbesmeyer and Eric Scigliano. What's more, they laid the foundations of their exploration of ocean frontiers here in Puget Sound.

It was a fine day for it, and Abbie and I slowly strolled along the tide line, noses down, expecting treasure. If you think about it, and you keep your mind open, you will always find treasure.

It seems what comes up on the beach, regardless of how amazing it might be (I once found a dried lotus pod, with seeds, that had to have drifted in from the Far East), is predictable, even as to time of arrival. The contours of shore and sea bed, rivers, winds, the sun, the moon, the spin of our planet, all combine in a complex interaction to create gyres, like the great Humboldt Current, and slabs of specific salinity that can deliver Japanese net floats to the Pacific Northwest shoreline, or South American tropical seeds to Galveston Bay. One could even traverse all the great oceans, adrift, in 71 years.

We found the sole of a vintage shoe, very narrow heeled, and once stitched. Sometimes really old things do show up; even today, First Nations canoes can drift in remote inlets and be discovered. As with this sole, though, I believe in leaving them as found so someone else can also experience the curiosity and unwinding mystery of ocean currents.

It's inspiring, and it calls to mind so many of the great works of poets and writers, Rime of the Ancient Mariner, for instance, and especially one of the longest sentences in modern fiction, from Ernest Hemingway -- please follow the link for a fine treat for your hungry mind and heart.

So there'll be even more sea-inspired works at my bench, too, like the bangle set I just finished, and plan to list on Etsy soon. It's in the tribal style -- and considering the subject of tribes, we can let go of that idea of a time tribes were untouched by European culture until we landed -- they were beachcombers, too, and especially happy to find iron washed up in shipwrecks, long before Columbus planted his flag on their shores.

“That something I cannot yet define completely but the feeling comes when you write well and truly of something and know impersonally you have written in that way and those who are paid to read it and report on it do not like the subject so they say it is all a fake, yet you know its value absolutely; or when you do something which people do not consider a serious occupation and yet you know truly, that it is as important and has always been as important as all the things that are in fashion, and when, on the sea, you are alone with it and know that this Gulf Stream you are living with, knowing, learning about, and loving, has moved, as it moves, since before man, and that it has gone by the shoreline of that long, beautiful, unhappy island since before Columbus sighted it and that the things you find out about it, and those that have always lived in it are permanent and of value because that stream will flow, as it has flowed, after the Indians, after the Spaniards, after the British, after the Americans and after all the Cubans and all the systems of governments, the richness, the poverty, the martyrdom, the sacrifice and the venality and the cruelty are all gone as the high-piled scow of garbage, bright-colored, white-flecked, ill-smelling, now tilted on its side, spills off its load into the blue water, turning it a pale green to a depth of four or five fathoms as the load spreads across the surface, the sinkable part going down and the flotsam of palm fronds, corks, bottles, and used electric light globes, seasoned with an occasional condom or a deep floating corset, the torn leaves of a student’s exercise book, a well-inflated dog, the occasional rat, the no-longer-distinguished cat; all this well shepherded by the boats of the garbage pickers who pluck their prizes with long poles, as interested, as intelligent, and as accurate as historians; they have the viewpoint; the stream, with no visible flow, takes five loads of this a day when things are going well in La Habana and in ten miles along the coast it is as clear and blue and unimpressed as it was ever before the tug hauled out the scow; and the palm fronds of our victories, the worn light bulbs of our discoveries and the empty condoms of our great loves float with no significance against one single, lasting thing—the stream.”

Abby (Abbie) is Sweet and Clean

2012-01-22T10:55:00.000-08:00

After a walk in the melting piles of gritty gray snow, if you're low-slung, you come back icky, which makes it not so good for a winter snuggle up -- the remedy is a , oh bow-wow, grr, -- bath. Worse, there's getting dry again, from the, woof, grr, bow-wow, ruff -- hair dryer. It's enough to exhaust even the relentless, tough, Pembroke Welsh Corgi. But you get treats afterward, and you can run all through the house searching for your lost smell. The humans seem to like it when this has happened, but they have absolutely no sense of smell and less good taste about it!

Abby Comes Home

2012-01-13T09:15:00.000-08:00

When there's a dog-sized hole in your heart, you eventually have to fill it, and I hope you'll be as lucky as me. I applied to Seattle Purebred Rescue for a Corgi and heard right away from Mary Day, in Lacy who helps Corgis find new homes. Wonder of wonders, this lovely little girl needed a new home after her good people decided she needed to be separated from an aggressive half brother. They had given her training, love, exercise, all the right attention, and I know it broke their hearts. But it's almost as though they had created this special companion for my retirement, who already is getting me out and walking around the neighborhood, and briskly. She is so bright and jolly and adaptable -- it's like we had been together for years, and she even respects the guinea pigs although she wishes they needed some herding. My biggest concern was whether she would settle down while I spend a few hours in my studio, making things. Well, as you can see above, noooooo probbie! And just in case you think that little size means you have a foo-foo on your hands, read the story of Ole, who survived an avalanche and came home by himself. You may think that Nordic name is not so appropriate for a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, but they are descended from the Swedish Vallhund, brought to Wales by Vikings long ago. I plan to test that lineage soon -- we are going to celebrate the birth of Dr. Martin Luther King by going snowshoeing. That dog-sized hole in my heart has been custom fit!

Snowshoes, Skijoring, Ski Buggies

2011-12-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my friend Jena and I fled the gray skies of western Washington and headed over Snoqualmie pass to Stampede Pass for a little snowshoe trip in a flatter countryside. The location is very popular with snow mobilers, dog sledders, snowshoers, track skiers and skate skiers -- and thanks to the Sons of Norway with a lodge nearby, Trollhagen, the trails are well marked, mapped, and the various kinds of users have resources to keep from competing. Washington State has provided some of the trail grooming, as well, and for a permit fee, we can park there and head for the trails we want to explore.

A Son of Norway is all set up to let his Malamute Husky cross breed take him for out a fine winter glide. On return, he said, she is happiest when she is very tired. Too bad I couldn't get the happy smile on her face, too. The sport is called "skijoring." A perfect reason to have a husky in the house.

Here a new papa is converting the stroller to a sled by replacing the wheels with skis. Baby and mom waited in the warm car while dad got things ready. He told me that when baby is big enough for her own skis, they could sell the rig, but I suggested he save it for the next one. This drew a skeptical sigh from him, and he said "no, I think I'll plan on selling it."

Here comes the distinctly Viking Trollhaugen snowcat to pick up passengers bound for the lodge. It's a long time since we prayed to be delivered from the rage of the Norsemen and things that go bump in the night -- now we're happy to see them coming our way to take us up hill easily to their warm, fragrant sunny and hospitable lodge and network of beautiful groomed ski trails. My own ski skills are so humble, I hope I can reincarnate as one qualified to join the Sons of Norway and ski with the best of them!

And now for an array of images from my happy day wearing my favorite footwear, my "instruments of happiness and delight," snowshoes, with a nice backpack cargo including the 10 essentials, a thermos of hot tea and a tasty Orchard Bar:

Winter is really not so bad around here!

sunlight, frost, rime ice, climate change

2011-12-07T10:59:00.000-08:00

We've had a full week of thermal inversion here in Seattle, with sprinkles of sunshine, fog and frost. The freezing level has retreated to 11,000 feet, below the summit of 14,410 Mt. Rainier, except it is "on the deck" in the passes at 3,000 to 4,000 feet. We get great, thick pea soup fogs at night, that begin to freeze just before dawn. Morning driving is hazardous and our usual commute snarl has gotten much worse.

Yesterday, on a walk at Tiger Mountain, I was delighted with the frozen fog on foliage, quickly thawing in the morning sun.

This phenomenon is called "rime." It doesn't happen only on this small scale -- summits of the Great Northwest westernmost Peaks, like volcanic Mt. Shasta, often are covered with rime ice from the moisture laden winds that come in from the Pacific and condense as they rise to go inland. When I climbed Shasta in 1996, the entire summit looked like a big, frozen cauliflower -- today, sadly, climate change has left Shasta mostly snow and ice free. This is true of all the great summits and glaciers I have known; they have become noticeably bare in just the last 10 years. Glaciers have retreated as ablation zones grow wider. Climbing routes now entail slogging through loose dirt, mud and stone before getting onto any proper mountaineering ground.

Still, on a pretty, frosty morning, lower down, you can see the rime ice making beautiful lace of the winter leaves and grasses, ephemeral as it is, appreciate the beauty, and hope we can turn ourselves around in time to save ourselves and the great glaciers and summits that are the top of our watershed, where the winter snows and ice save the waters for us until summer.

The day before, on a walk in woodland Meadowdale Park, the sunlight slanted through the canopy and shone through maple leaves, sword fern, and Oregon grape. The woodland floors in the Northwest are incredibly dense, and evolved shaped by moisture that rolls in from the sea through the high canopies of fir, hemlock, and lowlands maple and alder -- all have lived and worked together to provide pure, clean water and bless us and our rivers with pure and abundant water, trout and salmon. What will become of this wealth if we steal it away? You cannot hold it in your hands, yet it shapes your life, each day.

Folk-Tech Metal Masters

2011-11-23T12:11:00.000-08:00

My most favored metal techniques involve pushing the stuff around with hammers and punches and stuff and cutting it up. These techniques would be "chasing," "repousse," and "piercing" -- all of which are hand techniques, and usually executed in silver, which is a nicely ductile and biddable metal. Oh how I have wished to carry these techniques over to steel, which, in my, book rules. I must be a throwback to the days when the value of the metal was in its utility, not some sort of abstract measure of exchange or beauty. If you had just one warped bottle cap in King Arthur's court, you would be hanging around with Merlin. Well, now I've discovered some real magicians in Haiti are doing those beloved techniques in very large scale on recycled steel drums. Do follow the link and visit, and you will see a team of steel drum makers and an artist who have turned from making music to making visual art. And I hope you'll understand their mastery, as I do, when you see a picture of the work in progress! I am inspired to continue in my search to work more steel better, and quit complaining about my lack of equipment, like why don't I have a press or a blowtorch and a few extra apprentices to help me out! Feh! These guys deserve our respect and appreciation in more ways than one. You can see that adversity does not get in the way of their sublime self expression. Take that and keep it in your heart when you think you are discouraged, and keep calm and keep on keeping on!

We don't need no stinkin blow torch -- we can set fires inside the drums to anneal them. You may not know that annealing steel isn't such an easy thing for the average craftsman without a forge to heat it red hot and cool it slowly so it stays soft (quenching hardens the stuff, just the opposite of non ferrous metals). But then, these guys are not average craftsmen. They have been working steel to musical specifications for generations and making beautiful music with it, which means they already know how to anneal and temper the stuff to specification.

Under the spreading banana tree, the village smithy ... no, not that! Here an expert smith is preparing the metal for working, I think, that is, with his ball peen hammer, he's flattening it into sheet for the next step. And I'll bet it's not as noisy there on the sand, and do you notice his technique for holding it down while be bangs on it? Don't need to steenkin' vices or clamps, either. And look at what a fine condition his work keeps him in. He's really buffed.

And the result of all this -- a graceful dove bearing the olive branch of peace, just right for this season.

I think I'm going shopping in Haiti! It's a nice way to spread a bit of cash where it's needed.

Thanks to Mimi and her team of metalsmiths for the beauty they are sharing with the world.

So, click on this link to go there, too :http://www.etsy.com/shop/HaitianMetal

Peace, joy, courage and determination out there to all of you, and pass it on!

It Came From Outer Space

2011-11-22T16:12:00.000-08:00

Over in Eastern Washington, where the rock climbers go to test their mettle, is a fine outcropping of pure granite named Snow Creek Wall -- stellar climbs there are named Outer Space, Orbit, and such. Have patience, I'm getting to it -- so these two climbs are considered journey pieces and when one gets a few pitches led on one of them, one is chuffed, which calls for a post-climb celebration in the Snow Creek Parking lot, of good brew, frosty and wet, fresh from a stash hidden in Icicle Creek on a hot day.

This results in bottle caps that lie in the gravel parking lot through seasons of snow and blistering sun until they have reached found object perfection. Hence, the jewels here, caught in riveted steel orbits, to swing and sway seductively at your ears.

They are all hand wrought hammered steel, nicely grunged with genuine Washington state dirt, and waxed to preserve the finish that makes them look as though some future archaeologist had found them, wondering what ritual significance the votive offerings at this sacred gathering place may have had.

The Devil and Paganini

2011-11-15T10:13:00.000-08:00

Inspired by a biographical essay of the great Nicolo Paganini, published in The Musician, Vol. XI, No. 5, May, 1906, I present a haunting stickpin of hand wrought steel, with a gorgeous skull hand carved in Bali. These skulls were not used as jewelry, but as some sort of ritual item, and prior to the ban, were carved of ivory. Now, buffalo bone is used. This particular skull was made prior to the advent of electrical tools for carving. The artisanship is so fine and true it transcends simple frightfulness! So true also of the virtuosity of the greatest violinist to have lived, born impoverished, a prodigy, with a turbid history mixed of fatal love, accursed health, imprisonment, and sublime genius.

