Back to the Drawing Board

We may think we're not being physically impacted by the global pandemic, but we are mentally. I had a progress phone call with an author today, and I wished him a happy Friday. He thanked me in advance, and assured me he is starting by having a good Thursday.

I looked up how to clean an eraser today. I know how to clean an eraser. My brain just cannot access that information now.

Getting my brother his breakfast, I changed up the order of prep, and poured milk into his already poured orange juice glass instead of his cereal.

On hold for 40 minutes to handle a banking transaction yesterday, I forgot what I called to do by the time I got to the person who could help me.

We have been semi-isolated in our house for 15 years. A Three Story Life chronicles this journey. Our father died in 2017, and, while we have adjusted best able, it limits how often I leave the house. When I go on my version of abroad - grocery shopping, lunch with a friend, the rare and wonderful whole day outing - I have to have someone here to be with my brother.

For most of those years, I made money illustrating from the Artist Dungeon. I did not meet the people who hired me. I could work 24 hours a day in my pajamas as long as we had toilet paper and coffee.

That is a lot of experience that should hold me in place well.

It don't.

There is a difference between being homebound and being housebound. We are finding how prepared we are, our institutions are, our government is. When we are back to business as usual, I hope it isn't business as usual. Back to the drawing board.

10th Moose Productions

The Amazing and Talented Artist Carol Ludwig and I were talking about our art. Carol will be exhibiting in Dexter, MI come April for 2 months. Her collages are deep and evocative and beautiful. After a burst of creativity, then a lull spell, she's back in the flow. Brava!

We were talking about Louise Penny's book that I was rereading - the characters wondered throughout why there was no Muse who shepherded art. 9 Muses. Not one has art in her realm. Wacky Greeks. So we agreed with Penny we need a 10th Muse. As Carol and I were signing off, I wished her a visit from the 10th moose.

Misspoke inspiration.

Then I hunted my drawing of a moose, and posted it on facebook. Because it's funny. I like funny. And I like my drawings.

This moose came to life because of a white water trip. Don't remember which river, but it was wild. I wasn't following instructions well because I was terrified. And my moves were not yet automatic enough to get it right. Don't get it right in white water, and everybody in the boat swims. Through rocks and floater logs and sneers from Neptune. When we emerged untipped on the far far side of the wave chain, the stern paddler launched into instruction mode. Show me a brace. Rudder river left. Where are your feet? I don't know, I said.

Which put me into storytelling The Girl Who Didn't Know Where Her Feet Were. So tall, that... and this moose was born. And a pink flamingo, and I forget what else.

Art is often happy accident. The one painting I won a prize for - and sold on the same night - started out as a piece of paper thrown across the room. My watercolor sky sucked. Walking back in my workshop much later, I saw the paper on the cement floor. Upside down. Ah! As a sky it stunk. As a heaving ocean, it rocked.

I just missed a deadline for the show I've entered for 9 years and won multiple poetry awards in, and one art prize. It's a show about ekphrasis - an ancient Greek (and here are those wacky guys again) argument about which is more aesthetically pleasing: the art or the words in celebration of the art. Entrants submit an original artwork, and an original poem related to the art. For 9 years I entered the limit of 3. 3 paintings. 3 poems. That's 54 pieces of art. I experiment all year on the 6 results that will be entered.

I missed the deadline fully aware that was probably going to be the case. I'm not grieving, so I need to reflect on what's going on in my creative realm. 9 years, hmmm. Time for the 10th moose to step up.

Linda Robinson Art Vitae

I have created art all my aware life. My first art prize was in 3rd grade for a pastel of a camel. I suspect it was supposed to be a horse, and when that didn't work out too well, I added a pyramid and a palm tree. I won a Michigan art prize for that horse/camel, but because Captain Jolly was presenting the prizes, I skipped it by getting pneumonia. Captain Jolly scared me.

In recent decades I did textbook illustration, which put bread on table. Tiny loaf. When I could get the assignment, I made book art. My best friend and I made a team - she laid out books, and I did the art.  One of our team results was my novel, Chantepleure.

I made all the art on this blog. 708 posts, banner, thumbnails.

