I Want to Go to a Dry, Sunny and Warm Place

Our favorable weekend forecast, the hope of relief from a long spell of cool, rainy weather, just went pear shaped.  It'll be showery even on the other side of the passes in Eastern Washington; there's just no escape, except a retreat into my Imaginary World.

A place where I can wiggle my toes in warm sand and walk a tide line rich with treasures brought by the waves.  Can you hear it?  The whisper of foam, the retreat of brilliant waters sliding down the slopes of a perfect, secluded beach, the distant cry of sea birds, rhythmic surf beating on a sand bar.

Can you feel it?  The tickle of soft breezes blowing sand dry on your legs, sun warmed arms, the scent of salt and flowers.  You Are Somewhere Other Than Here.

Matches, Idle Hands, Devil's Workshop, et cetera

Here he is, the nasty little wretch. No velvet britches, either. He's only 3 inches tall, and I like his legs with mother of pearl button joints too much to cover them; he's just perfect(ly obnoxious) as he is.

He comes with his own environment, a burned sewing console drawer, shabby, narrow and dark, with burned antique book endpaper and text on the back wall, littered with match ends.

He is recalcitrant, has no compunction, suits himself, has low to no impulse control, and unfortunately enjoys robust health, so it won't do to ignore his demands or turn your back on him. Really, it's a good thing he is so small; perhaps that will restrict his range.

The white porcelain knob on his drawer appears to have been cracked in an event involving excessive heat, and so does its pedestal, which was once a ceramic light fixture.

He's quite comfortable with the damage; it's slight, and the drawer does seem to have some fuel value left.

His head, hands and legs are paper clay; he has a ruff of handmade antique lace, and he holds his last incendiary treat in his left hand.  He can sit or stand and his arms are lightly poseable.  His innards are recycled sawdust and his torso and arms are linen recycled from a man's shirt, dyed with natural dyes.

You can stand him in the display drawer along with the evidence, or seat him; he is free-standing, but be warned, that means he can escape.

And it's just no use trying to discipline him or teach him good manners.

He throws tantrums.  Bad ones.

No good trying to warm his britches, either.  He doesn't have any.

We're shopping around for a reform school that will take him.  So far, no luck.  You should see the smoldering ruins.  Nothing left but the chimney stacks.  Just awful.

WIP Status Report

Alrighty then, he's been painted and assembly begins.  I think I should shorten his arms a tad.  'Rummaged through my tea chest of old fabrics and found a bit of threadbare faded dark green  velvet that seems promising, but I am now undecided whether short pants or a skirt.  And I think I need to add some shadows to the insides of his hands.

Next steps, make pants or skirt and jacket of faded velvet with lace collar and cuffs; search for small buttons; decide how to stand the little wretch in his burnt sewing console drawer, I think on a pile of burnt matches with torched wall paper.  Maybe painted flames?  B Is For Burned? The plot thickens.

WIP Status Report

Now the parts are all made, legs, hands, head.  I will varnish them before painting, then paint and assemble.  The legs will have button joints, the arms will be simple linen tubes stuffed with sawdust.  I think the legs are a little out of proportion, too large, but I am betting the clothing will pull everything together.  He quit looking like Adolph, but now looks a bit like Nixon.  Oh well.  Morphing is what dolls do when they are under construction.

I know it's been done to death, but I do rather like the old salt shaker as a body.  Maybe that's a future project.  Even the trite and kitschy can be good, if it's done right.

Unfettering the Mind

A day hike in Icicle Gorge was perfect for unfettering the mind.  The air was clean and sweet with wildflowers and Ponderosa pine.  We saw lupine, paintbrush, many Calypso orchids, and still more to come with many wildflowers just budding.  One pitch of rockclimbing and then a nice hike in warm sunshine, just the thing.

We found a good hike, a new one for the area, Icicle Gorge, which meanders along Icicle Creek with bridge crossings, through a forest of hemlock, cedar and Ponderosa, on gentle tread, to a rocky gorge where spring meltwaters roar. We enjoyed viewpoints along the way in forest and meadow with distant views of snowy peaks Jena and I remembered climbing, Grindstone, Cashmere, and others.  Today, it was lovely to stay low in the company of the creek, roaming easily on soft paths of pine needles, fanned by fragrant breezes, eyes kept sharp for wildflowers.

Rotten Firebug Boy II

Now that that the paper clay has begun to dry, I am able to refine the features with riffle files and snips of sandpaper. I have hollowed out the bust area beneath the shoulders to prepare it for a "spine" and after that a sawdust-filled linen body. Meanwhile, hands and feet are drying.  I think I might sand down the hair-do a bit; it seems to be out of proportion and looks a bit like little Adolph.  I am aiming for something like funny-wicked Hummel, not an evil horrid Hummel. Eyes have been added to the sockets, and that took a delicate touch and a wet brush to refine them and create an impression of eyelids. All in all, progress is happening, I think. What's fascinating to me is the crucial role proportion plays in sculpting; the wrong proportions create a little old man, not a toddler aged boy; the proportions of a doll are not the same as a living person (for this sort of doll, anyway).  It's also fascinating that, once you're in the swing of it, your hands seem to know where things belong, and amazingly lifelike detail and expression just seem to happen. I'm having fun. I guess we never lose the joy of playing with dolls, if we're honest with ourselves.

Next step:  Refine the hands and feet, sew the cloth body, stuff with recycled sawdust, plan the costume.  Wait till you see the box setting for this one -- it is a burned antique sewing machine console drawer with a cracked white porcelain knob, narrow and dark inside, just right.

W.I.P.: Rotten Firebug Boy

So, here's the beginnings.  Head and right hand and antique photo inspiration.  I had a wonderful tintype in my collection (background), but found one even better, just the brattiest, at Etsy's Interior Vintage. Very inspiring! I grew up with three brothers, and I know the type, believe me. My theory about these Victorian boys is that they knew those lace collars and skirts were just plain wrong. I am imagining this one has a difficult name, something ambiguous like Winifred, and he is completely opposed to how things appear to be turning out in his short life. I have laces, ribbons, and fusty dusty black bombazine in my collection, so watch out you little wretch, you're gonna get another skirt to wear! I have locked up the matches, and if you continue to pout like that, your face will freeze that way.

Materials:  So far, just paper clay, small enough not to need an armature.