I have kept the form simple and straightforward to show off the fine carving. The pin has the feel of a time when a jabot billowed at the neck of a gentleman. It could work as well now as a shawl clasp, for the time traveler's cravat, or an ornament for the adventurous lady.

And just a note about the word "forged" -- in metalworking terms that word means a piece has been worked red hot, hence from the forge, typically iron or steel. This piece was annealed but worked cold, hence, "hand wrought" or "cold forged" would be the applicable term. The taper of the pin was hammered, rather than filed, to add strength and a certain gravitas to the workmanship.

The Last Heretic

2011-11-12T08:28:00.000-08:00

Heretic or Martyr? It just depends upon which side of a doctrinal debate you find yourself. Personally, I think the whole idea that a person should be put to death for a belief is evil in itself.

In times when personal choice is criminalized, it's wise to look into the long history of heresy. Roman officials executed the first heretic 385, 5 years after the "Edict of Thessalonica" of Theodosius I, which criminalized divergence from established dogma. In 1836 The Spanish Inquisition condemned its last heretic, Cayetano Ripol, a teacher accused of teaching Deism in his Spanish classroom. The Church held out for burning, but the state executed him by hanging. His body was then placed in a barrel, painted with flames, and buried in unconsecrated ground. Deism holds that while God created the world, he does not interfere in the affairs of man. The last heretic apparently proved that. Incidentally, the word "heretic," comes from the Greek, αἵρεσις, which originally meant "choice." Time travelers, be aware of history, know that bad ideas are never extinct, and plan a good escape route.

One of the joys of working with old found objects is tuning into them and seeing what they may evoke. This cuff is an altered brass escutcheon embossed with acanthus and urn, funereal in the true Victorian spirit, which I hand painted with flames. The brass chain closure is a vintage chain from Alchemyshop, in Latvia, to which have been added a milagro as toggle closure and a rough garnet crystal as a counterweight.

And remember, one person's heretic is another person's martyr, so keep a sharp, skeptical eye on all true believers and dogmatists.

You have been warned!

Bargains in Art Jewelry!

2011-10-12T12:56:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year, when the artist is preparing many new things for the coming season, and wanting to send along some things to new homes. My Etsy shop has a Bargain Basement (shh!) with free shipping in the US. You might want to take a look. Here's a sampling -- check my shop on Etsy (link to the right) for prices. How can you lose?

An Edwardian style layered necklace in honor of Lady Shackelton, who braved the husband who braved the South Pole. Antique bugle beads and a pendant cobbled from an antique furniture escutcheon.

A big statement assemblage necklace, featuring a 50s era enameled crest and two Spanish coins, along with vintage rhinestones, a drawer pull, and quite a bit of attitude.

I can't believe I put this piece on sale; it is quite special, even if I say so myself. The focal point is a fine, handmade highly detailed volcanic clay bead, set in a reliquary of upcycled tin. Theese beads were carved of very fine black volcanic clay and fired to a matte sheen, soft reflections, and deep black color. Along the leather chord, you'll see more of those beads, plus some antique African beads and one rectangular 1920s brass costume bead with engraved Egyptian motifs.

Autumnal Morning Mist, Bittersweet

2011-10-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

Here in the Pacific Northwest, autumn brings not only new colors, but the fog we all know and love. It dampens everything, even sound, so that things become quiet-still. A brilliant maple tree can cut through the fog, though.

I love the way the misty air makes trees vanish into fading silhouettes, receding into an unseen, mysterious world .

The fog is a gift of the sea, coming in with moisture laden air, and sometimes you can smell the tangy sea-smell on the air, when the breezes are just right.

The fog condenses on everything and drips watery jewels from vines of fruiting bittersweet in my back yard. Good night, Summer. It's time to sing a lullaby to the trees, as they undress themselves for sleep.

Now you can see a network of branches and appreciate the moist texture of lichen. Welcome a new beauty in the woods as nature settles for a winter nap.

There are things to love about autumn and the fleeting light of shorter days. I'll start with the foggy maple tree and the dripping bittersweet vine.

Hummingbird Caught Sitting Still

2011-10-03T17:51:00.000-07:00

Here's a fine Anna's Humming Bird in a rare pose: sitting perfectly still,
with a tummy full of nectars of salvia and late summer roses.

Innocence Rewarded: A Boudoir Doll

2011-09-17T13:38:00.000-07:00

She should have suspected when Herbert, second cousin twice removed, next in line to inherit the mine, invited her to dine al fresco on a windy moor, that it would not go well. He claimed there must have been something wrong with the mushroom pate. Alas, another case of mistaken mycological identity.

Chloe is approximately 27 inches long, all cloth and ragged remnants of hand dyed lace. Her face is hand drawn, and I do beg you to take a look at her pretty little hands and feet as well. Of course, children should admire her from afar; she is intended only for the boudoir of an adult. She may be acquired in my Etsy store, link to the right.

Tinkham Tarns

2011-09-06T10:42:00.000-07:00

The glory of living in Seattle is that it takes only about 45 minutes drive time to reach a trailhead that can take you to a place like this! During the holiday weekend, I joined friends Paul, Sami, Jeanne, and Daisy (one year old the day before, making her about 7 in human years), for a glorious 5-lake hike up to the last of the Tinkham tarns, just below Tinkham Peak.

Here you will see the cliffs of the northeast face of Tinkham Peak, with talus slope and the remains of snow shed from their sheer heights. It is this snow that feeds the tarn. The tarn in turn, hosts a nice population of trout, most likely humped up there in a barrel on Drunken Charlie's back years ago. Charlie was a sort of Johnny Troutseed, you might say. I have tried to find more about him, but so far, no luck. He's a legend around here and my brother tells me he stocked a lot of these mountain lakes.

The water was so clear you could see them, looking as though they were flying.

Such a thing must drive the fishermen absolutely nuts, to have to watch the while the smart ones turn up their noses at one's flies. I think that day, though, they were eating mosquitoes, which is the only justification I can think of for mosquitoes. Trout must be fed. We humans were happy with light, cool breezes blowing mosquitoes away.

Sami, who likes to take a dip in cold waters gave the tarn a toes up rating of quite cold, and got out quickly to dry in the sun.

What a beautiful day!

Prepare Early for Halloween

2011-09-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

Well, they moved in and just took over; they are noisy, untidy and they won't be budged. They don't get along even with each other. We'd evict them, but no one has the guts to go in there and kick them out.

Two ghoul dolls (they were once called "Hershey's kisses gone bad") occupy a thinly veiled cigar box with bones, rusty tin, and a tattered lace curtain. The assemblage has been finished so that it may stand on a shelf or hang on the wall.

Nasty, nasty little boogers -- I don't know why you would want them in the house, but I am trying to get rid of them. You may inquire further at my Etsy shop, link on the right!

Tins Just Waiting for Upcycling

2011-08-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

Shh! Don't tell those commercial thrifts, they'll jack up the prices again and make these things too expensive to use for resale. This is a closeup up of my stash, just waiting to be scratched up, cut up and upcycled into things quite unexpected. I prefer to use reclaimed metal, which sets me free from the worry about waste and preciousness.

Now the next thing to consider is how not to do the expected, as in just cut out motifs. I like to do as Jenny and Loran do, use the metal structurally, for my own imagery.

I don't think I can cut up the salve and toffee tins, though. Those are too wonderful just the way they are!

Jenny Fillius Queen of Tin

2011-08-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to meet Jenny after she saw my work on Etsy and messaged me to say we had to get together, because we are from the same tribe. What flattery! I consider Jenny to be foremost among the artists who are using tin. Her wit and her sharp edges are always uplifting, especially on those days when I am taking myself way too seriously.

Feeling low, got those end-of-summer blahs? Do yourself a little favor: you can find deep healing at Jenny's place. And if you get curious about the great inner depth that creates these wonderful things, more shall be revealed at Design Faith. Get hip, get tin!

A World of Cookies: Babyboomer Nostalgia

2011-08-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

This highly collectible item was discovered in Palouse, Washington, a very old small town, on a blue-sky, sunny afternoon, just poking about, following my nose. It belonged to someone who loved it, since still has its Fred Roberts Company label, reading "Made In Japan." That phrase alone gives strong indication of its age:

"In 1939, the United States imposed trade restrictions on Japan as a result of the Japanese aggressions in Asia. (You will find nothing imported between 1939 and 1945.) Trade resumed in 1945 with the same 'made in Japan' mark required but Japanese manufacturers found that 'made in occupied japan' was an easier mark to sell to the Americans. That label was widely (but not exclusively) used until 1952 when the occupation ended." (Text from allexperts.com, linked above.)

So I would guess it is most likely post WWII to early "mid-Century Modern." It has raised cursive writing on it that reads "A World of Cookies." It stands 10-1/2 inches high with lid, and has an inside diameter of 7-1/4 inches. It's a real prize for the aficionado!

Because I often turn up neat things like this, things I can't resist and for which I have no room, I pass them along, so if you're interested, check my Etsy shop section, "Sundries." You can find a link to the shop in the right column, below.

A Very Old Ghost

2011-08-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

She's so far back on the family tree, she's hardly more than an elusive waft of fragrance, though she was once a Civil War era belle. She is the image of a very old tintype printed on muslin, adorned with shredded lace and old jewelry components, very gothic, Victorian, and creepy. She is filled with a combination of polyfiber and my own Northwest Gothic sachet, and if you hang her on the door knob or another place where she may gently flutter just a tiny bit, the scent will please you. From the top of her head with its tattered lace fascinator to the tip of her train, she is 16 inches long. Look closely and see the black lace mitts on her hands.

I bought the original tintype long ago; it is among the first of my collection. She is tightly corseted, which may explain her expression, but her face and hands caught my attention, and the cruel set of her jaw; her eyes very unusual, perhaps pale, pale blue, true "white eyes," that appear to be blazing with hard determination. A close look at her hands shows fine black lace mitts, but it also reveals hands that are coarsened, which is incongruent with her fine taffeta gown that must have been silk and taken as much as 20 yards to construct. So, to own the dress, she must have had some wealth, but to have those hands, she had to work with them, too. This set me to imagining a wife who had to contribute to the great labor required to keep to keep the plantation running. I know that the set of her jaw may be due to poor dental care or a painful corset, but it does look cruel to me, and so I imagine her as a slave owner, too, much like those revealed in Edward Ball's Slaves in the Family. Such ladies even found it fashionable to have small pearl handled whips, for dealing with their unhappy human possessions. For that, she deserves to have to haunt us for an eternity, and I don't care if it was fashionable, or the "custom of the country," a term used to euphemize a brutal, dreadful failure of the human heart. For a bit of fiction, well researched and set in old time New Orleans, a beloved city not without its shadows, read A Free Man of Color by Barbara Hambly, which is where I encountered that phrase, "a custom of the country." You know, there really are ghosts, and they haunt us yet. Slavery is one of the worst of them, but there are more.

Tobacciana

2011-07-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

“Tobacciana” is that class of antiques devoted to tobacco products and accessories, and all I can say is, given the cost of tobacco use to me and mine, I hope to see them pass into history peacefully, along with the rotary dial telephone and steel boned corsets. But the advertising graphics can be irresistibly cute, as they are here, in this bracelet cobbled from tobacciana: the base of the cuff is a flattened matchbox holder advertising Raj-era Taj Brand Cigarettes, topped by a tobacco tag (these were used to mark tobacco leaf purchases for the companies that would process them) for P. Lorillard Co., “3 Black Crows.” The nicely scratched and patinated assemblage is secured with bolts, eyelets and buttons to a giddy polka dot velvet and muslin band, and fastened with an antique copper chain and vintage copper plated bead. If you’ve quit, it’s a reminder of your great accomplishment, and if not, it can serve to defend your choice or help you make another choice. The choice is yours alone!

Summer White

2011-07-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Atlanta just on the border of women’s liberation. There were certain codes about seasonal dressing that had acquired the weight of propriety. We hadn't heard yet that propriety is not important for women who make history. Hoggirl of welltrainedmind.com states the Rules well. One must not:

"(1) Wear white on the bottom half of my person before Easter or after Labor Day; (2) Wear open-toed shoes before Easter or after Labor Day; (3) Wear linen or cotton voile before Easter or after Labor Day; or (4) Wear velvet before Thanksgiving or after Valentine's Day."

Somewhere in there is also a seasonal restriction on patent leather shoes. Of course, the exception to the rules was Resort Wear, if you were fortunate enough to be in Deauville for the season. To this day, I just can’t wear velvet in the summer. The very idea makes me perspire ... not just the heat and humidity, but the social embarrassment.

When Memorial Day had passed, Rich’s, The Store for Everything, stocked its jewelry counters with loads of cucumber-cool, chalky white jewelry: “ear bobs” of Haskell-esque wired-on white beads, necklaces of mixed chain and milk glass, white bangles to pile on the suntanned wrist. Just looking at them seemed to lower the temperature at least five degrees; they were cool to the touch and appropriate for the season.

Here’s a summer white treat for your neckline – a statement assemblage necklace of many elements gathered together to evoke those days when a lacy shirtwaist and the right accessories made you quite respectable, so long as you also had on clean, white shorty gloves.