My artistic emphasis today is supporting other women entrepreneurs with art. Creating is a joy, and if I have enough to eat and keep a roof over my head, I choose the projects I want to play in. My friend Barb Barton is a gatherer/forager, and I made all her labels for wild foods, in exchange for honey, syrup, wild rice, vinegar. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does.

My friend Patricia Fero is a psychologist/author and retreat auteur. I am creating her 10th anniversary release of her 2008 book What Happens When Women Wake Up? I create women symbol medallions for her retreat participants. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does.

Today I still create book art. I am enjoying lessons in watercolor, metalwork and am teaching myself to create in paper clay. Because I believe in the amazing creative work I do.

I do create for money, if the project appeals, and I can manifest the author's vision.

Life With Art

An art centered night tonight which is appreciated in this time of bizarre politicking and threatening missives. Has social media really become global diplomacy? I hope not, but know it to be true. Mine's bigger than yours used to be a joke. Not so much now. I am focused on what works. Diplomacy at every level. Kindness. Thinking. Thinking. As you know, I live in a house with a 90 year old man and a 52 year old Down's syndrome brother with Alzheimer's. So, basically, Congress.

All of our issues in this house are intensifying (see the play, first go-through at Suzanne Haskew Art Center in November.)

For the last couple of years I've chilled. Don't know how to describe this, except the rage fire is banked. We have government now that is dedicated to bringing back tall black hats and those stupid collars, along with the bows, which were never good fashion. Isn't it interested that we grew up in this country being told that those doofs in wigs came here to bring religious freedom?  And the massacre of the indigenous population that was already here was, well, necessary. And here we are. 200 years later. The same fucking lie.

I digress. We are in a timewarp. 238 years later we're at 438 years ago.

And then there's art. And photography. And nature. Children, joy, the days my brother still is in the world. The days my father, even a little, understands that there are other people in his world.

My appreciation. Gratitude changes the body, ameliorates pain, restructures atoms.

More profoundly, appreciating brings more of the same. 

Dollhouse Spring

Late spring in Michigan, both in the realm and dollhouse. The forsythia is blooming. The spring door wreath is up. (All the wreaths are from 4hala on etsy.) The roses bloom all year. I made the Climbing Joseph's Coat, and Fair Bianca because I had these in my yard at another house. Bearded iris and blooming hosta were made of masking tape and paint. There is an Easter basket on the bench.

A close-up of the basket, complete with eggs, chocolate bunny and marshmallow chick.

The spring set before installation. I made the White Rabbit, the egg dye cup and the baskets. The other pieces were to go in my garden shed which I haven't yet gotten around to building.

The bag of garden shed supplies. There is a receipt in here from 2004. The components included a printed set of seed packets, which I cut out, crushed seed beads [giggle] and glued together. I sold those a few years ago. As an emerging adult, I'm going to put this bag back where I found it. For now.

Spring cleanup fix-it. Noticed my garden hose was lost in the move. I'll make another. Some day.

RJ Spangler Trio and Tbone Paxton at SSLDL

RJ Spangler Trio with John "Tbone" Paxton played Mardis Gras jazz music Sunday, February 12 at the Salem-South Lyon District Library. New Orleans complete with Mardi Gras beads!

Tbone Paxton (voice/trombone), Jacob Schwandt (guitar), Jeff Cuny (string bass), Jake Matthews (drums), RJ (percussion), and sitting in on drums/percussion for the last tunes, Bob.

RJ knows his music history, so we learned as well as danced in our seats. Opening with Basin Street (Jack Teagarden video) written by Spencer Williams in 1928, recorded by Louis Armstrong same year. Armstrong's band performs in 1964 here. Next the musicians swung into Some of These Days, a Tin Pan Alley writer Shelton Brooke tune, published in 1910, made famous by Sophie Tucker. Hoagy Carmichael's New Orleans was next up. You can hear Art Pepper on alto in this recording.

