May's Sultry New Look -- Doll Makeover

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

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

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

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

'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

 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

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?