The elements are an antique Dresden doll’s head of a boy in cap, a white enameled bow that was a lingerie pin in a former life, white beads from ear bobs, and a brass plaque from a fine furniture manufacturer, the well-known Maple & Co., which, with the antiqued, pale, syrupy Czech beads calls up the memory of maple ice cream. Oh, so cool and smooth!

Singing Bird Pistols

2011-07-09T09:35:00.000-07:00

Christies recently auctioned this precious and lovely pair of automatons for $5.8 million. It is one of two known such treasures, created by the Swiss watchmakers, Freres Rochat, in the early 19th Century. Don't expect bullets, expect something wonderful and sweet, embellished with diamonds, pearls, gold and enameling. Ditch the Game Boy and visit the Age of Enlightenment. Feed your imagination and give your thumbs a rest! These beauties call to mind the poem of W.B. Yeats, "Sailing to Byzantium":

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Many thanks to my Honorary Cousin, Bambi, for bringing this exquisite kernel of delight to my attention!

Chaucer's Purse

2011-06-21T14:12:00.000-07:00

The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse

To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight

Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!

I am so sory, now that ye been lyght;

For certes, but ye make me hevy chere,

Me were as leef be layd upon my bere;

For which unto your mercy thus I crye:

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!

Now voucheth sauf this day, or yt be nyght,

That I of yow the blisful soun may here,

Or see your colour lyk the sonne bryght,

That of yelownesse hadde never pere.

Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere,

Quene of comfort and of good companye:

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moote I dye!

Now purse, that ben to me my lyves lyght

And saveour, as doun in this world here,

Out of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,

Syn that ye wole nat ben my tresorere;

For I am shave as nye as any frere.

But yet I pray unto your curtesye:

Beth hevy agen, or elles moote I dye!

Lenvoy de Chaucer

O conquerour of Brutes Albyon,

Which that by lyne and free eleccion

Been verray kyng, this song to yow I sende;

And ye, that mowen alle oure harmes amende,

Have mynde upon my supplicacion!

A marvelous antique coin purse battered for generations, despite supplications that it be full, suspended on an old spliced wooden rosary chain and a brass chain from Latvia (Alchemyshop, again), fastens with a vintage lanyard hook, a collection of Victorian buttons (always more of them than cash) and one evil eye bead to discourage thieves, with a pendant watch fob, most likely Victorian, but indeed quite as battered as the purse. A sweet embroidered basket of posies relieves the dark patina with green details to attract something green to go in there.

The real wonder of it all -- how did I remember Chaucer wrote a poem to his purse, when I often forget where I put my reading glasses?

The Cat Who Walks Alone

2011-06-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

HEAR and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild. The Dog was wild, and the Horse was wild, and the Cow was wild, and the Sheep was wild, and the Pig was wild -- as wild as wild could be -- and they walked in the Wet Wild Woods by their wild lones. But the wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.

Rudyard Kipling, Just So Stories, 1902. A wonderful story in its full length.

A marvelous (even if I do say so myself) bit of repoussage and chasing in hefty copper) creates a portrait of the Cat Who Walks Alone. A plaque of fine dimensional handwork has been riveted to a deep cuff. This piece is from my earlier work, made in 1982.

Daily Lessons

2011-06-09T10:43:00.000-07:00

I have boxes of ephemera and a box of scraps left from using the ephemera. So yesterday I began a personal challenge -- a collage a day. What popped up? Scraps from a very old grammar, with labeled lessons. It's funny how the lessons pop up from odd scraps of things, and you are able to put the simplest things you learned very young into a higher context. For instance, "don't cry over spilt milk" seems to be a teaching from Lord Buddha.

My friend Jenny Fillius of Lady Bug Circus gave me the beautiful hand-made paper cards, three-and a half by two, which add so much to this exercise. There's a link to her wonderful website over on the right column here.

I recommend this daily effort to anyone out there who feels caught in a creative block. Grab what comes to hand, clip it, shove it around, and a Lesson may come your way. Enjoy floating.

Between Wars

2011-05-21T09:01:00.000-07:00

The years between WWI and WWII were difficult for all Europe and the US, as well, almost as though one war had not truly ended before the next began. A whole generation of young men, those who had survived trench warfare, mustard gas, artillery, and hand combat, came home wounded in body, mind, and spirit. In France they were the "blesse de guerre," in the US, we sang "Buddy Can You Spare a Dime," in Germany, the Weimar Republic experienced hyperinflation and cultural decadence, culminating with the rise of Adolph Hitler.

This bracelet is made of old, antique, and vintage parts from that time -- a huge British penny with the image of King George, the reluctant king who took the throne abdicated by Prince Edward, his brother, in favor of Wallis Simpson. The main link came to me from Alchemyshop, of Etsy, as a bracelet link, beautifully patinaed to the color of khaki, with a distinctly martial air. To this I have added a segment of gorgeous three-sided chain, also from Latvia, a huge, natural crystal of garnet, very rough with matrix visible, and finished it with a steel clasp. It is 8 inches long.

Different millennium, same old stuff. Those who cannot remember history are condemned to repeat it.

Reliquary for A Castaway

2011-03-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

Supposed to Be Written by Alexander Selkirk, During His Solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez:

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

William Cowper, 1854

A reliquary for the castaway, made of a sea bean (entada giga), hollowed and filled wiith curiosities and a scrap of antique text (said curiosities are: a bit of egg shell, a bit of nacre from a seashell, skull of tiny mammal from an owl's cast; glass beads, kanji script, a scrap of skeletonized leaf), held fast on waxed died cotton twine, suspending also a mysterious nut that looks like a chicken heart that I can't find anywhere on the net (it originally came on a string of tulsi, most likely from India). For more on the use of natural seeds, beans and such, visit the lovely collection of Ruth J. Smith, online. You won't find the mystery nut there, however, but if you know what it is, please, please oh please, leave me a comment, otherwise I'll be thinking there's a chicken heart tree out there in India somewhere.

The Androgyne

2011-03-17T12:58:00.000-07:00

Australia is the first nation to issue a passport to a person with gender unspecified. This rustic necklace celebrates the idea that one need not shoehorn oneself into strictly defined genders of male or female, but that we all fall somewhere on a continuum, just as temperatures range from cold to hot. My idea here is that whoever you are, you are Hot!

A fine old porcelain hot water faucet handle, no telling how long hidden in the ground, emerges as an audacious pendant, with agate and moonstone inlay, hanging from a hand wrought steel chain, with rough nuggets of howlite to cushion the neck. It’s quite hefty, and you could defend yourself with it if it came to that – but I am thinking the times are changing and we can all benefit by accepting each other, even when we don’t understand. Open your hearts, my friends. And three cheers for the Aussies!

The Visitation

2011-02-28T18:11:00.000-08:00

Ya’ll coulda swore you left Aunt Hessie back at the old home place, up on the hill at Perpetual Rest, when the family moved west, but now here she is, putting off that soft old scent she wore, carrying her handbag and trailing tatters of lace. She never left the county once in her whole life, but you might say now she’s a free spirit, and she knows where you live.

Scented Door Knob Doll, with old mother (or auntie?) of pearl buttons, tatters of lace, and a sweet old dried rosebud, stuffed with dried rose petals, Spanish moss, and my special blend, Northwest Gothic, composed of patchouli, balsam, cedar and lavender. Left on your boudoir door, she’ll alert you with a soft clatter and wisp of fragrance when the door moves.

You’ll never be home alone again, BWA HA HA!! Just listed at my Etsy shop.

Neo Victorian Allegorical Salvage Cuff

2011-02-13T11:36:00.000-08:00

The story of Cupid (Eros) and Psyche has been adopted by Jungians for an allegory of the journey of a woman to individuation -- Venus was jealous of Psyche's pure beauty and imposed her will in the relations between Cupid, her son, and Psyche. To win permission from Venus, Cupid went on strike and refused to fire his golden arrows. After months of no one — man or animal — falling in love, marrying, or mating, the Earth starts to grow old, which causes concern to Venus, for nobody praises her for Cupid's actions. Finally, she agrees to listen to Cupid's demands, according him one thing to have his own way. Cupid desires Psyche. Venus, upset, agrees to his demands only if he begins work immediately. He accepts the offer and takes off, shooting his golden arrows as fast as he can, restoring everything to the way it should be. People again fall in love and marry, animals far and wide mate, and the Earth begins to look young once again. Here, in this reconstructed antique drawer pull, Cupid lies sleeping. When he awakes, that is, when love is in action, the Earth can become young again. This piece is actually an antique drawer pull escutcheon that has been altered to hold the inlaid resin image of Cupid.

The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea

2011-01-29T11:52:00.000-08:00

Named for the resin inlaid bezel focal piece that reminded me of Yukio Mishima's novel, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace With the Sea, a story of a man with competing passions, a woman and the sea that he feels is his true and only home.

This neck piece is made completely of things found in the process of decay (or change, more accurately), and it is meant to continue changing. Collaged to the surface of the old leather pouch is antique text, hand stitching, cotton tatters, recycled sari silk and fragrant beeswax. It's definitely a statement piece, and not for the faint of heart. Wear it to remind yourself of the sad outcome of warring passions or hang it on the wall.

I'm in Print!

2011-01-29T11:31:00.000-08:00

My fibula made it into Brenda Schweder's latest book from Lark Press, Steel Wire Jewelry -- that's my fibula in the lower right corner of page 23! And it's also my photograph of the piece (not the same as the one to the left). I couldn't be more pleased. But even more pleasing is the whole book with many hints about working in my favorite medium, steel wire, and lots of examples of the work of other artists, as well. Do yourself a favor and order a pre-release copy , since the book is already making waves. It has been produced with the great graphic quality Lark is known for, and it is bound to be a mainstay in many artists' bookshelves. Even luckier, I got to attend a workshop with Brenda at The Ranch in Snohomish, Washington, for 3 days of projects and advice from Brenda, who is an excellent teacher, and generous with sharing her expertise. It's been an all-around fine experience for me, and I am looking forward to more work in steel.

May & The Vamp: BFF

2011-01-08T13:15:00.000-08:00

They have bonded during the ordeal of their respective facial rejuvenation and makeover, when they met in the waiting room. The Vamp swears that when the Sheik finds her tent, she will not forget her friend, but set aside some time for them to enjoy a hen party. (The term may derive from the custom of henna parties, when Turkish women would celebrate weddings with a bride to be and paint their hands and feet with fine henna tattoos.) Well, the Sheik hasn't yet appeared on The Vamp's horizon, and May has more of an interest in her own inner life, so at this point, the girls are not at much risk of forgetting their pledge of lasting friendship. They are available as a set, on Etsy, so that their friendship need not be geographically restrained, with a twofer deal on shipping . . . And may we all remember that a friend in hand is worth two Shieks in the, er, well, you get it.

Filling Marionette Lines -- Doll Facial Rejuvination Process

2011-01-07T11:18:00.000-08:00

BEFORE

AFTER

She was getting rather tired waiting for Valentino, and the ennui was beginning to show. Time for the facial rejuvenation. Polyester fiber fill is hypoallergenic, and ecologically friendly since it's can be made of recycled plastic; you can see her languor is preserved, but she has lost the slumping cheeks, so perhaps her sheik will remember where her tent is.

Inspired by that old 20s tune (since I got a nice new Uke for Christmas, I am paying attention to such things), "Sheik of Araby," with apologies for ethnocentric misunderstanding those people of the Middle East must endure from us, please just consider it an artifact, just like Aunt Jemima pancakes, and such. We really meant no harm (at least I think our folks didn't -- it was just sheer insensitivity, you know, unquestioned beliefs?), and we are paying a bit more attention these days, and, I hope, too, more respect, to the culture that brought us Rumi, Algebra, exquisite art, music, and great mysteries that seem to continue to perplex us. Inshallah, we shall one day all be brothers and sisters, as we should.

May's Sultry New Look -- Doll Makeover

2011-01-06T19:01:00.000-08:00

Just the other evening May sidled up to me and said, “Psst! Psst! You with the needle and thread! Don’t you think it’s about time I enjoyed un petit revamp de maquillage, ma cherie? I must also have a spot of bling and LOSE that wretched damn brown beret with the funky Bakelite; it is way too poco for the rakish slouch I prefer and the color is just about as off as a week-old porkchop; I must have un Nuevo Chapeau. And whilst I still believe, a la Ferlinghetti, that poetry must not be the underwear of the soul, really, a bit of an amp-up will increase my boudoir appeal, which is what I am, A Boudoir Doll, get it toots?” With that, what could I do but comply, and provide a bit of a touch up to improve her sultry appeal, a new fine black velvet beret salvaged from a little designer label number sussed out at Value Village, some ear-bobs, and a brooch. She’s still quite her own person, only more so, if you know what I mean. She yearns for a satin cushion in a boudoir, would even share her brooch with you on occasion, but take my advice, you should cut off the Miss Piggy re-runs. Enjoy for yourself the before and after, and see if May went over the top (as if she’d care a fig). Well, as before, she will come to you with a copy of May Sarton’s poem, “Now I Become Myself,” which is what she is, and the old designer label, as well. A good hat should have provenance.


Before she got fed up with the hat and all.

So, now May is off to Etsy to try her luck and locating that boudoir to haunt, er, ornament. And she is feeling much more confident, what with the makeover and all.