Chocko Mo Feendo Hay or Joc-a-mo-fee-no-ah-nah-nay or Chaque amoor fi nou wa na né. Is it Creole + West African Yorumba? Johnny Crawford wrote phonetic interpretations of beautifully costumed paraders he heard musically jousting in the 1950s. Danny Barker performed this song with the same chant, without the Iko Iko. Barker spent years in NY before going south, training musicians in the old brass band tradition. Wynton Marsalis came out of this sound school.

Hey Pocky Way (Neville Bros. here), followed by Li'l Liza Jane, also with West African roots. This video is Ms. Nina Simone and her tambourine. You got up and danced, did'in cha?

Eh La Bas (Preservation Jazz Hall band). One of my trips to New Orleans, I went first to the Jazz Hall. On the door was a sign "gone to Detroit, back in 2 wks." !

On that trip I bought a Leo Meiersdorff print (a jazz musician himself.) I put it away and forgot it for a few decades. Last week, on the hunt for another piece of art, I found it, unframed. I dismantled one of my own framed watercolors, and stuck the piano player in it. Love this!

One more song! Going Down to New Orleans, written by New Orleans native Earl King. RJ said you hear this song coming out of car radios, bars, and apartments with windows open. A great article on King's life and legacy is here. Another Detroit connection: King came to Detroit to find a place at Motown, and 3 tracks with King playing can be heard on Motown's Blue Revolution, recorded in 1996.

For those who want more music - Rhythm Rockers (with RJ and Tbone) will be at the Rochester Mills Beer Company on February 28, Fat Tuesday, even if it's not on the pub calendar yet.

For those who can't wait, stream WWOZ - home of New Orleans jazz music.

The concert was made possible with The Metro Detroit Book & Author Society 2016 James Dance Performance Grant. Patrons can enjoy 2 more concerts this year at SSLDL!

Dollhouse Art Studio Installed

Set the art studio components in the 3rd floor office of my dollhouse today. The ladders are handpainted. I used a piece of 2x3 luan plywood I saved from when I made miniature diaramas; sawed it to fit the ladders. The art framed in the stack of frames is a copy of a big oil painting I did years ago.

A small bag of mini-tiles I've never used finally got use as the top of the work table. Craft sticks stained with furniture repair markers finished it.
 
Tinted glue made a jar of used water. Nice that it matches the corner tiles! The actual watercolor color was French Ultramarine, but the glue whitened that. I made the rolls of tape and paper towels. The ceramic art jars are made by Shari at Miniature Maker Supply. The brushes are made by Taylor Jade.


 
The paint tubes I made from Sculpey clay with labels signed by me. Would have used white clay if I had some. The shoulder of the tubes are half a crimp, the caps are clay painted black.

Next time - if there is a next time - I'll use the metal from the neck of a bottle of wine. The metal would look good for oil paint tubes. Saw that idea on the internet. Bonus: I'll have a bottle of wine in the house!

Holiday time is coming up! I'll be decorating the front of the dollhouse for Thanksgiving. For Christmas dollhouse tree decorations, a Christmas cactus and a poinsettia I made, have a peek at my etsy shop. 

Dollhouse Art Studio Under Construction

Halloween dollhouse decorating inspired me to add some more art. I have a greenhouse still in the box for 10 years, but I'm not ready to designate it as a studio. Yet. Bought a paint-spattered step ladder for too much money, then found a cheap supplier of unfinished step ladders. My paint job is shown here. Wrote a note to Shari from Miniature Makers Supply for my first needs: 2 paintbrush jars in glaze colors of her choice, (she chose Lilac and Celery) and 2 water jars, one for used water (this will be accomplished with tinted glue) and one for clean water. She created a custom order for me. Love her and her shop! My sloppy paint rags are in the picture, and the pliers hold a glued tube which will be a roll of paper towels.

I have an easel, a brush and some blank canvas in my dollhouse office, so I'll begin by adding to that space.  I'm going to make my own paint tubes. We'll see how that goes. A 6 inch watercolor tube will be only 1/2 inch! Still haven't found a decent box to hold it all, but maybe I won't need it. My work station will be 2 ladders with a piece of basswood on top. If I make use of the greenhouse, I can spread out later.