The fine poetry of May Sarton is written under her skirts, and the reference to Ferlinghetti is a reminder of his poem , "Underwear," which contains one of my favorite lines of poetry, "there can be no revolution while poetry is the underwear of the soul."

May Sarton's poem that made the inspiration for this doll is this:

"Now I become myself. It's taken

Time, many years and places;

I have been dissolved and shaken,

Worn other people's faces,

Run madly, as if Time were there,

Terribly old, crying a warning,

"Hurry, you will be dead before—"

(What? Before you reach the morning?

Or the end of the poem is clear?

Or love safe in the walled city?)

Now to stand still, to be here,

Feel my own weight and density!

The black shadow on the paper

Is my hand; the shadow of a word

As thought shapes the shaper

Falls heavy on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place

From wish to action, word to silence,

My work, my love, my time, my face

Gathered into one intense

Gesture of growing like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit

Fertile, detached, and always spent,

Falls but does not exhaust the root,

So all the poem is, can give,

Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!"

Sentient Being of the Week -- Veiled Chameleon

2010-12-23T00:14:00.000-08:00

She lives in a pet store in a very controlled environment, and because she is so high maintenance I don't think it feasible to take her home. But, oh, is she not beautiful and fascinating? She's a veiled chameleon.

Her eyes move 360 independently, so you just have to think what this one's sensorium is -- I believe you can say that what we see is actually not fully dimensional and that our vision imposes the limitation of perspective on what we see, which, when you think of it, is only a way for us to build a manageable visual reference to a field is actually much more complex. So, if we could see out of one eye looking behind, and the other, forward, what would the picture look like to us? It would be what this beauty sees, I guess. How marvelous. I just can't imagine how two separate views come together in the brain -- but watching long enough to see her capture dinner on the wing tells me that she is a hunter to be reckoned with. Slowly she moves, swaying in a sort of stop action frame by frame progress, deliberately the wide mouth opens, and, in a blur too fast to see, she nabs the hapless fly. I could watch all day. And, think of this, if you were able to travel back far enough in time, you could meet our common ancestor. We are remotely related. We both have spines. Some of us even eat bugs, too.

A Visit to High Camp

2010-12-17T09:16:00.000-08:00

Scottish Lakes High Camp is a wonderful retreat at 5,000 feet just over the pass on the eastern side of Washington, deep in tall alpine fir and snow. It's a very fine place to get away from what I call "sillyization," with a Finnish style sauna, and cozy cabins heated by wood stoves, and there's no sense in planning elaborate meals either, unless you can pull it off on two propane burners. Strictly soup and cheese, and that's enough, with heaps of serenity all around. There life is just so sweet with little effort, just the honest basics, all the rest provided by nature and gracious hosts, who'll keep you stocked with firewood and kindling, even a mint on your pillow. You get there from US 2, leave your car in a gated parking lot, and Don comes roaring down the mountain in a huge ol' Chevy to ferry you up 4 miles to mid mountain, and then the adventures begin. From mid mountain you travel by snow mobile with all your gear bungied under a tarp on a sled towed behind. It was my first snowmobile ride, but it couldn't compare to the ride back down 2 days later, with Sarah as a pilot, who is getting more expert since her first drive about Thanksgiving time -- we are talking downhill, big bumps, bat outta hell, throttle wide open wowie rides! When I got home from that one, I found the last boiled egg nestled in the butter tub. That was my second snowmobile ride. And not my last, I have to get back up there -- it is such a treat to step out the door onto perfect trackless snow without having to hump gear up those extra 3,000 feet on foot. All day snowshoe trips with views, yes, or a morning trip, an afternoon nap, and another trip in the late afternoon to catch the sunset and clouds. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

The First Snow & What To Do About It

2010-11-21T12:05:00.000-08:00

Well, here it is in Suburban Seattle, West Side of the Cascade Mountains, elevation 500 feet, and it is snowing, a whole week before Thanksgiving. It is snowing vigorously in the mountain passes (above 3,000 feet), traction tires and chains required. We have a good snowpack predicted this year because of La Nina. The current event down here in the burbs is clammy and cold and coming down in big, fluffy, wet blobs. Not sticking, as we say around here. Not much good for enjoying the phenom, I'd say, so I am indoors in my workroom doing some R&D.

After a recent run of recycled silk sachets I have a pile of small scraps with lots of enticing tatters. My motto is "no scrap too small," so I am trying out these small patchwork dolls, calling them Pagan Babies -- a friend once told me that the best speller in her parochial school got to name a pagan baby, so that's my takeoff point here. When she told me that story, I was rolling around on the floor with the dust bunnies -- sometimes ethnocentricity is so ridiculous that all you can do is laugh, and fire up your imagination.

I love the flavor of small flashes of delectable color, texture and straggling whisps of fine silk, layered and stitched by hand and relayered and restitched, until the original patterns are not quite there, and I am also trying my hand at unapologetic imperfection and immediacy.

These pagan babies are from somewhere long ago and far south of here, perhaps a high desert. Were they buried to keep company with a sacrifice? Found in the remains of a palace reduced to rubble? Dropped by a pilgrim long gone? Just another magical, mystery trip for a snowy, colorless day . . . remote sands, dry winds, ancient travel routes, not quite lost to time. Today I don't know if I will ever get to visit Urumchi, or the High Andes, but my imagination has plenty of frequent flyer miles. It's a nice way to travel on a snowy day, and you don't have to worry about the snoopy body scanner, either.

I'm Rockn' The Noir Scene

2010-11-16T09:57:00.000-08:00

'So honored to join this team of truly Noir and makers of fabulously sensuous art. We've got everything from bustiers to door knockers and other things you may not have thought about, or in your dreams, maybe. We have a new bloggie at http://noirscene.blogspot.com and of course you can link to it in my places to explore column over on the right, too. Go for a visit and get your senses supercharged. What really tickles me about this whole little experience, and the invitation is, well, I didn't know I was Noir, I just thought I was, well, a little different, you know . . . more shall be revealed in future posts. Many thanks to our fearless leader, Capitaine Tattered Rouge.

Anxious Anticipation & Black Friday

2010-11-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

I've been working (some might call it puttering) in my studio for a regular 40 hour work week (work I love) preparing for the famous "Black Friday."

Now, I am not one to celebrate the rampant materialism and gimme spirit that has besmirched a perfectly good Winter Solstice, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Christmas or whatever you celebrate or don't holiday, but it is the time of year people pay us artists and craftspeople a bit more attention, so it does get my attention as well.

The Etsy shop again gets a bit of a dust off and new things get made and listed. I have to admit though, I would make these things anyway, and keep on with it, until I crowded myself out of my own nest. Such a dilemma: it takes a market to support us, but too much concern with the demands of a market is a sure-fire way to kill off our creativity. What's an artist to do?

I'm Published! It's ADQ

2010-11-05T08:20:00.000-07:00

I am so happy to report my piece "Bottle Baby" was accepted for the Milieu Challenge in Stampington's Art Doll Quarterly. You will get to see the poor tyke in the Winter issue. What a treat for me to be amongst so many fine doll artists -- I truly appreciate it.

The inspiration of this piece came from deep down, with the thought of how much of who we become starts in infancy, remembering Georgia summers that made babies sweat, glistening in their tiny fat neck in rings and gummed with red clay dust, and eavesdropping the conversations of mothers at morning coffee. Those babies not breast fed were "bottle babies," and considering how some grew to be so intimate with the bottle, as the piece developed, a message came through, but I hope, one of compassion along with irony.

This piece features all kinds of goodies: an old gessoed, metallic painted cedar box (still fragrant) that I think is a shop project; a candy tin, a tatted medallion, antique lace, a tattered doily, scraps of a last-gasp ball gown, a candy mold, old text, tin type frame components, old costume jewelry, 19th c. marbled book end papers. The baby doll is very small, handmade (by me) cloth body (old wool jersey sweater) just like the very old cloth body dolls were made long ago, with paper clay head, hands, and feet -- and a little old face all scrunched up, ready to let 'er rip! It isn't always easy being a baby, is it?

2010-10-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

My Own Private Dias de los Muertos

2010-10-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

Since I couldn't get down to Oaxaca this year to join Michael deMeng for his workshop during Dias de los Muertos, I have been celebrating at home, on my own, in my workshop, inspired by listening to corridos, especially those of Chavela Vargas, and especially the tragedy of la Llorona, a woman whose soul was consumed by toxic passion, amor perverso. This is my evocation of the story, a demi-parure of necklace and earrings. This will be part of my costume for the holiday, my own, private Dias de los Muertos, to set aside a day to commune with my own loved ones who now live in my heart and, in my hopes, in another dimension, at one with the Universe. And also to pay my respects to la Paloma y el Sapo, whose great, passionate love and great, passionate art have enriched my life.

The necklace is made of rebar tie wire, a medicine bottle, a milagro of la Corizon, the glass lid of an old mustard pot, a yak bone mala bead in the form of a skull; sweet, rich red African pottery beads and betel nuts; the earrings are an evocation of Carl Jung's gift to Frida, the silver hands depicted in her self portraits, and made of desert-blasted rusty tin.

Found Object Dollies

2010-10-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

These are clothespin dolls made for the holidays. They started with the cranky faces of toddlers from carte de visites -- I find the ones of children especially fascinating, even more when the baby Victorians pout -- irresistible! The clothespin dolls make a good project to use up those bits of fabric that seem too nice to throw away but too small to use. And the wings came from my secret stash of rusty debris out in a coulee in Eastern washington. I decided not to use the cans with bullet holes. Peace!

Time Capsule Found Object Necklace

2010-10-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

An old watch case, a glass vial of watch parts, a bit of steel wire, beach glass, galvanized tubing of unknown purpose, a leaf skeleton, and the image of a pouting child long grown and gone.

Quick Before It Melts

2010-10-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

Just one more 'shroom shot before the snows really fly -- this one found just before we reached the summit meadows of Mt. Persis in a grove of hemlock and heather. There was a short bout of snow above 3,000 feet last Thursday. Couldn't resist a snow capped mushroom, at all -- wouldn't want to fry it up to prove it, but I think this is a King Bolete.

Mushrooms in the Fall

2010-10-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

A bonus day of sunshine in early October, just above Snoqualmie Pass in Washington state, and the woods seem filled with treasure. This time, after a hot, well watered summer, and recent rains, the treasure is mushrooms -- popping up rapidly, some appearing after we have passed by and found on the return to our trail head. I think these are Amanitas and they make me think of boiled eggs, but don't eat them! The lore of mushroom edibility is variable and not something that can be passed along in print -- it really takes a teacher and long-time familiarity with an area and a species, since the mushrooms are often hard to identify, and mistakes can be fatal.

Above, as she emerges from the forest duff, and below, fully emerged. Possibly an Amanita; what a pretty name, and beautiful lemony color with cottony white "gems" that make me think of meringue. But also possibly quite poisonous.

I'm not attracted to them for food, but they have the most wondrous shapes and colors. And I like to think of them as what they are, the fruiting bodies of a wide-spread, subsurface mycelium, popping up just to spread the spores of the organism. What follows are more pictures, of more unidentified treasure, maybe poisonous, maybe not, but beautiful nonetheless.

They bring to mind all sorts of myths and symbols -- fairy rings, toadstools, the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, made all the more entrancing if you get down to visit with them eye to eye. Many have distinctive aromas, ranging from fetid to sweetly earthy.

And as for morphology, they are so richly varied and variable that it could consume a lifetime of study and fascination. What governs their shapes? How is the shape adapted to environment; is it an adaptation? What advantages may a shape give; for that matter, is there any sort of competition amongst the mycelia? Perhaps quite ignorance-governed questions of a layperson, but they reflect that there are still broad areas of mystery all around us, if we will only look and question.

For my part, I can look and look and wonder, and know that some time, somewhere, a mushroom is bound to pop up in my art work, a banner of the mysteries below, the ones hidden behind the ordinary ground where we walk, the trees that shadow our way, so secretly wide-spread that one is considered the largest living organism on the planet. Don't you just love it? We can never, never, never know it all!

Thy Fearful Symmetry

2010-09-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

I have been interested for some time in substituting printed cookie tin metal and other metal scrap for the silver sheet metal I once used -- the imagery can be wonderful and can stand as enameling might, rather heraldic. So here's my first piece using a cookie tin, old leather bookbinding, antique school book pages, cobbler's linen, iron binding wire, rebar tie wire, an ormolu escutcheon, old Chinese coin, and a glass inlaid shirt button, which all came together under the tutelage of the artist I call Maestro, Keith ("No Glue") LoBue, and what-ho, no glue (or soldering) in this piece. That day of lessons from Maestro was a real turning point for me, or more like the cairn you place when your trail makes a big turn headed to another mountain entirely. The cookie tin was illustrated with knockoff imagery from Le Douanier, Henri Rousseau, who was thought to be a primitive in his day, but as so many "primitives" prove to be, was actually a visionary, and its title, of course, refers to the famous Tyger, Tyger Burning Bright, although in this case El Tigre is actually a jaguar, but you can see how Le Douannier understood the thing we project upon this magnificant wild animal. This piece takes a bit of the form of a hand mirror, as though you saw El Tigre when you held a mirror to your face. Wild Thing, you make my heart sing! Can you dig it?

You make everything

Grrrrrrrrr

oooooooo

vvvvvy

Wild Thing

I think I love you ...

On Bourbon Street

2010-09-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

I visited New Orleans long before Katrina, and the views of shabby facades in the Quarter with hints of secret elegance stay with me even now. Here's a pendant that evokes those memories, of very humble parts that add up to a lovely, louche, mysterious whole, a tribute to N'Orlins, the Big Easy where an artist can practice and share, live and love. Long may we have her as our sweet refuge. Let's keep those Saints marching in.


Whiskey (Bourbon, of course) bottle cap with lens, cigar box label, wire, cracked crystal bead


On the back, a fragment of a poem

The New and Improved Queen of the Goblins' Ball

2010-08-31T11:11:00.000-07:00

I felt a little uneasy, and none of the beading seemed to be going very well, was I rushing things? I think so. Sometimes you have to rework a piece to get it where you want it to be.

The motto on the old button, which I have learned is a blazer button, says in Latin, "Spes Nostra es Deus."

Queen of the Goblins Ball

2010-08-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

Just listed on Etsy for the ghastly grand dame who wants plenty of advance time to prepare her wardrobe -- things are getting a bit autumnal, you know. This one was lots of fun to put together, with a vintage insignia button, possibly military with a Latin motto around the edges, service pin enamel badges, ethnic beads, and old jewelry parts reclaimed. The little skull is polymer clay. And of course, the ever luscious sari silk ribbon that is so wonderfully tatty; this time it's blood red. Whether you're Rubenesque or wraithlike, the bow at your neck will tailor fit you and may draw attention from your favorite vampire. Tasty.

Romaine, Lady Monson

2010-08-10T15:43:00.000-07:00

Romaine, Lady Monson, nee Stone , was an American heiress, the daughter of General Roy Stone, veteran of the Spanish American War, and one of the grand promenade of American women who married into European titled aristocracy. On the grand promenade was also the beautiful young woman who became the mother of Winston Churchill. In a wonderful old book, The American Almanac Year-Book Cyclopaedia and Atlas, there are pages devoted to the portraits and lineages of these young ladies who swept from wealth to nobility and became icons of the romantic yearnings of generations of girls.

In tribute to Romaine, who was a woman of intelligence as well as beauty, I was inspired to create a high collar necklace with her portrait. Her face, from the Cyclopaedia, is collaged on a scroll-patterned oval pendant, suspended from a fine antique cut steel and brass button, and a cockaded band of lustrous recycled sari silk of a royal hue, layered with natural brass chain and antique cut glass beads.

I hope it captures something of the sumptuous languor and heedless elegance of the age known as the Belle Epoque. And heedless it was, a time of unrestricted wealth and spending, soon to end in the shock and travail of World War I.

To learn more of the grand style and fascination of the Edwardian Age, visit The Edwardian Promenade, Evangeline's lovely website that explores it more deeply and is indeed a treat for the eyes and mind

Olympic Mt. Wildflowers

2010-08-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

Campanula rotundifolia (Pipers Harebell, Bluebells of Scotland), on a misty ridge between Hurricane Hill and the Elwah Trail, at about 6,000 ft. elevation, nodding on slender stalks weighted with rain. They do seem as though they could be ringing, but so finely we couldn't hear.

The Nootka Rose, rosa nootkana, nestled amongst fir needles. If you meet her, do stop to enjoy her fragrance, which is rose squared, just as the wild strawberry is sweeter and more intense, so is the Nootka Rose.

Orthocarpus imbricatus, or "owl's clover" is closely related to the paintbrush family, having a similar 5-fold symmetry, but woody stems. In the Olympics, it can be found on well drained slopes, growing in loose volcanic soil, in colonies no higher than 6 inches.

And now the charismatic lilies of the high alpine meadows, erythonium montanum, the Avalanche Lily, which springs up at the edge of the retreating snowfield, and

Erythonium grandiflorum, the glacier lily. If you confuse them, because they are neighbors and both lilies, remember "avalanche, blanche, glacier, gold." That should help.

Dollface

2010-07-09T09:57:00.000-07:00

My fave little Moleskine sketchbook (the cahier journal) fits in my purse or backpack, and I like keep one handy for long lines, car rides, sudden genius (quick before the lights go out). I have started keeping one just for doll faces, to work on facial expressions, the kind that make a character come alive.

Curiosity killed the cat and knowledge brought her back. Here's the child detective with a bit too much time on her hands. Summer, you know, preoccupied adults, musty attics. Finding things you don't really want to find ...

The Fat Faerie (with slight apologies to all you faes out there), who is the enforcer of the The Rules About Sweet Indulgence. She never sleeps. She knows where you live.

The Machiavellian Courtesan. A Simpering Siren whose whole career is getting exactly what she wants, and lots of it, with as little effort as possible, except for the mentally taxing effort of all that plotting and the relentless search for high born fools. Ah, her tiny, shell like ears, her twinkling feet, her poisonous embrace ...

Remember Mrs. Danvers, from the film based on Daphne du Maurier's novel, Rebecca? The veiled insolence, the servant superior to the mistress, the chilly sense of menace? Yeah, that one. Imagine a scene where this character almost talks the innocent young thing into dashing herself onto the sea-tossed rocks far below, yes, just a step out the elegant casement, and all your worries will be ended, you know you want to, and a performance that makes this character believable. Ah, the skittery frisson of shock and helplessness as you find yourself actually considering defenestration ...

The little doll faces sketchbook I hope will help me reach a goal creating grand, maybe histrionic, possibly menacing, believable characters. Those little fantasies you buy into, that willing suspension of disbelief. What fun! Simple, harmless little dollies, wouldn't cause a moment's concern, would they?

The Woodland Floor in July -- On the Pacific Crest Trail

2010-07-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

My friend Al and I took a break from the sweltering suburbs of Seattle for a hike headed north from Stevens Pass into the forest toward Yodelin Pass on a perfect, blue bird day. Not a cloud between here and Tokyo. This is the sort of weather that makes you feel guilty unless you maximize your enjoyment of it -- out here we grab it while we can. At an elevation of approximately 4,000 feet the late spring snows have only in the past weeks begun to retreat, so along the trail are many small vernal drainages from snow patches that create temporary marshes where the wildflowers spring up, following the moisture. The elevation is higher here, so that it is earlier in the season than it is below. Our springtime harbinger, trillium, national flower of Canada, is just now fading, and the higher we go, the fresher the blossoms, as if we are traveling back in seasonal time. It's a fine thing on a bright summer day to greet the flowers we saw last summer. Like old friends, dropping by for a summer vacation visit. So, I took their pictures, as you do to remember your friends and share their bright faces with other friends.

A fading trillium, in sun speckled shadows, very fragrant when fresh and still beautiful in lily symmetry of three by three by three. She's one of the first blooming flowers of springtime, and at higher elevations, she's still quite showy in early summer.

Marsh marigold, caltha leptosepala. When you meet this one, you will notice your boots are getting wet; the marsh marigolds pop up in the wettest places, in standing water, right in puddles of melting snow and in places where thaw-gorged streams have overrun their banks. So you will find yourself picking your way carefully, keeping your boots dry, but also to avoid crushing the beautiful display.

The tight volute of a fern tip unfurls as the growth expands. An exciting structure, filled with potential. Of course, they are also called fiddle heads. Friends tell me they are delicious if you like to forage for greens.

The appearance of the columbine, aquilegia formosa, always says "no doubt about summer now." It used to be our national flower, and the President's aircraft was called "The Columbine," but now an usurper rose has the honors. This one is oblivious to our small ways and un-self-consciously magnificent; a good way to be.

The one who seems most wondrous, popping up in colonies along the snow's melting edges, Jeffrey's Shooting Star, dodecatheon jeffreyi, with petals so like the plumes of light shed by a falling star. It's so tempting to have a favorite, and if I did, this one would be right up there with my most beloved.

Just because you're common and bear mediocre fruit, doesn't mean you aren't extraordinary -- here's the salmon berry, rubus spectabilus, that forms great patches of the understorey and produces a fruit most but bears ignore, because it's quite bland. But do appreciate the magenta blossoms; there's nothing bland about that brilliant color that sparkles everywhere amongst the broad leaves, vines and short thorns. The bees and bears don't ignore her, so why should you?

It was such a perfect day, I never got around to taking any landscape shots, being too entranced with the closeup world of flowering plants.

Next to come, the native orchids will begin blooming, right now, they're a bit subtle for my camera, when they're hiding in the grasses, disguised as something undistinguished. That's another day trip, later on this summer. So, don't you like my friends and don't you wish you knew them, too?

Wall Doll II, Otto in Drag

2010-06-30T15:42:00.000-07:00

Second of the series, here. I took my photo of dear Otto, my antique, loved-to-shabby boy doll, and made a transfer onto cheesecloth, which was then retouched with my handy Prismacolor pencils.

It then became a mask for the "gingerbread man" shaped pillow doll pattern I used for Kolobuk, with a tuft of cobbler's linen for the suggestion of hair.

I then gave him a sun suit of antique feed sack fabric quilting pieces, gentled a bit with more cheese cloth, and a good ol' bone BVD button for his belly.

His arms are desert driftwood, and on his right a page from an 1800s school book, colored in by a long ago child.

In his left hand a vintage celluloid button dangles, as the suggestion of a summer daisy.

On his feet a pair of recycled baby socks, died and stained with calendula petals

I think he's hanging around for a dish of ice cream, which we must agree is necessary for a truly good summer day.

So, quick before it melts! Sunshine Boy is on his way to my Etsy store today.

Here's the original portrait of dear Otto, for comparison's sake.

and then --

Here's how the Sunshine Boy brightens up my cluttered studio and complements a sweet nicho by Port Townsend artist, Diane Porter-Brown.

Wall Doll Done

2010-06-19T13:13:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is, and I think he's done. I kinda like the little guy, flat up against the wall. I finished off his knickers with gesso, added a "belly button", affixed driftwood arms and a smooshed beer bottle cap that reads "Rogue." He's working on that. This shot shows the tuft of Morgan horse mane that is his topknot.

At the back, I rigged up some iron wire (rebar tie wire, great stuff) to hold his arms and catch his wall nail to hold him up without his having to bend over. For the belly button, I backed it with a nice old Bakelite button and a bit of crochet, for a nice finish and to keep the button in the front from pulling through.

I think he's rather a "prim" but also hope he reads as a contemporary piece, as well. And for the Alice fans, he has a bit of the Tweedledee, or is it Tweedledum, look to him. I always thought those boys were really scary, and this little guy has a bit of the "haint" about him, too.

His cloth foundation began months ago with some coffee-dye experiments. I found that if you dunk your muslin in coffee and squeeze out the extra liquid, and then bake in a moderate oven, you get those nice stains that look like a long career in an attic somewhere.

For the hand-stitched detail, I used good, strong quilting thread in black , which relates nicely to both the wire and the horsehair details. Later, I will introduce some rust to go with the coffee stains.

I am a big fan of rust, and along with the coffee stain trick and making newer metal components look older, it seems like magic that so many things can be altered to my satisfaction, and that makes me happy.

Work In Progress -- A Wall Doll

2010-06-17T16:58:00.000-07:00

Flat as a flitter, this one. I got to thinking about those old-fashioned pillow dolls and thought, well, let's just rethink this. This could be a canvas or a soft assemblage. So, inspired by my latest cabinet card find ...

Of this sour-faced little fellow, who most likely detested the lace-trimmed skirt and yearned for knickers, at least, or perhaps had hayfever, or maybe all of that, I thought, hmm, yes, a wall doll. It works with the flatness.

Here's as much as I got done today, posed on my lovely old leatherette horse-hair stuffed and pleated piano bench. His arms are not attached yet, but I have a provisional array of sardine can key, rusty beer bottle cap ("Rogue" brand), driftwood and a torn lesson page from Third Reader, a turn of the century school book.

Check the original out over there -- how is that expression? He seems focused on the focuser with quite a bit of uncertainty, possibly contempt, but then again, it could be the hay fever, the lace ruffles, or itchy underwear. Poor tyke. I do like the proscenium arch above him, so that he seems enshrined. He could be a little saint in the making, but he could also be going in the other direction. Who would know now? There's no name on the back of the cabinet card; all we know is that the picture was taken in Portland, but which one? It's a 50-50 chance that he's either a down east Yankee or a pioneer. Don't you just wonder how these wonderful images have escaped their families and names? There's a story there, but you will have to write it yourself. Give these lost ones new life. As you peruse this image, don't neglect the wonderful boots with scalloped edges. They look soft and well used. Must have gotten passed down to him from older siblings, even, EWWW, sisters! Egad! NOT the skirt and collar as well?

On to the WIP; here's a closeup. I cropped the photo after uploading it and printed it out on cheesecloth, did some photo tinting with my trusty Prismacolor pencils, and used various "schmutzes" to fix the cloth and image, to prevent further fraying and fading.

Making the face out of scale with the doll's body has changed the boy's expression somewhat. It seems more dreamy. Maybe he's dreaming of scratching that itch. You can't see the little tuft of stiff horsehair topknot. I used a felting needle on that, but next time I'll handle it differently. Horse manes are not very cooperative, although they do have that springy, wirey linear quality that I really like.