These are ceramic dishes glazed and signed by Shari at Miniature Makers Supply. She has a section in her shop for Oops! - cases when the glaze goes walkabout. Love those one of a kinds! I appreciate her palette, and craftswomenship. And I love that she creates and works in Michigan. It's always my goal to support Michigan artisans in whatever way I can, and especially women artists. We need all the sales we can get!

Now I'm envisioning a "Sidewalk Closed During Construction" banner at the front of the dollhouse. Creative chaos!

You Can Create the Art You Were Born to Create

This may be my first not square art on my blog. That already is weird. I signed on for a watercolor class for September 2013. Had supplies in satchel as I was on my way out the door and my father was on the couch breathing funny. I called 911 instead of leaving for class. I called the only number I had to credit my absence. A couple days later, another artist called to tell me I had some options: 1) join the artist's class in another city, 2) wait until next year, or 3) she'd teach me what she'd learned in individual sessions at the art center I belong to. I am still overwhelmed at her generosity. As serendipity goes, I owned two watercolors painted by this artist proposing. I've been afraid of watercolor all my life. Talking with a friend today I realized and confessed that art was something I came up with to do instead of finishing writing. Third grade, 4th, I had a play produced in school, and then 5th grade I was done. There are studies about this phenomena, 9 year old girls get whacked in the world. Back to art: at 9 I started winning art awards. Art, write, art, write, different art, different write. So. Afraid of watercolor. And now I'm not. Not at all. It's expensive, but not as expensive as oil which never suited my hurry up and dry sensibilities. I like acrylics because of the control. You put down, it stays there. It is always the color in the tube. Dries fast. To do anything else with the color, you have to add mediums, which are varied and crazy. Float. Matte extend. And it has black and white, which should have indicated to me that it didn't suit me. I am so watered mystical indefinable, black and white are not in my vocabulary, and...what was I thinking? $20 for a float medium? $30 for something to make the whole expensive mess....me? Watercolor has no white. Nor black. When you look at the sky in life, it has clouds with varying shades of gray, palish blue, white. When you look at the sky as watercolor, there is no black, no white. The blue is the piece you need to focus on. The paper is white. Lordy, lord. And flow. I'm a paddler. Water rules. You lose focus with water in a white water river, you die. You lose focus in a watercolor painting, you live. My teacher is Barbara Weisenburg. One of her teachers is Nita Engle.

Write Art Life Art Write

This year for the Village Fine Arts Association Poetry&Art Night I will be submitting 3 paintings. For the last two years I've submitted 6 poems, and won 4 awards. I told my therapist who gave me a card to join a writing group a few years before I entered PAN "I'm not a writer." And one step out of the first gathering, I wrote an article that was published. I  told an art friend years ago, "I can't do watercolor-it scares me." And here I am, creating the best art I've ever done. Medium. Where your art lives you live. Poetry & Art Night in Milford, Michigan was started by Thomas Lynch and Suzanne Haskew. The art and writing scene I have been blooming blessed to drop into is in Milford, Michigan. If you are unfamiliar with Thomas Lynch's work, get familiar now. This minute I figured out how the universe works. I have goosebumps. My birthday is coming up, I'll be entering my 65th rotation around the galaxy, and by golly, I just this minute figured it out. I couldn't go to my first watercolor class with Jeane DeHann, because Dad went into the hospital with congestive heart failure. She is an artist I admire. And Barbara Weisenburg, a gracious member of the VFAA, and an artist who created two paintings I own, called to offer some alternatives. She miraculously offered to teach me what I would have learned from the class. Miracle. Stuff turned into rich soil, into growth into harvest. We struggle each day with stuff. Our stuff recently is Dad's fall on Feb. 2, working to get physical therapy in the house, my brother with Alzheimer's being freaked by the new stuff, me wondering if I can do all this without combusting, and damn. Here it is. Dad is here in the senior complex because that's what my parents chose. I'm here to give my brother a good quality of life. And subsequently understand that parents don't have a clue with kids, no matter what age, and forgive and forget, and learn to love in a different way. That fear of dying is stupid and wasteful when we can carry each other over. And that's what Thomas Lynch does and Suzanne Haskew did with their lives and their work. In art and writing. Carry each other over. And wasn't this always there? Except for the awareness. Rosemary Jozwiak told me 10 years ago "all you're missing is faith in a good outcome."

Art Therapy for Caregivers

My watercolor instruction is therapy. I figured that out this week when we were covered in 14 inches of snow, and Monday class was canceled. Creativity immersion is a way to dispense with thought processes and emotions attached to random brain access, and be free. Started 2 paintings, messed both up pretty badly but I saved the paper to use the other side. Dad fell on Sunday, hurt his knee and we're dealing with the aftermath of that. I am not doing well with this. He says he's not a good patient-I think I'm not a nurse. I am trained after long practice to be constantly vigilant, which is exhausting. He sat down on the top step last night going to bed, and couldn't get up. I heard him sighing and since this sounds a lot like the precursor to congestive heart failure, I investigated. An hour and a half of trying to get him in bed. None of my suggestions were any good. Perhaps he had a mini-stroke and his brain wasn't functioning well. Scott, who had to step around his father on the floor to come out of the bathroom, was freaking out, repeating "It's OK" over and over again - trying to calm himself, I think. I'd suggest a method to Dad: he'd want me to do something physical- lift him, put my feet in front of his so he could push off my body. I ended up walking down to the neighbor and asking him to help me. Today we'll have to make plans, none of which include continuing in this untenable situation. The stairs are not an option any more. Meanwhile, I'll hope to continue to find peace in watercolor.

Artcraft Station

Clutter creep was getting in the way of my new watercolor obsession. I have a large board for 16x20 painting (with an amen to my therapist who asked "when are you going to work bigger?) and I had negative space to play in. What started as organizing the clutter into different clumps became a day-1/2 of doing a good job. Confession: I actually binned some books. For a reader who learned early not to bend corners or deface books I thought it'd be tougher. Threw away my father's massive collection of cords to unknown unowned tech. Relocated the ancient useless tools on the pegboard up and out of the way and moved my tools down and handy. When I was done tossing and stacking, I put stuff back saying out loud "related to jewelry, related to painting, related to tools, related to cleaning, related to bath." I bought online (!) a drafting stool. On the cement floor are two of my grandmother's handmade rugs which have been gathering dust in plastic bags under my bed. My grandmother and my mother are with me in this space - the Greenbrier bag I carry my watercolor supplies to class in was mom's. When I finished painting the particleboard surface, I remembered a piece of glass mom had made to fit her dining table. When the antique went away, the glass remained propped against a closet wall. It fits the work area perfectly. And wipes up with water! A little bit of heaven in the Artist's Dungeon. Maybe I need to start calling it the Artist's Retreat.

The Pez Murder

The victim. Male. Bunny. Broken neck from deceleration trauma (hitting my cubicle wall at speed after I hurled it.) Xacto knife added post death for photographic effect. Crime scene chalk outline and police line tape by me. Between bouts of crazy deadlines and frustratingly redundant edits to enormous documents, we had fun in the graphic design boiler room. During slow periods, some printed graduation and birthday posters on the giant plotter, designed wedding packages, did favors for preferred management consultants. I created 2 lines of greeting cards. Don't know what everyone did in slack times, but we worked fast and well together in busy stretches. Somewhere on the planet there are rooms of graphic designers and illustrators (I hope) hunched over their Big Macs, and I hope they're having as much fun as we did, more often.