I used a matte varnish on the wood pieces, but they still seem a bit shiny. A little sanding, maybe? These things have a way of going on and on and on, until I think they are finished, and that's always much later than I expected when I started the thing. I expect it's because the piece gets developed as I go along, so that the "cooking" has to be a low simmer; don't want it to stick to the bottom of the pot.

At the end, I think he'll get a bone counter (you knitters know what that is; I have a pile of them), sewn to his back so that he can be put up on the wall. If I still like him when I'm done, I'll save the pattern and do some more. I like the figure as a foundation for the patches and small scraps of old things that I have saved. Itty-bitty fragments of unknown and unremarked time.

Baby Otto

2010-06-09T14:53:00.000-07:00

Otto is my only boy doll, ever, and he's had many girls before me, as you can see. He has been repaired and patched and let go for several lifetimes, I think, and was unable to keep his hands. Nevertheless, I think he's adorable and sweet and I like to kiss his little crackly head. I would guess he somewhere near the turn of the 19th c., maybe up to the early 20s, and he just seems to me to be of northern European extraction, say, Sweden, Denmark or Norway.

He has alot of secrets, and he's not telling. Who knitted him those socks to match his jumper?

Couldn't she use a little button or a snap?? Who added the contemporary diaper pin? Is that red jumper made of wool twill? It's hand-stitched, was that girl learning to sew with the red jumper project?

Who donated her used underwear to patch him up? When did that happen? It's pretty heavyweight stuff; was it BVDs? It looks like a much earlier project, since the underwear is tied together with string. And, it's quite dirty -- this must have been before buses. Didn't your Mom say to change your underwear because she didn't want you to get hit by a bus and go to the hospital with dirty drawers?

How does Otto maintain his composure and elegance in the face of his diminution? Was he once well-to-do or royal? It sure looks like Otto is up against it now.

Otto peers fixedly into a dusty mirror but is unfazed at his aging problem. Perhaps it's because the dust hides the wrinkles and cracks. Somehow, within him, and in my imagination, he is still a baby boy. And he doesn't say EWWWWW when I hug him.

No snips and snails and puppy dog tails and spitting up the mashed peas and rubbing it into his scalp, or pea green handprints on the wall paper.

Sweet Otto, he's such a good little boy.

Blessed Ophelia, an Original

2010-05-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

Here she is, on her way to Etsy, The Blessed Ophelia, a martyr to your peccadilloes, untoward thoughts, secret fantasies, etc., etc., with a pocket where you can store them and forget them, and so will she, since she has a sort of terminal ennui. Too bored by it all to share it with anybody. Go ahead, you can trust her to keep your little mistakes safe, more or less.

You can see above that she is really unimpressed by your personal failings, which is quite reassuring, I think.

She stands about 16 inches tall and is dressed in elegant tatters of silk ribbon, true velvet (crushed and old), and a tatty curtain. Her headband is a fine piece of handmade lace, naturally stained by time, and her hair is a bundle of fibers left from a ball gown that fell to rags and threads years ago.

Her arms are hinged to move up and down on mother of pearl buttons.

She's just as shabby as your horrid little secrets, you see. Just leave them with her and get them off your mind! No worries, dear. It's all in the past, you know.

Ophelia knows but will not tell.

A Take on Mourning Jewelry

2010-05-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

In Victorian days, when the common folk honored the Queen's lasting grief for the loss of her beloved consort, they adopted the strict royal rules of decorum for the ornament of those in mourning. Jet, bog wood, subdued colors, deep sentiment all kept the lost dear one hovering near the heart in lockets, brooches and necklaces. Here are some contemporary takes on that old custom, incorporating old objects that still hold sentimental, evocative power.

First, this necklace of festooned oxidized chain with a very old Czechoslovakian filigreed button, surrounded with gray freshwater pearls, above a "cameo" made of an antique schoolbook illustration set in resin.

And then, the next one, a bit more off-tradition, but still in the same vein, rustic white glass beads from India, my own hand made rose beads, tiny faceted oxblood-colored seed beads, and a rusted tin frame around the antique portrait of a school boy, with antique star-spangled button held pendant. Modern in form, but still sentimental, which, perhaps, is no longer a modern thing. Nevertheless, the heart has its needs.

Jewelry's first task was most likely as a social status indicator, to inform one's people of vocation, dedication, rank, events of one's life, such as arrival of puberty, birth, loss or victory. It isn't a very long reach of time from the first strung shells to Victorian mourning jewelry, just the blink of an eye, really.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and will find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

The Woodland Floor in May

2010-05-09T06:20:00.000-07:00

In order of appearance -- Jack-in-the-Pulpit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arisaema_triphyllum, Wild Ginger http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asarum, Trillium http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trillium, sometimes called Wake Robin for its sprightly eager early first bloom in cool springtime, and Fairy Bells http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disporum. Jack's originally a native of Wisconsin, but here he is preaching in my back yard. As we used to say in Georgia when someone held forth with whom we agreed, making argument unnecessary, "you're preaching to the choir." The Ginger, Trillium and Fairy Bells I found during a hike on Tiger Mountain, and they are all native to the Pacific Northwest.

Mother's Days

2010-05-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

My brave, beautiful and resourceful Mother has passed away after a brief illness. Here she is when she was young, her passport photo collaged over the envelope in which our passport was kept when we followed Dad to Japan during the Occupation. Wasn't she beautiful? She stayed that way, too. I can close my eyes and remember the color of that pansy-shaped brooch and the cloth of her "utility suit." We have had a long journey together, and now it will be so hard to keep traveling on without her, but I expect her feet were sore from so many, many steps. The women of Mom's generation were Can Do women and she Could. We are so grateful for all she has given us, with our bodies forged from hers, her children and grandchildren left behind. Now she stays with us in our hearts, which we hope will be much easier on her little feet.

Mary Etta Montana Malone Moore

July 13, 1916 - May 3, 2010

I Love You

The White Box, a work in progress ... or The Mother Lode

2010-05-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

Contents of the Box: Early 19th c. legal file copy in handwritten script on tissue, book boards, cobbler's nails, carte de visite, glass beads, marbled papers, antique text, horse hair, porcupine quill, bone buttons, antique child's shoe, drusy quartz crystal fragment, beach-found mystery metal, old brocaded ribbon, and marvelous white hand-made box found at Bernie's Antiques with a glass front and real patination. Thanks to Bernie for the collaboration. I am not sure I want to tell you where Bernie's Antiques lives, because it would be alot like telling where my berry patch is -- Bernie is the last of the true bricoleurs and he has marvelous things, large and small, quite old and tatty, all jumbled together, not staged, and it just brings out the huntress in me. He says he doesn't find these things in estate sales, he just cleans out old houses. I thought for sure I'd found the Mother Lode when I found Bernie's place. In fact, think that's just what I'll call this piece.

The Prize: I've Got All My Sisters With Me

2010-04-12T11:55:00.000-07:00

I finally worked up the nerve to alter a tintype from my collection and use the old stock bronze award medal plate, and both together!

This piece was made, except for the nice, airy Vintaj natural brass chain, clasp, Chinese turquoise disks and the short string of small oblong mother of pearl beads, completely of recycled old jewelry.

The tintype is a portrait of two sisters in c.1870 attire, cut into a circle and mounted, first on a large carved mother of pearl coat button riveted to the bronze medal. The surface has been waxed to help preserve it. May the Circle be Unbroken!

The graduated mother of pearl beads were given to me by a friend and they have been worn smooth to a soft, waxy shine by a woman we've never met, who now we can touch though the patina she gave them with her touch and her hope for beauty.

The rose-shaped beads are from a contemporary piece found in a thrift store and repurposed, as well as the locket shaped bead pendant. That has been etched with hand written script, "we are family," and patinated a color that called for the turquoise disks.

A friend says the rayed motif seems somehow religious, like things she's seen in Europe, and that works for me, along with the concept of the medal, thence to soldiers, since we are beset on many sides with the trauma and tragedy that breaks our families -- it does take some soldiering to preserve and honor our relationships with loved ones, whether they are natural born family or those we "adopt." Of course, this meaning all came together about 3 days after I finished the piece, which is part of the wonder of found-object work: synergy and serendipity that reach out from our deeper places unconsciously and give meaning. Well, I am happy that happened here! So, love to all my friends and family, enduring love, soldiering love that persists and doesn't give up.

Let nothing take away our capacity for love, patience, and acceptance of our beloveds just as they are. It helps me to remember what another friend taught me -- you don't always have to understand, just accept. That couldn't hurt so much, could it?

We Are (All) Family!

Peace, Brothers and Sisters. Eyes on the Prize.

Lady Bug Circus

2010-04-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

Liar, Liar Pants on Fire Nose Is Longer than a Telephone Wire!

This is a marvelous piece of work from my friend, Jenny Fillius, who makes wonderful collages from recycled tin. It's irresistable, so don't resist, check out her offerings on Etsy at http://www.etsy.com/shop/Ladybugcircus or explore her website in the list of adventures to the right of this page.

I just don't know how you could ever not love such fabulously happy and special things -- go take a look!

The Well of Darkness

2010-04-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

Si cada die ... a found object neckpiece and tribute to a poem by Pablo Neruda. Etched on a tablet of bronze, the opening words to the poem, with a bit of brass found at my feet on a walk, another bead by Bernard Jones, a nice bronze bead, and a fresh water pearl, suspended on an asymmetric array of magnesite chunks and raw brass chain. Thank you, immortal poet, for the inspiration that still calls from your beautiful words, "if day sinks into night ... there exists a well where light is imprisoned ...." This speaks so directly to my heart as an artist, one who uses things found at her feet, and who needs great patience, and the time to let the inspiration express itself.

You can't really make out all the words, of course, but I hope that will encourage you to memorize them.

See my posting below for the full text.

"There exists a well where light is imprisoned ... we must fish for fallen light with patience."

Low Tide Wonder Wells

2010-03-24T09:48:00.000-07:00

On the first day of spring, I found myself on the far shores of the Pacific Northwest in early morning. All gray, blue, fresh and promising, with miles of beach. At my feet wonderful sea-tumbled cobbles, above, eagles, one carrying a tree branch off to her nest on the seastack. There are piles of driftwood at the high tide mark and raccoon tracks wandering along the ebb line, digging here and there for morsels from the sea. There's nothing like beach combing a truly wild beach to settle the mind and hone the senses, and, once home, assembling the treasures found , smooth stones, feathers, sea-changed things mysterious and unidentifiable.

Here's a favorite poem by Pablo Neruda:

Si cada dia cae
dentro de cada noche
hay un pozo
donde la claridad esta encerrada

Hay que sentarse al orilla
del pozo de la sombra
y pescar luz caida
con paciencia

If day falls into night
There exists a well
where light is imprisoned

We must sit on the edge of the well of darkness
And fish for fallen light
With patience.

What if the whole ocean is such a well? The patience required of us is just as deep.

Our patience is rewarded with discoveries, wonder and delight.

Remember, beauty is not all rare, priceless or unattainable. It spreads at your feet, soars above your head, fills your lungs and widens your eyes. It is free for the patience you invest in it.

Go Green

2010-03-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

Just rest your eyes on the velvety understory of a northwest woodland trail, rocks, lichen and dainty ferns in a universe of green. Insisting on life in the speckled light that escapes the high canopy, beautiful and doing its job for the planet, filtering water, dripping and trickling downgrade, to a river, ultimately to the sea. All along the watershed many beings refine the water life needs. Please pick up the litter that drops from your hands, take back that bag of dog poop you left alongside the trail -- if the watershed doesn't appeal to you as something sacred, you missed something very important about life. We all depend on water, so act like you got some respect!

The Wind Bracelet

2010-03-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

An asymmetric bracelet of etched bronze, goat hide, brass, button, coconut heishi and 1825 coin of Batavia with mixed magnesite, pearl and turquoise and recycled parts, for instance, the hook came from the rings of an old wool reticule, possibly originally from India. The image came from a turn of the century pamphlet for Bell Telephone, an image of The Wind blowing the clouds away. The charm is a special treasure that focuses on a beautiful raku fired bead made by Bernard Jones, as simple and sublime as a bird's egg. It was hard to part with this bead -- I had to be sure the piece was worth it!

The Importance of a South Georgia BFF

2010-02-10T15:16:00.000-08:00

Well, now, what would you make with a rusted tin can from a desert coulee near the Columbia River, the Christmas 1931 issue of The Household Magazine, addressed to Magnolia Windham of Fort Valley, Georgia (a gift to me from my dearest friend, Gray, who totally "gets" me), and a spiffy pair of red celluloid shoe buttons (these also turned up in a big jar of old buttons Gray gave me; I told you, she "gets" me)? Earrings, that's what. With extra-long gold filled wires and cartoons of pretty little girls modeling the latest fashions. Sweet and edgy, and long enough almost to tickle your shoulders. This is something worthy, good looking and steeped in the value acquired by lasting well past its heyday, an ordinary thing that has become a treasure. Really, there is no such thing as "ordinary" -- it's only an illusion. Things all around us are extraordinary, every day.

Or you could collage faces from a romantic turn-of-the-century print of Cupid and Psyche, with more rusty tin can and freshwater pearls and binding wire.