The Pez Murder

Once upon a time there lived 10 graphic designers toiling in a small room with the door shut. We had seasonal KEEP OUT signs taped to the door. The empire we served had global offices, and we edited and drew for a couple of shifts until we passed the gigantic overbaked Powerpoint files off to Tokyo or Toronto or wherever there was capacity. Capacity. That meant women sitting doing graphic designerly stuff not related to Powerpoint presentations. Lots of emergencies, plenty of overtime. We were excellent designers, fast and creative and easily bored with the same ol' same ol'. One Easter season, teeth-gritted with files delivered to inboxes that weren't the right version, requests to fit a 200 pg. edit into the schedule, guys in ties standing over our shoulders pointing at monitors, I flipped. I threw my rabbit Pez against the wall of my cubicle, breaking its neck. Wo, I said, I just murdered my Pez dispenser. Silence in the room, then the sound of drafting chairs rotating to the center, designers making eye contact. Then a swelling swish and click of overworked artists on a drawing toot. I stuck my exacto knife in the back of the rabbit's neck and printed a police tape. The printer queue was scrolling printing 1 of 2, printing 10 of 12. Vicki printed a blood pool and a bloody glove. Beckie printed a chalk outline, bloody paw prints heading up the wall of the cubicle so we then knew how the killer escaped. All the kitschy cutesie stuff on monitors got shoved up to the police line, including Marian's picture of her cat. Beckie printed a wanted poster of the empire's VP, who later came by to see what the commotion was about. She used his smiling mug picture from the annual report, which was brave and briefly terrifying while he held it, read WANTED: NICK THE THUMB. He didn't fire any of us. We were able to figure out who ratted to Nick and worked out a long, long season of thwarting his every move. We kept The Pez Murder going for weeks. I'll be posting the pictures here, remembering the spontaneous fire of creativity in a small room with a KEEP OUT sign on the shut door.

How Did I Lose The White Rabbit?

Today we have 65 degrees in Michigan. Tonight we'll plummet to freezing. Tired of waiting for real spring to stick around, I decided to put out the forsythia in front of the dollhouse, and a little late, the Easter eggs and baskets as well. I have a box of seasonal decorations, and not there is the White Rabbit. Also not on the grass in front of the house is the White Rabbit. How can I lose a white rabbit? If I had picked it up to put away, it would be in the box. It's not. Nor is it on the floor under the dollhouse. Not hiding in the bushes. When I started looking for the hole in the landscaping, and heard Grace Slick singing "one pill makes you larger, one pill makes you small" I decided to step away from the Missing White Rabbit. In a little while, I'll be laughing. I think. I hope. Go ask Alice.

Finland vs Russia Hockey Coat of Arms

In celebration of the Finnish hockey victory over Russia at the Sochi 2014 Olympics, I have redone the Suomi Coat of Arms. Bit of history - when the tsar ruled Finland, he insisted that the lion (ordinarily carrying a sword) be flipped to point away from Russia. Clearly the tsar didn't have enough to do. If the lion had been carrying a hockey stick, who knows?

Caregiver: Finding Your Self

Many notebooks and years later, this little book is the essence of all the late night wailing, the whinging on paper and the whistling in the dark. 9 years as caregiver. Seems unreal on one hand, and a lifetime on the other. In those years I've learned a little about life, and a lot about myself. I've written before about paddling, and understanding fully that the more you fight the river, the harder it will mess you up. I've mashed up paddling with life in published essays, but not in my head. I'm a slow learner, but once I've got my numbskull around something, I tend to hold it in awareness. I understand caregiving more now, and this is the book about what a caregiver can do to care for herself. To focus on how I feel, is this a good time for me to do that task, do I really want to eat meat and potatoes 8 nights a week? This little book is gentle and gracious, and I sincerely hope–helpful. The next one will have all the wens and wails and whinging. Stay tuned. Being un-noble is a whole lot easier. And more giggles. The Caregiver ebook is available for all digital reading devices on smashwords. While you're there, please take a moment to download the free children's book You May Already Be A Winner! to share with your favorite youngster.  It is an homage to a real Michigan man who is an inspiration for us all. And if you're not yet bored, read the interview. It was the most fun I've had in the house in a long time.

Default

This is my first movie poster. I was lucky to be involved in creating it, and delighted that the filmmaker let me have that much fun. It began with a screenplay for a science fiction short titled Default, by E.M. Spairow. It is set close by in the future, has education as a theme, and a Bradbury book in the scenic design.The dystopian story displays a soupcon of horror, a touch of dark comedy, a terrible timely trope. What would that look like on a poster? There would be red and black, because those are the colors of the horror genre. Black at the bottom because if you're sinking, you're fading to black. Black is the pit of hell, it's also a dandy pedestal to support the art above, and it works as a perfect place to put credits now, and film festival laurels later. Anyone who has enjoyed seeing a PAID IN FULL stamp will appreciate the terror of a PAST DUE stamp so an inky untidy font surrounded by a decayed box in dried blood red would simulate an old school rubber stamp. The yellow to orange descending gradient in the background is meant to simulate flame. "It was a pleasure to burn," is the opening line of Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I wanted the lighter versions of the Default stamp to glimmer enough to create a phantom shimmer. One of the prototypes had a 50% transparent gray gaussian blur ascending middle to top, but it was too much, and I remembered to rely on the audience to see what it wanted to see. Put everything in and then take stuff out. It's a good design rule and a good writing rule, too. In drawing class I liked the method of laying dark all over and using erasers to pull the highlight. I haven't seen the poster with gloss paper yet, but I think, with a good light source, it will fool the eyes into seeing fire. Glance at the poster, quickly look away and your retina will supply the ghost image I'm talking about. The filmmaker liked this poster enough to use it on the DVD cover, too. I'm delighted. The creative process is joy for me, and when the person I've drawn for is happy, that is bliss. You can follow the life of Default on the movie's facebook page, or on twitter.

Ocean Storytelling Jewelry

The first person I followed on twitter is a woman in California. Her avatar is a Roy Lichtenstein image, he is a favorite artist, and she writes smart interesting stuff. Today's world of connection by technology is still a strange one for me. Connecting with a stranger on twitter was a first step. Do I know the woman in California? No. Does she know me? No. This year I've been posting jewelry I make on twitter. I feel weird doing that; it's easier to promote other people. The CA woman admired some pieces. Those comments are a connection that transcend twitter follows, a thread that links us as individuals. This week, when she commented on a necklace, I wrote her. She likes my work and I wanted to celebrate that. I'm going to make you a piece. What do you wear? Bracelet, necklace, earbobs and in what colors? She wrote bracelet and she likes ocean colors. I crave freedom to create this way, to disappear in creative bliss, to select findings that tell a story. The story of a woman who likes ocean colors. I do not have to know her, to sit in a room with her, I can picture her wearing this physical manifestation of her story. A woman who likes ocean colors. Anyone who likes ocean colors needs to have her own private ocean. Each of the glass beads chosen had thought of her in the selection. Each glass bead is an individual ocean and circled together are the earth's water in perpetual cycle. The bracelet is on its way to California, to a woman I know likes ocean colors. With the little story she shared and the art circle closed, a new cycle is created in the world.

Bring Me The Head of Kyori Sato

I've coveted the Integrity Toys Fashion Royalty Urban Geisha Kyori Sato for years. I cannot explain it to myself. Nonetheless, I craved. I bought an Adele Makeda doll 6 years ago because she did not have the price point of Sato. I could justify that expense to myself. She's special, but Adele Makeda is not Kyori Sato. If I was feeling flush, I'd shop for the Urban Geisha, but mostly I'm never flush enough, can't justify the expense, chicken out. She is rare and expensive. I do not consider myself a doll collector. I did have all the Disney Great Villains dolls, which I sold this year. So maybe that's why I felt like I could finally get Kyori Sato. A deal showed up on ebay. I won the auction. I was thrilled to see the box arrive. She'd been described as taken out of the box, so I wasn't afraid to take her out myself. What I forgot was that early FR dolls are not fully articulated. I tried to turn Kyori's head. Her head came off. Not from the stem, her neck cracked raggedly, and I was staring at the decapitated body of my dream doll, her detached head still wobbling on the desktop. Stunned, I glanced up at the Adele Makeda doll on my dresser and, for a tiny moment, I thought she was smiling. In the complicated and entertaining backstory of Jason Wu's Fashion Royalty coterie, Kyori Sato and Adele Makeda are mortal enemies. I did not own Urban Geisha Kyori Sato for a full day before I killed her. For another full day I tried not to tip over into crazy. No, Adele Makeda did not cut off the head of Kyori Sato. Yes, the rigid plastic is a problem, and her neck knob was fused, and no, I did not subconsciously buy this doll so I could maim her. So what's the lesson? There are 1001 stories to write about this ersatz tragedy. A million universal truths to mediate upon, another million to discard. And one day I'll be brave enough to open the box again to glue her head back on her jagged neck.