Does anyone out there remember the Benday dot? When you look closely at these old images, you will see they are composed of many very small dots, which is how printers got half tones -- gray.

For my beloved friend Gray, who knows we are still a couple of ya-yas and if we were in the same classroom the teacher would make us sit on opposite sides of the room. And I promise I won't make you eat anything with peaches in it, ever.

A little day hike in January

2010-02-03T19:09:00.000-08:00

The morning view from my studio seemed to promise a rain-free day, which is rare this time of year on the west side of the Cascades. A good day for a hike on Tiger Mountain, even though we won't see snow. The El Nino weather phenomenon has caused the warmest January on record. It kind of put a crimp in the snow shoe opportunities around here.

Still, the filtered sunlight on ferns and mosses in springlike weather is magical. On a weekday the trail is quiet and secret. The air is clean and sweet and seems to glow like stained glass in scattered sunlight. Everywhere there are beautiful things to see, close and distant. And even if it hasn't been a good year for snow shoe trips or ice climbing, it has been a year for beautiful ferns, mosses and fungi.

These are polyphores growing on a mossy alder log. A beauty all its own.

Collage Icon

2010-01-15T16:45:00.000-08:00

This small collage on a 4x5 ready-made canvas sat around my workroom for such a long time, feeling not quite done.

It began with a haunting face from Wisconsin Death Trip, by Michael Lesy, a wonderful book that continues to inspire.

She's the beautiful daughter of an exopthalmic family I sketched in charcoal from an antique photograph.

The other day I realized she is iconic, so I treated her that way, adding a frame of antique blue tatting (by Mrs. Hogdahl), a carved bone earring from the past, and two old grey mother of pearl buttons, collaged with eyes you may recognize -- I wont tell who, you have to guess. Behind the rose is a dried fungus from a recent woodland hike with the words "the quick eyes of a lover" collaged onto it, backed by tea stained crocheted lace. And the sides feature really old (at least early 20th c. possibly older) beaded soutache. Now I am happy with the piece, so off she goes to Etsy.

The remaining collaged parts, which you can't see here, are pages from a book from the 1800s back even before newsprint was in use and things were printed using metal type. It is a demented moral tale, entitled Blue Stocking Hall, written as both a romance and a lesson to young ladies of the inevitable dangers of overeducation and too much poetry. I really didn't mind tearing it up, although it is a true period piece. Just the thing that would have caused the haunted look in this young woman's eyes. Too much poetry, feh!

A Make-Do Heart, La Coeur d'Bricoleuse

2010-01-13T15:50:00.000-08:00

Pardon my French, but you get the idea, a battered heart held together with binding wire, a pendant with missing stones, an 1800s era gilded shoe button, a 1920s era brass chain, et voila, something for Valentine's Day that says it all. Our hearts may lose their shine, their untrammeled contours; they get pushed around, but a repaired heart presents a grander story than an unblemished one. Here's to mended hearts and courage. (Coeur-age.)

Tyger Tangent

2010-01-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

It's soon to be the year of the Tiger, which has me remembering Blake -- "Tyger, Tyger burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?" In Asia, the tiger remains deep in the consciousness of the people as a symbol of prowress, protection and nobility. Most Chinese homes have a tiger in them somewhere, to protect them, especially mothers-to-be. Remembering this, I am off on a Tyger Tangent, and have made a neckpiece to celebrate this new year that will bring great, positive change, especially lucky for the Horse, which is me.

It fell together from things on hand (synchronicity) in a nice way that tells me it's auspicious to celebrate the tiger -- a cancelled postage stamp from India veiled with a skeletonized leaf and iridescent powders, set in a frame cobbled from a piece of a tin can and covered with natural mica; trimmed with a cloisonne bead; collaged with hand marbeled paper and bits of an old kanji-script herbal and hanging from three strands of vintage bugle beads. It's good to have a tiger close by for the new year.

Recycled Sari Silk, Neo Renaissance Jewels

2010-01-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

Wonderful, brilliant colors, and recycled, too -- A women's collective in Nepal recycles silk saris into delightfully frayed ribbons, and they are great for suspending my "neo-Rennaisance jewels" --

Here's one that is completely faux and still gorgeous -- iron wire, glass jewel, costume pearls, a Swarovski crystal drop, beneath a froth of magenta and blue frayed silk stripes. It closes at the back with a hand made hook and chain and counterweight bead.

And another, with a Raj feeling -- a resin filled rusty bottle cap with a pith helmeted portrait, surmounted with vintage Swarovski rose monte, iron wire scrollwork with gold glass beads lashed on, an antique button, and another crystal drop.

All that's missing is the ballgown, train and dancecard (tasseled, of course).

Beady-eyed Wild Strangers Call at My Door

2009-12-26T14:47:00.000-08:00

Ah, the holidays when friends and strangers drop in from all over. Check this pair out who have learned to beg at the back door. Too charming for our own (or theirs) good. They have learned to eat cat food and pose in the door just like the cat and be wistful, outside looking in.

Beware, they are a danger to your pets, and don't encourage their visits (alas) by leaving the food out. Sooo tempting and way cunning, very hard to resist, but resist we must. They are omnivorous and opportunistic and can become dangerous.

Smokie and The Ball

2009-12-18T06:44:00.000-08:00

Smokie is an Australian Shepherd who just never gets quite enough to do. One cool autumn day we walked with him and his person down to the beach and found a nice tennis ball to toss. For some reason, dogs really like to jump into the cold, cold water and get the ball. They like to bring it back and shake the water all over their people. What gets me about this picture is the relationship between the nose and the ball. Nose points directly at ball, the rest of the dog follows. Focus is pinpointed and alert. We can learn good things from dogs. Thanks, Smokie!

Outsider Artist's Landscape - Ultimate Found Object Art

2009-12-09T14:36:00.000-08:00

Every time I head out to I-90 toward the mountains for a hike, I pass this house and have said many times that I must get a camera and record the marvels there. Having grown up and traveled along country roads in the deep American South, I am familiar with yard art, bottle trees, and the bricoleur landscape architect. I am fondly fascinated by such unrestricted self expression on a large scale, irrespective of neighbors' wishes, zoning laws, or other peoples' definitions of beauty or sanity. It is, well, inspiring. It tells me beauty and fascination are free for the taking, if you rummage around what others discard.

So today, with nothing in my way, I made an "art date" with myself, found a parking spot on that busy street, and without making to much of a show, snapped a few shots. I had scripted a response if the owner took umbrage, I would say how much I admire the art work and sense of unrestricted freedom expressed there. Definitely sincere about that, but I was relieved to escape notice. One doesn't want to tread upon the sensibilities of an enraged artist, after all.

What is so fine about this particular installation is, it sits right smack-dab in the middle of Seattle, yet it is definitely a bit of the grand tradition I first saw in the South. And it reminds me of the many Southern Black People who also share a lineage of Native Americans, like my friend Dave, who is just about 50/50 African American and Cherokee.

So, at last I have been able to take this project off the back burner and run with the inspiration I have found. First the research must begin on yard art, outsider art, and roadside fantasies. And Amazon was just the place to browse the books. I found 4 good titles (will add them to the blog later) there and ordered them used and in good condition. Very economical. All in the spirit, you might say, of getting the best out of what comes to hand.

These shots were tinkered-with, as for once Seattle was enjoying a very bright bluebird, er, make that bowerbird, day and I just shot it with my little sketchbook camera. What I really hope to do is to achieve the deeply textured, unaffected, assembled but uncontrived, richly fascinating approach this artist has to the use text, paint, chains, locks, baby buggies, old tires, plastic bags, bottles, red berries, string, wood, pine cones, rope, bottle caps, milk jugs, tires, exhausted light bulbs, and anything that comes to hand in our consumption-oriented, throw-away urban environment. How fine the inspiration of an unfettered mind!

And this inspiration reminds me of one of my favorite paragraphs by an American writer, Ernest Hemingway: "If you serve time for society, democracy, and the other things quite young, and declining any further enlistment make yourself responsible only to yourself, you exchange the pleasant, comfortable stench of comrades for something you can never feel in any other way than by yourself. That something I cannot define completely but the feeling comes ... when, on the sea, you are alone with it and know that this Gulf Stream you are living with, knowing, learning about, and loving, has moved, as it moves, since before man, and that it has gone by the shoreline of that long, beautiful, unhappy island since before Columbus sighted it and that the things you find out about it, and those that have always lived in it are permanent and of value because that stream will flow, as it had flowed, after the Indians, after the Spaniards, after the British, after the Americans and after all the Cubans and all the systems of government, the richness, the poverty, martyrdom, the sacrifice and the venality and the cruelty are all one as the high-piled scow of garbage, bright-colored, white-flecked, ill-smelling, now tilted on its side, spills off its load into the blue water, turning it a pale green to a depth of four or five fathoms as the load spreads across the surface, the sinkable part going down and the flotsam of palm-fronds, corks, bottles, and used electric light-globes, seasoned with an occasional condom or a deep floating corset, the torn leaves of a student's exercise book, a well-inflated dog, the occasional rat, the no-longer distinguished cat; all this well shepherded by the boats of the garbage pickers who pluck their prizes with long poles, as interested, as intelligent, and as accurate as historians; they have the viewpoint; the stream with no visible flow, takes fives loads of this a day when things are going well in La Habana and in ten miles along the coast it is as clear and blue and unimpressed as it was ever before the tug hauled out the scow; and the palm-fronds of our victories, the worn light-bulbs of our discoveries and the empty condoms of our great loves float with no significance against the one single lasting thing -- the stream."

Rusty Raveled Renaissance

2009-12-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

In olden days when knights of yore wore jeweled tokens of a lady's love, they were finely wrought and such a jewel was more than a treasure; the workmanship and intricacy made it absolutely magical. And the parts were unique and rare. See here:

I love the chain suspension and the totally unique and precious sensibility of the thing. Such jewels began with, say, a rare baroque pearl or gem of a shape that inspired the composition. They were fantastic, mythical and legendary. A few left today have individual names, such as "The Canning Jewel."

So, I thought, can one evoke such a thing without gold and gold enameling?

Like, how about a smooshed up abandoned rusty bottle cap and a scrap of text from a scruffy old cigar box, some phony rhinestones and bits of this 'n that? Not duplicate, mind you, but evoke.

So, here's my take on it, featuring the face of San Juan de Fuca from a very old scruffy cigar box label (cigars from Cuba with an import stamp, branded "Avengers"), steel wire, recycled torn sari ribbons from NorthcuttWilson, fellow Etsian (fair trade, from Nepal), dirty pearls from used up costume jewelry, rust, dust, and silky tatters:

I have made the neckpiece without a clasp, to be tied in the back with a bow, inspired by Schiaparelli's whimsical Circus pieces made in the 50s. I like the look of a slender neck with a pendant hanging at the clavicle and a bow at the back, so fun and feminine. And there's an almost infinite supply of rusty, smooshed old bottle caps out there.

Flourish in Tacoma

2009-11-30T14:23:00.000-08:00

Carol's shop around the corner in the Proctor District of Tacoma is a delightful little bandbox lined in French provincial printed fabric, with a fine array of artisan jewelry pinned to the walls. Stepping through her door is like opening a gift. And, because Carol herself is a fine designer, and because she represents other fine designers, I was absolutely delighted when she consigned some of my work, too. Lucky me!

When you happen to be in Tacoma, look for this special place on the ridge above Old Towne, at the intersection of Proctor and North 27th Street, at 1901 North 27th. It's near some interesting historical buildings, including a firehouse from the days of horse-drawn fire wagons. On weekends, there's a farmers' market on 27th and it is roped off, but that would make a nice shopping situation; you could drop in to Flourish while you're checking the local produce.

Okay, Time to Put Up the Dollies

2009-11-13T12:40:00.000-08:00

Bottle Caps of Ancient Times, Unlikely Jewels -- I have been carefully searching the parking lots where the climbers return from their victories and celebrate (Snow Creek Parking Lot is especially fertile) for smooshed and finely weathered bottle caps. Not sure why, but I love them. For one thing they are a challenge -- no two alike, unpredictable symmetries, gunk, rust and dents, and remnants of logos.

What I like most to do with these treasures is to do a multi-layered resin inlay using bits of this and that, glass beads, rhinestones, shell, old-old faces from 19th C. encyclopedias, text, paint, crackling schmootz, embossing powders, all to create a jewel from the object the rest of you would think quite humble, but which I consider noble. Just imagine if you lived in the bronze age and found one of these babies stuck in the dirt. You would really be ahead of the curve with something more valuable than Scythian gold. That was then. Now, you will be behind the curve, as it were!

Finished Frida

2009-11-11T09:31:00.000-08:00

At last, Frida has been dressed and is ready to debut on Etsy.

I settled on a rough weave, slubby cotton blue plaid that has a Guatemalan feel for her skirt. And of course, her tap pants are edged with crocheted lace and embroidered with her monogram in that color of magenta pink she liked for her lips. The skirt has a hand crocheted lace ruffle salvaged from a pillowcase. I finished off her huipil with a geometric pattern that I feel is sympathetic, if not authentic.

This has been quite a little journey to her world, after two biographies, Frida: A Biography of Frida Kahlo, by Hayden Herrera, and Frida Kahlo, an Open Life, by Raquel Tibol, and the delightful Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress, Frida's Wardrobe. I believe I may have captured her likeness and something of her presence much more than before; this one is my third Frida doll, and by far my favorite. She expresses my sense of gratitude to this great woman and her allegria in the face of immense suffering; I found myself hugging her and expressing a wish to soften her losses.

I have turned her head to a 3/4 view as she poses in her self portraits, making for a rather challenging silhouette in such a doll, but I like that little bit of provocation. She measures 31-1/2 inches, head to toe.

My next read is Dreaming With His Eyes Open, a Life of Diego Rivera, which, from the little peek I have had so far, will round out my view of both Frida and her Dieguito, two magnificent revolutionary artists. Who knows, I may even be moved to make a Diego bed doll. Eventually. I am already thinking of the next Frida.

Frida and Her Huipil

2009-10-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

The work on Frida progresses -- I have chosen an exquisite cross-stitched panel of unknown folk origins. It is most likely Central Asian. The iconography features concatenated diamonds with rows of swastikas. Now a word on that symbol -- the name comes from the Sanskrit and it means "auspicious symbol." It has different connotations depending on whether the running cross runs clockwise or counterclockwise. Because positive and negative directions run along those registers, I believe this piece speaks of the wholeness of creation. Never mind the fascist co-opt of that symbol. Frida despised the fascists with all her considerable passions. The swastika seems to cross-culturally universal, and it has showed up in diverse places from Buddhist to South American cultures. The panel may even be Hmong (Miao) of southern China. But my goal was to evoke Frida's taste for the rich, complex and finely crafted, so while it doesn't fit into the panoply of Mexican regional tradition, it feels right to me. Her earring is a milagro of a smiling sun, which I think works, because the swastika is also believed to be a symbol of the sun, as well as of an active, creative life. Next step, draft the pattern for her undergarments -- in all the resources I have seen, nowhere does it mention Frida's underwear, except the tortuous corsets that braced her poor spine. I expect she either wore none at all or the very best embroidered, appliqued, monogrammed silk. I think it'll be a camisole and tap pants with lace inserts, and a monogram, of course. Frida actually monogrammed her own sheets in a Gothic script with black floss.

Flat Frida, a Work in Progress

2009-10-27T10:44:00.000-07:00

About once a year, I like to make a Frida Kahlo doll, based on one of her self portraits. Usually, it's sometime around Dias. This year, after reading Hererra's biography and Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress, a book presenting her priceless collection of traditional Mexican dress, I feel I have a very close likeness. As I embroidered the face, I was thinking, "aye, Frida-linda." She will be a bed doll (a pro-pros, eh?), based on the pattern used in the 1920s. I haven't decided yet about her dress, but I expect it will be a huipil and a Tejuana-style skirt with lacy white ruffle in good cotton batiste (if I can find it). Or silk? Her skirts were often silk and silk velvet. Sumptuous!

Traveling Gingerbread

2009-10-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

Here's a great recipe with a story. It was given to me by a friend in 1976, written on the back of a campaign letter for Carter/Mondale. That gives it some vintage cachet, I'd say. The first time I baked this was one of those Thanksgivings when we went from house to house to see everyone. That's when it earned its name; a good friend liked it so much, he humbly asked, "is this traveling gingerbread?" So here it is,

Traveling Gingerbread

Serves 12 - 35 minutes - 350 degrees - 9x12 pan
1/2 c. sugar                    1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 c. butter                   1 tsp. ginger
1 c. dark molasses            1/2 tsp. cloves
2-1/2 c. sifted flour         1/2 tsp. salt
1-1/2 tsp. soda               1 c. hot water
1 egg, beaten

Cream sugar & butter. Add beaten egg and molasses (try substituting real maple syrup sometime, yummy yum-yum, but adjust moisture since the syrup is thinner). Add dry ingredients sifted together. Add hot water and beat until smooth. The batter should be very soft. Pour the batter into a greased and floured pan and bake 35 minutes at 350 degrees. Cool, cut in squares and top with whipped cream or frosting. I like lemon sauce best -- a simple thing of fresh lemon, corn starch and sugar.

Plant Senescence (Autumn Colors)

2009-10-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

We think they are turning colors, but what is really happening is that the chlorophyll that makes them green begins to recede, whilst the leaf base develops a "cork layer" that closes its venous system and gradually disconnects it from the tree. The color you see is the tree's natural leaf color, minus the chlorophyll that masks it during the growing season and helps to nourish the tree. The saturated colors create a bittersweet mood for me, a confusion of excitement, anticipation and nostalgia. They are so bright on a cloudy day next to gray Puget Sound that they enter your eyes like sunshine, and scatter light in dreary places.

Home for the Holidays

2009-10-22T19:15:00.000-07:00

Here's one of my doll assemblages, based on the mummies of Guanajuato. All decked out for Dias de los Muertos and visited by a happy moth. Ingredients: a piece of a desert-wracked rusty metal sign with the most delicious peeling yellow paint, an old t-shirt (the moth), feathers, acrylic paint, paper flowers, paper clay, an old religious medal that turned up in a box of old buttons, tea dyed muslin, black taffeta. And what pleases me very much, he has been adopted just in time for the holiday by a real fan of spooky art in Walnut Creek, CA. I had just about given up, thinking well, folks won't understand how cute, funny, ironic and beautiful this doll is, they just get creeped out and think I must be some sort of an axe murderer or something. But no, not at all, at least one discriminating collector understands. Thank you, Lady X, you have restored my faith, may you have the most wonderful, juicy, spooky, hilarious happy Halloween and Dias, and even though it was a bit hard to let my friends El Guanajuatotito y Polillo go, I know they go to a good home. Happy, happy. And, warning to all who take up doll making, you do get attached to these characters as they take shape in your hands; I'll miss El G y P for sure. Adios!

The Secrets of Tomb 10A at Boston Museum of Fine Arts

2009-10-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

Go here http://www.boston.com/ae/theater_arts/gallery/egypt09 /, and see an exciting show that proves the immense value of ancient artifacts is not intrinsic, as in treasure, but as in the record of lives lived 4,000 years ago, that still preserves a sense of their bustling vitality. It's time travel. This show was mounted from artifacts already in the collection, languishing in storage, but now brought to light. Beautifully carved scenes of daily life and ordinary people, in which the ancient craftsman showed great care and delight, seem to repopulate a long lost past. You can easily imagine the Nile, quite as busy with commerce and travel as any modern waterway. All the more touching to understand that the inhabitants of this rifled tomb were a regional governor and his wife, persons of some wealth, but not of exalted divine royal lineages. Of the body so carefully prepared for eternity, all that is left is a head. It is humbling to look into the face of a person 4,000 years old. Curators say it is not possible to know whether the head is that of the governor or the lady, but what would you guess from the features still faintly youthful and gracile? You can compare this face to the carved features of votive statues from the tomb and make a guess. And, to read between the lines, wouldn't it be mere justice to send these lovely people and things home, where their ka(s) can find them? In a real sense, provenance of these antiquities always goes back to an original robbery, doesn't it?

Virtual Tour of Casa Azul

2009-10-19T11:10:00.001-07:00

If you will explore the Museu de Frida Kahlo, Casa Azul, link to the right, there is a wonderful virtual tour of the house where Frida was born, lived and died. Frida fans, enjoy!

Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress

2009-10-17T16:22:00.000-07:00

I have this wonderful book after waiting for for two years. Frida's personal wardrobe was sealed in a dressing room after her death and was to remain sealed until 50 years after the death of Diego Rivera, in 2007. Now the room has been opened and the exciting work of curatorship and restoration has progressed to reveal these incredible garments. Frida wore the native dress of her land, but also wore garments from China and Guatemala. And she had some marvelous shoes, handwoven and embroidered handbags, and brilliant ribbons for her headdress. It's especially exciting to compare, for instance, the Tehuana headress she actually wore to the one she painted in "Diego in My Thoughts," and see just how masterful a painter she was. As Diego had said, "you are the only one who has painted the life of a woman from inside," yet her clothing, still scented with her cigarettes and perfume when found, vividly brings her to life, so much so that I dreamed of Frida one night after sitting up late pouring over this sumptuous treat of a book. It's a fine companion to the biographies written by the contributors. Recommended reading. And now, I shall don my huipil! A mujer doesn't have to wait until Dias de los Muertos to enjoy such comfort and luxury. [Amazon has the best price: http://www.amazon.com/Self-Portrait-Velvet-Dress-Fashion/dp/0811863441]

Rain, Rain Here to Stay

2009-10-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Summer's gone. Sometimes we squeeze out a few, rare, brilliant October days in Western Washington, but today is not the day. Fat rain drums on the roof, gurgles in the downspouts and drips from the eaves. Yesterday was like that, tomorrow will be like that. All this comes to us on prevailing southwesterlies saturated as they pass over the Pacific, then drop their cargo to rise over the crest of the Cascades. Somewhere up there, it's snow, but down here, my driveway runneth over. It's the Pineapple Express. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pineapple_Express. 'Think I'll go brew up some soup.

It's Jewelry Making Time Again ...

2009-10-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

I've revived a dainty rose bead (real petals used) necklace, and put it up on Etsy. Very girly, totally unique and affordable as well.

Time to give the dollies a rest and play with some of my favorite jewelry parts, which are begging to become something more. Like this curious etched piece that I made in a Keith LoBue class ---

It's "Mr. Wind" blowing up a storm, image from a very old Bell Telephone brochure, patinated to the natural verdigris color, in jeweler's bronze. (River rock not included.) So, it's off to new adventures in my workroom. For me, jewelry is always adventurous and filled with interest and story telling. It will be fun to see how Mr. Wind ends up, and I'll keep you posted.

Scale: 4.5 cm x 2.5; 20ga.

PS: I like the rock, too. Looks like an asteroid at this scale, doesn't it? Both these picks enlarge if you click them, and then the rock is full of craters!

THE LOUVRE DOES THE RIGHT THING!

2009-10-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

The treasures are going home. Check the History Buff link on the right for more news. This is a very happy outcome.

The Schoolmarm is on Etsy Now

2009-10-10T11:25:00.000-07:00

Check my Etsy gadget below and visit my little shop of ghostly characters. They're seeing their favorite holiday just around the corner, where the veil between their world and ours gets thin.

The Louvre Is In the Wrong

2009-10-09T18:43:00.000-07:00

http://www.drhawass.com/blog/video-beautiful-mummy-found-saqqara

It is time for great institutions to cease purchasing stolen goods. If collectors refused items without legal provenance, it would do much to defeat the tomb robbers, wouldn't it? I for one would like to see the artifacts of this great civilization repatriated, to a home where their ka(s) can rest. Surely, out of context, they are only treasure, when in truth, they are so much more than that. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the Louvre and the Berlin Museum returned these to their home? Imagine Nefertiti's beauty at home again. Imagine the joy of that return. Imagine the joy of the return of the noble dead to the land of their birth. I wonder if we shouldn't see any Egyptian artifact outside of Egypt as contraband, even if archaeologists of other countries acquired them. And another thing! Did you know that when Napoleon went into Egypt, his soldiers made potshots at the face of the Sphinx, that plundered mummies were taken away, and it became a fad of the elite and they would have unwrapping parties, that the ground remains of their bodies became a nostrum, as though the beautiful mystery of their true lives could heal the ill so greedy for life. No such travesty could heal anything. Repatriation could, though.

Another Ghostly Figure

2009-10-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

A mere shadow of her former self, yet somehow happier (she's kicking up her heels to show the giddy stockings that match the hornet), the Ghostly Schoolmarm. She haunts the Museum of Antiquities and Dry Goods Emporium and discusses ancient history with the mummies but is also very happy to have free access to the dry goods as well; she can be a bit of a poltergeist, but it's retail therapy in the afterlife where things are free.

Taking a Break on the Rocks

2009-09-26T07:43:00.000-07:00

While a bit of summer still lingers and the skies are still blue and dry, I am going over to beautiful Leavenworth, Washington into Icicle Canyon for a spot of mellow rock climbing to end the season. You'll see the white streaks on the granite buttress, where many climbers have swept aside the lichen following a line of bolts. Easy routes up to 5.8 in beautiful surroundings, with shady places under fragrant Ponderosa pines, and then off to town for dinner at South, a very nice restaurant featuring the foods of South America. Try the "Plata Cubana" featuring fried plaintains. Yummy!

The Madwoman from Mendota

2009-09-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

One more barn burning and off she went, escorted by the Sheriff to Mendota, in restraints because she just couldn't keep her hands off the matches and kerosene. The judge asked her why she did these things, and she replied, she loves to stare into the flames. Smoke gets in your eyes.

Mummy's Wrath 2.5

2009-09-15T17:24:00.000-07:00

Lars the mummy snatcher has collected more contraband; a small cat was prepared in the 2nd millenium to accompany a royal queen upon her journey to the afterlife. Never, never separate a cat from her queen, or there will surely be a serious karmic debt to pay! Especially when kitty didn't get the full 9 lives. As if the queen's displeasure wasn't enough. Imagine how a wrathful cat mummy might take revenge ...

AIEEEEE!

And here's a portrait of that smirking disturber of the dead, that wretch, that erstwhile archaeologist, Lars.